Queensland Adventure

Yes, I realise it has been ages since the last update...but what can I say, I've been busy!

I have been in Australia for 6 months now, and I don't feel like a tourist anymore. Bit by bit, the pieces of my life here are coming together to form this next chapter. The job is going very well, the flat is starting to feel like home and I've even found me some Ozzie mates. It's hard to put into words the beautiful feeling of comfort in your surroundings. When someone asks you for directions on the street and not only can you point them in the right direction, but you can also show them the shortcuts, you know you're winning the battle.

In any case, today I wish to write about my amazing trip to North Queensland. A few weeks ago, Dan and I spent a long weekend in Australia's tropics. We flew in and out of Cairns (the major city in North Queensland), but we spent some time in surrounding cities like Tully, Kuranda and Port Douglas. Normally a very popular destination this time of year for Ozzie and international tourists alike, the north seemed eerily quiet during our stay. This was mainly due to the fact that earlier this year, a cyclone swept through this coastal region, wiping out much of the vegetation and infrastructure. On the one hand, I couldn't complain about the lack of tour groups incessantly flashing their expensive cameras. On the other hand, it was a bit depressing to see such a lush area stripped down to a thinning forest. The devastation of cyclone Yasi is still the talk of the town up there, and it has especially affected two very important industries in the region: tourism and farming. With the constant "Visit Queensland" ads on TV and the ever-rising prices of produce throughout Australia, it's not hard to see the destructive effect that the cyclone has had on these industries. The other day, I saw bananas selling for $15.99/kilo.

Despite all this, Dan and I had a brilliant time on our holiday. On day 1, we left Sydney on a very early morning flight and arrived into Cairns at about lunchtime. Exhausted as we were, we wanted to hit the town immediately, so we set off on a walk through the small city/big town of Cairns. Although Cairns is a beachside town, it's impossible to go for a dip in the ocean, unless you want to swim in muddy, crocodile-infested waters. There's a man-made lagoon just next to the beach, frequented by families and sunburnt European tourists alike. We didn't really fancy a swim; instead, we stuck to a pint and people watching along the Esplanade, until we were too tired to keep our eyes open. After a short, but much-needed nap back at the hotel, we headed out for a night on the town. Dinner was fabulous at Barnacle Bill's--I ate some of the tastiest Barramundi that I've had to date. Next, we headed to an Irish pub for a few drinks and a game of traffic light (singles wear green stickers, spoken fors wear red stickers, and in betweenies wear the ambiguous amber stickers). I wore a green and a red sticker, just to confuse people. It must have worked because I didn't meet any approaching suitors...

We didn't stay out too late, as we had a three hour drive south the next morning. On day 2, we hopped into our Hyundai Getz and headed down the sugar cane-lined Bruce Highway towards Innisfail. On the way there, we stopped at a quaint roadside diner for a tasty treat. The owner lived upstairs and took our orders right in her kitchen. I opted for a roasted pork sandwich with baked apples, while Dan enjoyed a colossal cheeseburger. The food was freshly made and absolutely delicious. Dan's burger was the biggest I have ever seen...but that doesn't mean he struggled to finish it. My roasted pork sandwich hit the spot like you couldn't imagine. Bellies full, we continued on our drive south, and to our great dismay, it started to rain. It didn't stop raining until we reached our destination: Innisfail Crocodile Farm. We were both utterly grateful for the end of the downpour, as animals do tend to stink in the rain. We approached the nearly empty entrance, where we were greeted by a couple of guides who were holding a baby crocodile, as if it were a real baby.

"Do you want to hold him?" the female guide asked me. I stood there frozen, watching this primordial creature staring me down with his bright yellow eyes and baring sharp the teeth poking of out his taped-shut mouth. I "ummmed" and "ehhhed," before volunteering Dan to have a go first. Making it look so easy, he grabbed the baby croc and held it like it was his own. Eventually, I had no choice but to do the same...and so, I was handed the baby crocodile. Needless to say, I held the poor bugger as far away from me as possible, but at least we got a few good photos of me with the beast. Following the crocodile, I got to hold a joey, then a snake and finally a cockatoo. The snake tried to wrap himself around my neck and the cockatoo stood comfortably perched on my shoulder, while trying to seduce me with his mating call. All this took place before we even stepped inside the farm--definitely a benefit from the lack of tourists.

Once in, we took a walk around the place and saw more saltwater crocodiles than I ever imagined to exist. Given odd names like Keith and Fat Joe, these crocodiles were brought to the farm from the wild, because they were discovered causing a nuisance and would inevitably be faced with the threat of an ignorant local with a shotgun. The tour guides took us through the farm and demonstrated the speed and strength of the crocs, through feedings that included various chicken carcasses. Although they didn't have much energy on this rainy day (crocs get all their energy from the sun), the crocodiles did not fail to impress me. Most of them were at least 3 to 4 metres long and could devour me in a second. We also got to see some freshwater crocodiles (which are farmed for their leather), as well as a few American alligators. The farm also hosted some cassowaries--large Australian dinosaur-like birds, which are famous for disemboweling their attackers. I patted my first dingo, who was a lot sweeter than Meryl Streep ever made them out to be. And finally, I fed some kangaroos, which are coming to be my favourite native Australian animal.

After the awesome experience at the crocodile farm, we drove another hour south to the tiny town of Tully, to stay with Dan's cousin and his family. Tully is one of the towns that was devastated most by cyclone Yasi, and it wasn't unusual to see some rubble still lying around on the side of the road. In fact, the charming Queenslander house where we stayed was one of the only houses on the block that didn't lose its roof. On day 3, we took the advice of our gracious hosts and went on a scenic drive through the surrounding mountainous region. As we headed through the hills, we passed through a few country bumpkin towns that I've only ever seen in films...think Deliverance - Ozzie style. The foggy town of Millaa Millaa kept me gripping the door handle of the car, in case of a sudden head-on collision with an 18-wheeler in the opposing lane (not that the gripping would help...). When we finally escaped the fog, we were pleasantly surprised with a "waterfall loop" that hosted three picturesque waterfalls surrounded by lush local flora. Despite the rain and cool mountain air, had we brought our swimmers, we definitely would have hopped in to these refreshing rock pools. For the rest of the day, we lazily drove from town to town, stopping in Malanda to try some of the local cheese and chocolate at the dairy farm. We made it just in time to watch the milking of the cows, which was nothing near what I was expecting. Instead of a dainty milkmaid in a ruffled apron and wellies, there was a gruff farmer attaching suction devices to the cow's teets. Though, you could tell the cows loved the relief, since they were pushing and mooing to be first in line to be milked.

On day 4, we finally made it to the coast for an exhilarating jetski ride through crocodile and shark infested waters to the notorious Dunk Island just off the coast of Mission Beach, Queensland. Dunk Island is normally a luxurious resort island, but it was also demolished by the cyclone this past year. Unfortunately, it wasn't yet open for tours, and from the mainland's coast, you could see the damage to the trees and the beachside cabins. Luckily, we got a pretty close look, when Mark (Dan's cousin) sped the two of us out to sea on his jetski. I made the stupid decision of sitting on the back of the jetski, meaning I was gripping on for dear life during the entire ride. As I leaned forward and dug my fingers into Dan's life vest, I basically decided, if I fall off, he's coming with me. With Mark's soaring speed, I still can't believe I wasn't hurled off the back. But, despite my sheer terror at falling into the tentacles of a box jellyfish or into the bite of a tiger shark, I had an awesome time zooming along the waves on that jetski. To top off the aquatour, Mark dropped us off at a little desert island between Dunk Island and the Queensland coast. With a bouquet of palm trees perched upon its sandy hill, the little island was covered in layers upon layers of coral that had washed up onto the shoreline. There were a few coconuts scattered about the place, and apart from an occasional sand crab or two, there didn't seem to be much life there. Dan turned and said to me, "This would be a great place to have a party." I silently agreed, as I took in all the beauty around me.

That night we said our goodbyes, and we headed back to Cairns to rest up for our trip to the Great Barrier Reef the next morning. On day 5, we woke up bright and early, jumped into our hire car and took a scenic drive one hour up the coast to Port Douglas. Driving along this Pacific Coast always reminds me of the many miles I've along the opposite side. Although they aren't identical, I have noticed that the coasts along the Pacific Ocean share a breathtaking aesthetic that I've never experienced along any other seaside. We stopped a few times along the way to dip our feet into the warm ocean and capture some photos of the tropical paradise that surrounded us. When we arrived at Port Douglas, we booked our full-day tour, which would take us straight to the outer edge of the Great Barrier Reef. We picked up a few essentials in the local town and by 9:30, we had found some ideal seats on the top of an open-air vessel, which was due to head out any minute. As the captain blew his horn to set sail, I stood up and leaned on the bow of the ship to breathe in the ocean air and let my eyes to devour the sights around me. Nearly two windy hours later, we arrived at a massive pontoon amongst the Agincourt Ribbon Reefs.

When we arrived, the crew immediately began to serve the seafood buffet lunch; but despite the temptation of lukewarm prawns and overcooked mussels , Dan and I opted to dive straight in and explore the reef. We picked up some flippers and snorkels, covered ourselves in several coats of sunscreen and lowered ourselves off the pontoon and into the reef. Even from the launching point, I was amazed by the variety of fish swimming around my feet. I had never seen so many different sizes, colours and shapes of fish...and this was even before I dove into the water! As I was facing down into the deep blue, an unfamiliar, yet brilliant new world opened up before my eyes. There was a plethora of different species of coral and marine life, and I marveled at the real life aquarium of which I was becoming a part. Although I struggled at first to get accustomed to my snorkel, it was so easy to spend hours just swimming and watching. The entire time, I was thinking of Finding Nemo and how they truly managed to capture the beauty and diversity of the Great Barrier Reef in that film.

Dan and I swam into as many different coral coves as we could find, silently pointing out new discoveries under the water and giving each other the thumbs up for approval. Because we were one of the first people out onto the reef that day, we got to see a few creatures that evaded the bigger groups that were to come. Specifically, as we swam around the corner of a bed of bright purple coral to explore what lay beyond, we came across a reef shark about one metre long. As I cautiously watched the mini-predator swimming about 5 metres below me, the theme of Jaws began ringing in my ears. I immediately turned around and swam the other way as fast as possible. Later, Dan assured me that this fish would have caused me no harm, but I just smiled and told him, "I don't f*ck with sharks." After spending about an hour and a half swimming amongst tropical fish, anemones and giant clams, we eventually had to come up for some mediocre buffet food. But as soon as we were fed and watered, we broke the 30-minute waiting rule, and we dove back in to spend the rest of the afternoon with the fishies.

As the afternoon was closing in, Dan and I made our way back to the pontoon, dried off and returned to our preferred spot on the top of the ship. We sailed back towards Australia's northern coast, just as the sun was beginning to descend. Our ship approached the shore, and we waved to the spectators barbequeuing and sunning themselves on the beaches of Port Douglas. After one of the best days I've ever had, we got into the car and drove back down to Cairns for the last night of our holiday. By the time we got back to the hotel, we were exhausted and hungry for some real food. So we spiffed ourselves up and headed out for a night on the town. Sick of the overpriced meal options along the tourist-ridden Esplanade, we ventured into the town and decided on an authentic-looking Malaysian restaurant. With BYO written in big letters out front, we knew right away that this would be a promising option. Upon arrival, we were greeted by the very friendly owner of the restaurant, who brought us an ice bucket for our white wine and a couple of menus to peruse. We both had an intense craving for some really spicy food, so when the owner asked us if we would like to try some chili sauce, we enthusiastically nodded our heads yes. We ordered a roti and curry to start, followed by a nasi goreng (traditional Malaysian fried rice), beef rendang curry and barbequed duck for our main dishes. Needless to say, we were very excited for this meal.

The first thing that came out was the chilies that the owner had promised us. On one plate, there was a bright red chili paste that he told us was authentically Malaysian. On the other plate, there were chopped up yellow chilies in soy sauce, which were apparently of a local variety. He warned us about the heat of the yellow chilies, but we assured him that we were tougher than the average Australian. Curious and hungry, I started with the chili paste. I scooped up a tiny bit on the end of my knife and popped it into my mouth. I stupidly did this before there was any bread on the table. Slowly but surely, the burning and tingling sensation spread from the tip of my tongue, to the sides of my mouth, and finally, to the back of my throat. I knew that drinking water would not help, but I didn't care. I proceeded to gulp down a litre of water, praying that the pain would ebb. In the meantime, Dan had tried one of the yellow chilies. I didn't hear a peep out of him--I just saw the beads of sweat forming around his forehead as his body defended itself against this firey food. Just in the nick of time, the waitress came out with the roti and curry, and though the curry sauce smelled delicious, my first bite of the pancake was sans sauce, so that I could feel a bit of relief from the chili paste.

The meal was absolutely delicious...some of the best Malaysian I've had so far. The roti pancake was flakey and buttery and the curry sauce was bursting with flavour. When our rendang and barbequed duck arrived, we piled our plates high and dug into our gorgeous meal. Each dish was cooked to perfection, boasting flavours, colours, smells and textures that pleased the senses. I didn't touch the red chili paste throughout the meal, though Dan managed to have his way with it. By the end of the meal, I felt immensely satisfied with every aspect of the evening... Every aspect, that is, except for the fact that I hadn't tried the yellow chili. I remembered the owner's warning about the chili's heat, but I decided to throw caution to the wind and thought, "Screw it. I'm on holidays." So, I picked up the smallest bit of chili I could find, I put it in my mouth and I began to chew it, allowing my tongue to explore its taste. Seconds later, I spit out the flaming pepper, and I was back to square one with the water chugging. The owner was not joking when he told us this would be a very hot chili. And as my body tried to deal with the inferno of the chili, my tongue numbed from the pain, my heartbeat raced and the tears streamed from my eyes. I love spicy food, but I have never experienced such sensations as I did after eating that blasted yellow chili. I tried to keep my cool, but there was no use hiding the panic that was building up inside my body. I laugh/cried, as I told the owner he was right about the yellow chili. He just smiled and agreed.

On day 6, Dan and I woke up a little depressed, as this would be the last day of our excellent holiday. We gathered our things, packed up our bags and checked out of the hotel by 10:30. The plan for the day was to head up to Kuranda, a small rainforest town not too far north of Cairns. You can either take the skyrail or scenic railway up to Kuranda, and Dan and I opted for the skyrail. We bought our tickets and waited in a short queue, before hopping into the gondola that would take us up the mountain. When we were lifted high enough, we could look out and see the Pacific Ocean. Down below, we saw miles and miles of untouched green rainforest. Every 10 minutes or so, we reached a pinnacle, where we could disembark and take a short walk through the surrounding rainforest. At one of these stations, we had a perfect view of the beautiful Kuranda Falls--an extraordinary waterfall that is also used as a local damn. When we finally reached Kuranda, we stopped at the Irish pub for lunch and a pint. Then, we took a leisurely stroll through the village, stopping to examine a few of the artisan shops and stands along the way. We were going at an easy pace, but the day still managed to slip away from us. Eventually, we boarded the gondola again and headed down the mountain back towards reality.

At the airport, we each had a drink to toast and conclude our holiday. Sitting on the outdoor patio enjoying Queensland's famous weather, we humbly dreaded the windy, cold winter that awaited us. Both of us wished we could have another week, or at least another day...but unless you've just won the lottery, all holidays must come to an end. So we gathered our bits and pieces, waited for them to announce our flight and finally, boarded the Virgin Blue plane headed south towards Sydney. As I sat in my uncomfortable middle seat that wouldn't recline quite far enough, I daydreamed about when I would be doing this again. The truth is, it's never too early to plan your next holiday...

I Took a Good Job in the City...

Sometimes, we need a bit of reminding to do the things that are best for us, but somehow go down on our list of priorities. In our busy lives consisting primarily of work and socialising, we tend to forget what's most important. For example, sticking to our regimes of exercising and eating well. Or even, picking up a good book before bed, instead of vegging out in front of the telly. For me, it has always been remembering to keep at it with my writing. The long gaps between my diary entries will serve as evidence that I'm far less than diligent with myself in this area. So I just want to say, thanks mate, for the reminder. You know who you are...

In any case, it's starting to chill down here in Sydney, as one of the nicest times of the year approaches. Autumn is a soothing relief from the damp heat of the Australian summer, but thankfully, it never gets cold enough for a parka. This season will be a benchmark for me, as I have just started a job at a corporate travel agency in the CBD (Central Business District). I'll be booking regional travel for members of the New South Wales government, whilst madly trying to learn the airport codes of obscure Australian cities (e.g. WGA = Wagga Wagga). I was working as a temp in the recruitment department of this company for about 3 weeks, and I somehow managed to land myself a job as a corporate travel consultant by week 3. Needless to say, I'm really excited for this career opportunity, as well as for meeting a few more Ozzies to make my stay here a bit more...authentic.

Although I'll be doing relatively similar work to that which I was doing at my last job, I don't anticipate that the same issues and complaints will arise with this new company. First of all, I'm going to have the luxury of a decent base salary plus monthly incentives, as opposed to the pressures of a nearly impossible to reach commission-based structure. The targets are much more realistic, and I won't have to cower in shame every time I pick up the phone, as I will not be planning any "exciting river cruises" for my clients. Secondly, I, like many of the other employees with whom I've spoken, will hold a positive attitude towards my manager, work environment and company. I cannot even begin to tell you how refreshing it was to hear from one of my co-workers, "This is the best company I've ever worked for." And as a result, I cannot help but approach the job with a very positive attitude. Finally, the oh-so-central location of the office is awesome. If I pack my lunch and the weather allows for it, I can enjoy an hour-long refuge from the office building at Sydney's Hyde Park. It's only a five-minute walk from the office, and it boasts plenty of benches for one's sitting pleasure. If I don't pack my lunch, I have a diverse melting pot of meal options to choose from--Thai, Malaysian, Japanese (both sushi and ramen), sandwiches and wraps, salads, kebabs, Chinese, Vietnamese, Italian and traditional Ozzie pub food are all within a 500 metre radius of our cosmopolitan office building. To be honest with you, it's extremely tempting to never pack my lunch...but what was that we said before about remembering to eat well?

Now I know I already sound way too enthusiastic about work, but actually, there's more. I start training next week to learn the essential GDS booking system with a handful of other consultants who will be doing the same job in several of our offices throughout Australia. Although the head office for Australia and New Zealand is in Sydney, next week's training will be held in the second biggest office in Melbourne. So that's right, I'll be travelling for work! They're going to fly me down to Melbourne on Virgin Blue (our supplier of the month), and put me up in a lovely 5 star hotel smack in the centre of the city. I suppose I was lucky this time, in regards to the location of the training, but I'm still totally chuffed about it! Unfortunately, I'll be too busy during these jam-packed 3 days to properly explore Melbourne, but at least I'll get a taste for the city to prepare me for my next visit. Not so bad, eh?

I might be glorifying this whole situation, since we are, of course, talking about the ever-dreaded fact of life that is work. But all in all, I feel quite happy to have finally found myself falling into place in Sydney, my new home. The three-month anniversary of my arrival was a few days ago, and half of me feels like I just got here, whereas the other half feels like I've been here for years. For those of you who have ever moved to another country, you probably know what I'm talking about. And for those of you who never have, I'll try to do my best to describe this odd feeling. It's a mixture of thrill and excitement every time you step out your front door, combined with the nostalgic longing for your comfort zone back home. Every day, you learn something new and you grow as a person. Bit by bit, you become a citizen of the world.

But hey, that's just this little globetrotter's take on it all...

Ashfield of Dreams

…And we’re back! February has been an incredibly busy month for me, hence my disappearance from the blog world. I’ve spent most of my time searching for, inspecting, moving into and furnishing a flat. Other than that, I’m still on a search for the perfect job, while trying to make the most of my unemployed time in Sydney. And with the little spare time that Dan and I have managed to find, we’ve spent it relaxing at his family’s beach house in Shellharbour or indulging in schooners at local pubs.

At this point, I’m incredibly happy to have finally found a home...and a bloody good one at that. Dan and I are currently living in a bright and spacious one-bedroom unit in an art deco building on Bland Street (sounds exciting, doesn’t it??) in the suburb of Ashfield. As I mentioned in one of my previous entries, finding a decent flat to rent in Sydney can be as difficult as avoiding the sunburn. Week after week, we attended flat inspections in some of the more desirable suburbs: Newtown and Redfern. Being close to the CBD and Sydney University—while maintaining a trendy and hip urban feel—these affordable suburbs are really popular areas to live in Sydney. Every inspection I attended housed at least 20 other vultures ready to put down a deposit. Needless to say, the competition was ruthless.

In the end, thanks to my go-getter boyfriend, we decided to expand our horizons and search for flats in other suburbs in Sydney’s Inner West district. This is how we ended up in Ashfield. Ideally located with the commerce-laden streets of Parramatta to the west, the hustle and bustle of Sydney city to the east and the super-authentic Italian cuisine of Haberfield and Leichhardt to the north, Ashfield is pleasant and unique town. The High Street (Liverpool Road) is packed with restaurants, fruit and veg shops, butchers, junk shops, Indian and Chinese grocers and the Ashfield Mall, making it very easy to find exactly what you need.

What I love about this town is that although we are technically a part of a modern city, we can still feel the old-world quaintness and personality of the British-style High Street. We can make friends with the local butcher, getting his recommendation on the special cuts of the week. We can opt to buy local produce at a small fruit and veg shop, instead of the overpriced and all-too-perfect-looking apples and oranges at the supermarket. We can even become regulars at the local pub, the barman already pouring the schooner as he’s asking us, “Will it be the usual?”

What’s more, since the population of Ashfield is mostly Shanghainese, I have had the pleasure of sampling some very authentic Shanghai cuisine. Their specialty is dumplings, and trust me, they do them so well. Being a lover of any meat/vegetable combination stuffed into a carbohydrate shell, I have found the local dumplings to be absolutely superb. And because there’s a lot of competition here between the many restaurants, you can generally get delicious, good quality food at low prices. The service isn’t super attentive, but the noodles, wontons and dumplings are freshly made on sight, always luring me back for more.

To top it all off, Ashfield is an undoubtedly safe community. With several primary schools just down our street and the family-friendly Ashfield Aquatic Centre within 20 minutes walking distance, it wouldn’t take much to convince us of our town’s wholesomeness. The leafy streets are lined with palm trees and frangipanis, and although the CBD is only 15 minutes by train, you don’t have to feel like you’re in a big city if you don’t want to. There are bike trails and parks throughout the residential areas of Ashfield, and even the calmer waters of inner Sydney Harbour are not too far away. In fact, if I felt the sudden urge for a seaside picnic, I would need only to head straight north for a few kilometres…et voilà, la mer!

So there you have it, the latest and greatest details of life down under. A new town to explore, new restaurants to sample, and a new home to make my own. And being that there is so much space in our awesome new flat, we would be more than happy to house any overseas visitors (wink, wink!). Come hungry and don’t forget your sunscreen!

Bushwalking

Like many others who have had the pleasure of living in California, I am a huge aficionado of hiking. When I lived in Los Angeles, I spent many afternoons on the wide and scenic trails of Griffith and Topanga Canyon State Parks. I enjoyed the exercise and a landscape that didn't involve strip malls or freeways. With that being said, I was quite looking forward to doing more than a few hikes (or bushwalks, as they're known here) in Australia. Luckily, Penrith--the city where I'm currently residing--is very close to the Blue Mountains National Park. Any day I choose, I can simply hop on the train and three stops later, I'm in the bush.

Yesterday, I fancied a bit of a exercise, so I rode the train to Glenbrook station with a rigorous bushwalk in mind. I had to go solo, which is usually a faux pas in the hiker's handbook. But, I figured that I am fairly experienced, and as long as I stick to the beaten track, what's the worst that could go wrong? Oh how mistaken I was.

It all started with my pre-bushwalk bathroom break. A fifteen minute walk from Glenbrook railway station is the entrance to the Blue Mountains National Park, where one can find tourist information, taps to fill water bottles and conveniently located toilets. Though I didn't need to go that bad, I knew this would be a better place to do my business than in the bush. I reluctantly stepped into the public toilet and winced. To my surprise, it was not the expected stench that shocked me, but rather, the hundreds of flies and mosquitoes buzzing around in the stall. I flailed my arms around me to deter the bugs from biting me on my bum, as I tried to balance myself over the toilet. Then, a dreadful thought entered my mind: "I forgot the bug spray." As soon as I could, I hurried out of the toilet stall and into a humid day in the woods. I would be fooling myself, if I didn't heed the danger of hungry mosquitoes in these conditions, but I wasn't about to turn back now. I begrudgingly found solace in the fact that I was wearing long pants, and I set out onto the trail.

That day, I chose to trek the trail to Red Hands Cave, in an effort to further explore the aboriginal history of this country. Located within the Blue Mountains Range, Red Hands Cave is an area of rocks where evidence of aboriginal habitation can be found. The walls are painted with red stencils and handprints of all sizes, and they are said to be anywhere from 500 to 1600 years old--hundreds of years older than the country itself. I chose Red Hands Cave not only for its unique artifacts, but also because it seemed to be on a beaten trail, not too deep into the bush. I followed the signs down the causeway, until I reached a sign pointing to a track headed straight into a thick forest. As I proceeded further and further down that track, I noticed that a lot of the plants were overgrown, blocking parts of the trail. I was sure I was going the right way, but it really felt like no one had hiked this trail for quite some time. This was not the first time that I had wished for a machete while hiking, but I kept going and hoping for the path to clear.

Now I was even deeper in the bush, and every few steps, I felt the silk of a spider's web clinging to my ankles, arms and face. I hate this feeling almost as much as I hate the sound of a insect's wings buzzing in my ear. However, I was determined to reach my destination, so I kept swatting and smacking the air around me. After about 10 frustrating minutes of waving my arms like a madwoman, I resolved to picking up a long stick and using it as my web-avoiding device. It did both the tricks of keeping the webs off me and the bugs away from me...well, at least, for a little while.

As I proceeded further along this dwindling excuse for a track, the plants and bugs just seemed to take over. I cannot deny that the scenery was beautiful, but I hardly noticed it with all the goosebumps developing on my body. I quickly came to grips with the fact that if something were to happen to me out here, no one would even hear me scream. There could be a poisonous snake or spider on the route, and I would have nowhere to run and no one to rescue me... And then my nightmare came true. Just as I was turning a corner of the track and wiping spider-silk off my left arm, to my right, I caught a glimpse of a spider the size of my mobile phone. I actually screamed and leapt back about 3 feet. Eventually, I stopped hyperventilating and desperately tried to convince myself to be logical about the situation. So, I peered around the same corner to try and identify this horrendous creature.

It had brown and yellow-striped spindly legs with a black and white-striped body. It was the biggest spider I have ever seen, besides a tarantula. It was sitting calmly on its web spun between the branches of several plants. "How can it be so calm," I thought, "when I'm clearly losing my wits?" It had to be poisonous, and it was planning its attack on me. Thankfully, it hadn't spun its web across the trail, but rather, on the side of it, so somehow, I convinced myself that I should go on and finish the hike. I slowly and cautiously crept around this spider, holding my breath the entire time. Once I was about a metre away from it, I let out some air and anxiously continued my journey.

I found myself not being able to relax after seeing the spider, and I knew that if there was one of them, then there were bound to be many more. I kept my eyes peeled at all angles, as I swatted frantically with my stick. If someone was videotaping me on this hike, then the tape would have resulted in the humorous, yet pathetic depiction of a psycho with a tic. "Got to keep going," I thought. "Got to face your fear." But I couldn't do it. The final straw, which made me turn back, was a tall plant crawling with evil-looking ants. I turned around and rapidly, but excruciatingly carefully, headed out of the bush. On my way out, I was tempted to take a photo of the spider that nearly gave me a heart-attack, but to be absolutely truthful, I was just too damn scared. I finally reached the clearing, after what seemed like the longest hour of my life, and I hiked up the hill back to Glenbrook station, sweaty and defeated.

On the train home, I decided that I would go back to attempt the trail again, so that I could, at long last, see Red Hands Cave. The next time, I would definitely bring a companion along--someone who could walk in front of me and bear the brunt of the spiderwebs before I got to the them. As soon as I got back to the house, I rushed up to my laptop to look up the bloodcurdling spider that hindered my hike earlier that day. It turns out the poor bugger was just a harmless Golden Orb Weaving Spider, which is apparently reluctant to bite and doesn't have that bad of a bite anyways. Certainly not venomous. But here's a look at one to help you decide what you would have done if you had crossed paths with it:

So although I acted rather cowardly, I do agree with the hiker's handbook in saying that one should never attempt a bushwalk alone. I won't do it again, and I don't recommend it to others. If I ever do make it to Red Hands Cave, I'll make sure to document my brave journey and capture some good photos of all the creepy crawlies along the way.

Australiana Weekend

Last weekend, I had my first proper Aussie experience: two nights of Paul Kelly--Australia's most famous singer/songwriter--followed by a Saturday afternoon at Bondi Beach, and finally, a scorching Sunday at the Sydney Cricket Ground to watch Australia smash England in the one-day match. By Sunday night, I was exhausted, but thoroughly satisfied with these eventful days. I might even say that after last weekend, I began to drop that awful feeling of being a tourist, and I acquired an element of the true Aussie.

A few months ago, during one of our many online chats, Dan surprised me with the news that we had tickets to the first two nights of Paul Kelly's A to Z Shows at Sydney's City Recital Hall. The A to Z shows would consist of 100 of Paul's best songs in alphabetical order four nights in a row (25 songs each night). We were booked for Thursday and Friday night, meaning we would be listening to the first half of the alphabet, A to L. I was all for Dan's decision to see the first half of the alphabet, since I'd get to hear some of my favourite tunes, like Bradman, Before Too Long, How to Make Gravy, From Little Things Big Things Grow, Careless and a few others. If you like good music, then by all means, look up Paul Kelly and listen to his music. He's a great story teller with a folky style and a melodic voice. He's sort of a mix between Bob Dylan and Jimmy Buffet...if that's even possible.

In any case, I met Dan at the train station on Thursday afternoon just after he finished work, and we rode into Sydney for an evening on the town. The show was to begin at 7:30, but we figured a local band would be opening for Paul, since he's a big supporter of aspiring musicians. We decided on dinner in Chinatown and made our way to Market City for an array of culinary options of the Asian variety. We both had delicious Singaporean laksas--mine with prawns and veggies and Dan's with beef. The time was getting closer to 7:30, so we headed towards the venue, both full of hot curry.

We arrived at the City Recital Hall at about a quarter to eight and were extremely surprised to see not a single concert-goer at the front entrance. We wondered if we had the right venue on the right night, since there was no one in sight. As we crept into the venue, we heard the faint strumming of a guitar accompanied by Paul's unmistakable voice. "Oh shit," I thought, "it's already begun!" So we rushed to our section and waited until the song ended, before the usher could open the doors and point us to our seats. Paul was already onto the letter B by the time we got there, but I was happy to hear that we didn't miss too much. As soon as we sat down on the second level directly in front of the musician, he began to play one of my favourites: Before Too Long. Dan held my hand as we spent the night listening to songs beginning with the letters A through E. Paul ended his 25 songs with Everything's Turning to White--a sad story with a somber melody--but he treated the crowd with two upbeat encores. We left the venue both appeased and excited, anticipating the songs of the following evening. We stopped for a pint at a rooftop pub and enjoyed the balmy summer evening. We even squeezed a kebab in at the end of the night! Finally, we caught one of the last trains back to Penrith, only to do the same thing the very next night.

On Friday evening, we got into Sydney a bit later than we had hoped...but this time, we were determined to be in our seats on schedule. So instead of strolling around for an hour searching for the best place to grab dinner, we chose a Malaysian restaurant within 5 minutes walking distance of the venue. Another awesome dinner. You will never go hungry in this city, especially if you have an affinity for Asian cuisine. Within 20 minutes, we scarfed down a Rendang beef curry and a black bean and chili beef stir fry. Then, we marched ourselves to the City Recital Hall and plonked down in our seats with 5 minutes to spare. I enjoyed Friday's show even better than Thursday's, discovering a few more songs to add to my Paul Kelly library. Again, he played 25 songs with two encores, filling the gaps with jokes, tales of his past and what inspired him to write certain songs. And as I left the venue--although I had spent the last two evenings listening to about 5 hours of Paul Kelly's music--I secretly wished I could go back the next two nights for more. He's a great artist on record, and an even better one live.

Now, Dan and I had big plans for the rest of the weekend, including flat inspections on Saturday morning and the cricket all day Sunday. We drove into Sydney early Saturday morning, hoping to find our new home for the next year. We saw a few places that were lovely...and some that were not-so-lovely. But what astonished me the most is how many people we were competing against for our dream accommodations. At each inspection, there were a minimum of 15 applicants, all eyeing the others to survey the competition. At one place in Surry Hills just off Oxford Street (the crème de la crème of locations), there were at least 60 other people filing in and out of this tiny one bedroom flat! "This must be a joke," I thought...but no one was laughing.

So after a nightmare of a morning, Dan suggested we spend the rest of the day doing something much more gratifying. He drove us to Bondi Beach to take part in a typical Sydney summer afternoon, where a plethora of folks were doing the same. We walked down to the surf and catching a waft of the discernible scent of sunscreen, I found myself surrounded by tanned and toned bodies in bikinis. At Bondi, the sand is white and fine and the water is warm and blue. On a day like this, everywhere you look there are people of all different shapes and colours and from all different walks of life. It is arguably the most famous beach in the world, proven by the many tourists approaching the Bondi Beach lifeguards every 10 minutes for a photo op. We spent about 45 minutes body surfing the rough waves and getting a bit of exercise. At about 5, our beach day was coming to an end, and we made our way back to Sydney for dinner and drinks with Dan's sister, Louise, and her boyfriend, Karl. Again, we opted for Asian, and this time it was Korean BBQ. You'd think I'd have been sick of Asian by then...

Sunday morning and it was time to prepare for the cricket. An Aussie once said to me, "Cricket is noble sport played by gentlemen with a rich history and an even richer tradition." I had never been to a cricket match, so I really didn't know what to expect...except that Aussies are serious about their cricket! I knew it would be taking place over the course of the day, but I could not actually grasp the idea that I'd be sitting in the same seat for eight hours watching a sport that I could hardly understand. Cricket is a quirky sport with an infinite list of rules and regulations. For example, if the batsman hits a six (equivalent to a home run in baseball), the lucky fan in the crowd who catches the ball cannot keep it. He/she has to give the ball back, because in cricket, you use the same ball for almost the entire match. Also, no two cricket grounds are identical. They vary in size, firmness of the pitch and typical weather conditions--all factors that are likely to affect the end result of the match. I've started to pick up a few things after Dan has lured me into watching one too many cricket matches on the telly, but you'll understand when I say that I wasn't expecting to follow along the entire eight hours.

Thankfully, in addition to our front-row seats, there were a few factors to consider that would make this day much more exciting for me. The first was the delectable Mediterranean-themed picnic we brought along with us. We had all the bits and pieces you could imagine--crisps, pita bread, hummus, eggplant dip, persian feta, kalamata olives, parsley, cherry tomatoes, pepperoni and pomegranate juice. You should have seen the looks on the faces of the couple sitting next to us as we revealed each new tasty snack throughout the course of the day. Their pears, ham sandwiches and weak beers looked pathetic compared to our feast. The array of goodies we munched on definitely made the day go by more pleasurably.

Secondly, the crowd at the cricket--Aussies and Barmy Army alike--added cheery entertainment to the day. One would think that only old men in high-waisted trousers and sun-blocking hats watch cricket. But on the contrary, this crowd was filled with a huge variety of spectators--families with young children, die hard fans of the sport, drunks and occasionally, the old man with the high-waisted trousers. Among the crowd, you could see fans in costume, adorning the colours of their respective countries. There were spectators wearing helmets carved out of watermelons. There were Australian and English flags flying high in each section of the circular ground. And at times, the activities going on amongst the crowd gained more attention than the teams playing cricket.

For instance, every now and then, a group of rowdy fans would start up a Mexican Wave (in America, we know it as "the wave"). Since the cricket ground is circular, this wave can go around quite a few times, before the participants get tired of standing up and throwing their hands in the air. The funniest part about this wave is that it will often drop off at the Members' Stand, as these exclusive spectators are much too posh to participate in such a crude performance. Usually, the crowd boos those who don't participate, and the wave continues with the adjacent stand in a perfectly timed fashion. For a visual, click on the following link and try to listen for the boo: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UiD5cSmGsXU.

The Mexican Wave is not the only peculiar spectacle that goes on amongst the crowd at the cricket. There is also the infamous snake, which consists of as many empty plastic beer cups as one can find, all stacked together to make a long snakelike figure. Usually, a group of young tipsy fans will collect the cups and reveal the snake only when they think it can't get any bigger. This is followed by a huge roar of applause from the crowd, which can prove to be a huge distraction from the cricket. Then, more and more groups reveal their snakes, as the crowd watches eagerly to see if the next one can get any bigger. Held up by several people, the biggest one I remember seeing could have easily been ten feet long. The security guards were hardly supporters of these amazing formations, so a few snake-makers were ejected from the stadium. I found the guards to be overreacting, since the snake-makers were just having a bit of fun. But then again, is losing your seat at the cricket worth a possible spot on TV and an applause from over 30,000 spectators? I daresay it is.

Finally, a cricket-crowd activity I came face-to-face with was the flying beach ball. Throughout the day, people in the crowd were blowing up beach balls and passing them through the stadium. As gravity would have it, a beach ball would end up on the ground from time to time, in which case, a security guard would revoke it and pop it for everyone to see. This didn't stop the crowd from producing endless amounts of beach balls. But the beach ball that topped them all was the one belonging to the couple sitting next to us. Blown up to its full capacity, this beach ball was as tall as an eight-year-old and as round as Kirstie Alley. The lad of the couple was campaigning to everyone around us to participate in blowing up this massive monstrosity. When he approached Dan and I, we said no thanks, thinking about how many different types of spit had touched the mouthpiece. We think we heard him grumble something about 7 courses of lunch and calling yourself a true Australian. I didn't care, because I was not Australian, I was happily full and I would still have front-row seats to the launch of this enormous beach ball.

At this point, the crowd was getting quite restless, and every five minutes, another rowdy spectator was being ejected or a beach ball was being revoked. Just before our ball was fully blown up, two security guards approached the lad, threatening to kick him out, or at the very least to pop his ball. After much effort from the local crowd to stray these security guards away from the path leading to the beach ball, they caught sight of the thing. To all of our amazement, they grinned and reconciled to turn around and let us continue our mission. This was the only time I heard the crowd cheer for the security guards.

After about an hour and a half of blowing up the biggest beach ball I have ever seen, the lad was ready to toss it in the air, careful not to have it land on the pitch. He launched it into the crowd and the next two minutes were filled with ooohs and aaahs, as we all struggled to keep the ball going. No one within a 100 meter radius was watching the cricket. And sadly, by the third minute, the beach ball was thrown in the wrong direction and had fallen down a staircase. It was short lived, but it was exciting...just one of the many activities that kept the long day entertaining and captivating.

And as the day drew to an end, to my dismay, Australia was gaining on England. Not before long, we all knew who would take the win that day. As we shuffled out of the stadium minutes after Australia earned their victory, I had to admit to myself that I had a great time at the cricket. Eight hours didn't seem so long, and I would even consider going to another match...that is, as long as it's not a 5-day test match.

So, I've passed the test. I've spent a weekend like a true Aussie. And I think it's safe to say that I could get used to this...

Kebabs: Eat with Caution

If you know me well, you know I'm a foodie. I will try anything within reason (no cockroaches or grasshoppers, please), and with every bite, I like to savour each component of the delicacy. I believe that food is an essential part of every culture. That's why when I travel, I'll make sure to track down the best hole in the wall to sample the local dish.

Australia is a diverse country, full of immigrants bringing their culture's culinary specialties. From the Italians, Aussies have gained the perfect espresso. From the Portuguese comes the mouth-watering charcoal chicken. Almost any type of Asian cuisine is readily available--sushi, Thai curries, laksas and hot pots. But in my opinion, none of these options compares to a Turkish-style kebab.

Also known as shawarma, durum and doner, kebabs are found in even some of the smallest Australian towns. Good for a late-night snack or a hearty lunch, the kebab comes in a variety of forms. Here, you can always choose between chicken or beef. If you're lucky, the option of lamb will also be available to you. I like mine with "the lot": cheese, hummus, tabouli, tomatoes, lettuce, onions and garlic and chili sauces. With my first bite, the hot, spicy meat in combination with the cool parsley convince me that I could be in Istanbul's Grand Bazaar.

For me, a kebab is the closest thing I can find to my beloved California burrito. Although the flavour is completely different, a kebab still provides me with many deliciously complex tastes all wrapped up into an eater-friendly concoction. The kebab is my middle-eastern burrito, and for now, it satisfies my cravings.

I've probably had about 10 kebabs, since I arrived just over 2 weeks ago. I'm restraining myself from the 11th. I've had breakfast kebabs, starting off my day with a spicy kick. I've had kebabs for lunch--hands down, the best time of day to eat one because you've got the rest of the day to digest it. Most of all, I've had late-night kebabs...which, I'll admit, can sometimes be disastrous. Do the combination of flavours make for the perfect drunken munchie? Yes. Do the greasy meat and hot chili sauce allow you to wake up feeling fresh and healthy? Not a chance. Just like you would with a burrito, you must eat your kebab with caution, respecting every ingredient that goes into the tasty treat.

Two nights ago, after a summer evening of perhaps too much Aussie brew, Dan and I intensely looked each other in the eye and immediately knew what the other wanted: a kebab. We left the pub at about midnight, and by 1 o'clock, each of us had scarfed down a big beef kebab. They were absolutely delicious, but I felt awful the next morning. I swore to myself that I would wait at least a month before my next kebab. But, as I sit here writing about my my vice--the warm and toasty bread, the deliciously spicy meat, the awesome combination of sauces and veggies--my mouth waters and my craving takes over. Kebabs are just that good.

New Year's Eve in Sydney

At least once in your life, you must make your way to Sydney, Australia on December 31st for the fireworks spectacular over the Sydney Harbour. I am certainly not a fireworks enthusiast, but I can appreciate a good show when I see one. And this, my friends, was a good show. Of course, it didn't hurt that we had prime seating at the waterfront of Sydney's Royal Botanic Gardens. From this

perspective, we could clearly see the Opera House, the Harbour Bridge and the gorgeous seaside houses along Sydney Harbour's northern shores. We didn't have to bother mixing with the masses that were mainly congregating at Circular Quay near the Opera House, but also through other areas of the harbour's beautiful shorelines. Seeing people who had even camped out a day early to get the ideal vantage point, I knew I was lucky to be enjoying this world-renowned event from one of the best seats in the house.

Dan and I arrived at the gardens to meet his family for a picnic dinner, just as the initial 9 o'clock show began. The 9 o'clock fireworks show is meant primarily for younger children, whose bedtimes sadly come before the midnight extravaganza. This show was fairly impressive, though it didn't include the fireworks over the Harbour Bridge, which are reserved for the official show at midnight. I munched away on my chicken roll and potato salad, as the sky lit up with a rainbow of colours. Teals, magentas, golds and violets shined into view, and I marvelled at the sight before me. Dan's sister, Louise, leant over to me and whispered, "This is nothing...just you wait until midnight." And my excitement grew a bit more.

After about 15 minutes, the pre-show came to an end, while the festivities were just beginning. We drank wine, ate delicious finger foods, chatted, laughed and revelled with the other groups of spectators--all of us waiting for the night to draw closer and closer to 12 o'clock. Suffering from jetlag and a massive time difference, I was having some trouble fighting off the drowsy feeling. Louise caught me yawning, and she assured me that another drink was all I needed to keep myself up. I was skeptical of her advice, but I listened anyway. I didn't want to be the party pooper, missing out on this once-in-a-lifetime experience. So, I poured myself another drink...and then another, and then another, until surely I was not drowsy anymore, but rather, quite tipsy!

We were enjoying ourselves so much that by the time midnight came around, and the official fireworks show began, we had completely forgotten the midnight countdown! Not until a few minutes into the magnificent show, when Louise came over to kiss me on the cheek and wish me a Happy New Year, did I realise what I had missed. I suppose time had literally flown by, since were were having so much fun.

This time, being the official midnight showing, the fireworks last nearly half an hour, and the sky was again filled with bright colours and smoke. With all the bangs and booms and smoke filling the air, we couldn't help but have the eery feeling that this is what being a war must feel like. Needless to say, I felt quite happy and thankful for where I was and what I had in my life. And just as Louise had promised, this midnight show easily outdid the previous one. The fireworks spewing out over the Harbour Bridge were both unique and entertaining, and they definitely added an extra element to the midnight show.

Though I almost want to cringe at the idea of how much money was spent in one evening, I have to admit that the city of Sydney puts on an amazing show. I now understand why Sydneysiders are so proud of their city on this celebratory night. Throughout my years, I have found that most people think of New Year's Eve as a big disappointment--an anticlimax resulting from spending too much time and money deciding where to go, what to wear and whom to kiss. BUT, if you're looking for anything but a dull and disappointing night, then next New Year's Eve, get yourself to Sydney for a world famous celebration. I promise you won't regret it.

LAX to SYD - Migrating South for the Winter

Signing in from Sydney, Australia! And a new chapter in my life begins...

I must admit, the journey over was a bit disastrous. After a week of very little sleep, frantically tying up loose ends and packing up my life into boxes and two overstuffed suitcases, I finally bid farewell to my Northridge home on the evening of December 29th, 2010. My brother, Bobak, and sister, Bahar, were the ones to take me to LAX and see me off. Once we got there, all three of us began the mad hustle of shifting the kilos from one suitcase to the other. As I knelt on the floor of Tom Bradley International Terminal next to these two monstrous bags, I thought to myself, "Do I really need all this crap?" Too late.

It was time to head to my gate. Watching my sister's eyes fill with tears, I quickly kissed her and my brother goodbye and promised them I'd see them soon down under. I never do well with goodbyes, and this one wasn't any easier. So, I marched over to security with at least 40 pounds on my back, and I proceeded like the rest of the travelling sheep through the TSA screening checkpoint. Living up to their reputation, TSA pulled me aside and took apart my perfectly packed carry-on bit by bit. I'm a frequent traveller, so I wasn't surprised (though I was a little irritated) to hear that everything in my carry-on had passed their standards. Desperate and exhausted, I was left there to figure out how to put the pieces of my puzzle back together.

At this point, I was dripping with sweat. I trod to the gate and plonked myself down in the first open seat I could find. There wasn't much time until boarding, but I really needed to catch my breath. "Oh bloody hell," I thought, "I haven't bought any duty-free booze!" So I was up again, madly searching for a duty-free shop with a decent selection of alcohol. Nothing in the shop was to my liking and I gave up, resigning to the idea that I would somehow have a better selection onboard the flight. Getting myself back to the gate, I was elated to see they had begun boarding. When they called my row, I was one of the first in queue to board Qantas flight 12, direct from LAX to SYD. I wanted to wait no longer!

Qantas is a great airline, and if you happen to be flying this route, I highly recommend considering them as your carrier. In an airline, I look for good food, good service and consistent punctuality. Qantas delivers on all three. For dinner, I had the grilled Mahi Mahi with a glass of Australian Pinot Grigio. I watched the first half of Inception and the first 20 minutes of I'm Still Here, each time dozing into a drug-induced sleep. (Word to the wise: take some sort of sleep-aid when you've got a long flight ahead of you.) Before I knew it, breakfast was being served and we were just an hour from landing.

I felt both serene and excited, as we descended to Sydney's Kingsford Smith International Airport. The last time I visited, I was pleasantly surprised by how effortlessly I managed to pass through the infamously stringent Australian customs. This time, I wasn't too worried that I would be out of there in no time. Unfortunately, I was sorely mistaken. (Second word to the wise: DO NOT TRAVEL ON A PUBLIC HOLIDAY.) Having left Los Angeles on December 29th, I arrived into Sydney on December 31st--perhaps, the most popular day of the year to be in Sydney. People from all over the world come here on this day to marvel at the New Year's Eve fireworks spectacular over the Sydney Harbour. "Well," I thought, "I might as well take my time and check out the duty-free shops on this end." About 20 minutes later, happily loaded with Tanqueray and Bailey's, I proceeded to passport control and customs with a serious look of determination on my face.

Passport control alone took at least half a sweaty hour in queue...the entire time with my behemoth of a backpack weighing me down. I thought I was going to faint. Finally, I showed the officer my passport, and he graciously allowed me into Australia. I was so relieved to not have to carry my bag anymore that I failed to notice the mosh pit of travellers fighting to get through customs. The first thing I did was grab a trolley and unload my backpack. It still hurts my neck to think of carrying that thing around. Then, I frantically searched for my baggage carousel, crossing back and forth several times before eventually locating baggage carousel 13. Oh the irony of it all...

Still, my main objective was to get myself out of that horrible place as soon as possible. I spotted my massive suitcases quickly (how could I miss them??), and I struggled to heave them off the carousel onto my trolley. I was rather disappointed to find that one of them had suffered some war wounds on the journey over. It looked like a rabid dog had torn a big hole through it! "Oh well--focus on the task at hand!" I thought. I pushed the trolley over to the first mile-long queue I saw, and I waited there impatiently. A customs officer saw that I was travelling alone, and he approached me with some golden advice.

"Anything to declare?" he asked.

"No. Nothing," I answered back.

He pointed me in the direction of a yellow exit door for those who had "Nothing to Declare."

This group of people weren't really in a queue, but rather in a disorganised mess of sweaty travellers, duffle bags, trolleys and suitcases--all trying to squeeze through that inviting yellow door. I eased over to the mess and tried to shimmy my way to the front. Somehow, I managed to get through without having a panic attack. And though the experience was extremely unpleasant, I did get out of the customs hall much quicker than I would have through the other doors.

Practically flying into the arrivals terminal--pushing at least 75 kilos worth of baggage--I spotted my boyfriend, Dan, from afar, and I rushed over to give him a big sweaty kiss. I felt sheer relief that I made it through customs alive, and although I was a bit drowsy, I was ready for the evening's festivities to come. Dan escorted me to his mum's Ford, and at that moment, my Aussie adventure began.

When you travel, you learn something new every step of the way. I would like to share with you the moral of this particular step of my journey: Pack light.