Give me Kitchen Aid or give me death.

Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time I was a senior in college, contemplating writing an honors thesis. Eventually it became clear to me that I would not be able to write it and still hold on to my sanity. I came to this realization over winter break and promptly called my roommate back in Atlanta, a little appalled and nervous. Our conversation went something like this:

S: "I don't think I'm going to be writing my thesis."
C: "hmmm, that's interesting."
S: "no, really!"
C: "yes, I heard you."
S: "what, aren't you shocked? Why are you so calm about this? WHY ARE YOU NOT MAKING SURPRISED NOISES?"
S: "Oh, I'm sorry, was this supposed to be news? I knew this would happen."
S: "How? I'm writing the damn thing and I didn't even know! How could you?"
C: "Over the past semester, you baked scones, cakes, chocolate croissants, more scones, tarts, cookies, brownies, and cupcakes. Every time you were supposed to be writing your thesis, you were baking. You even made cupcakes that looked like anatomically correct hearts. THEY HAD VENTRICLES AND EVERYTHING. Clearly, the thesis wasn't going to get written."
S: "..."

And that is how my very observant roommate diagnosed me as a stress baker.

So yeah, stress baking. Apparently I do it. And I must be extraordinarily anxious about SOMETHING, because I have been baking up a storm lately. Some people have requested pictures, so here they are a few of my creations (please excuse the poor quality - if this is food porn, it's clearly of the homemade sex tape variety):


Cupcake kuchen, or cupkuchen, for July 4. I used strawberries and bluberries to get a nice red/white/blue thing going, but none of the people at the party I brought them to seemed to care. Clearly, they aren't patriots.


And then there was the mini peach galette:


It was sort of an after-thought, actually; we had leftover tart dough from a tomato onion tart my roommates had made and some peaches that weren't used up in a peach/apricot kuchen I had made early that week. I wasn't sure what to do for the filling, so it was basically just sliced peaches coated with brown sugar and patted down with butter. I've since done some other, more intentional galettes (apple, mostly) but so far this has come out the prettiest.

Now, this next one has a story (surprising, right?). I have never feared cupcakes, or brownies, or scones. I faced down pan au chocolat with a take-no-prisoners attitude. Even pie dough, with all it's finickiness, doesn't frighten me too badly. But cakes? Especially layer cakes? As far as I can tell, they were created by the devil to confound me. At least that's what I've thought for the past few years, culminating in my spectacular layer cake failure from November, on election night. I tried to make a double-layer chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting. I was going to decorate it to look like the Obama logo! It was going to symoblize the meeting of black and white in this historic election! That last part is bullshit, but honestly, I was a little high on hope and baking fumes.

Well, this is how it looked for a split second (you can see that I cheated and used packaged colored frosting... I'm sorry, baking gods!):


And one second later, all hell breaks lose:


Basically, I'm a Cake Killer. Or so I thought, until I decided to face my fears and tackle a three-layer red velvet to bring to a going-away party for my friend Jing. I did some research, found the best layer cake advice from Deb from Smitten Kitchen, and produced three of these:


Which turned into this:


Which, if you can't tell, is three gorgeous layers of red velvet separated by two layers of cream cheese frosting and spackled with a crumb layer. And, in one of the most triumphant moments of my young adult life (I aim low), all of that became this:


Oooh, I get all weepy just thinking about it. I mean, you have to ignore the wonky writing - clearly I don't exactly have the art of decorating down just yet. Still, pretty cool for my first three layer cake, right?

I've since made a three-layer yellow cake with lemon cream cheese frosting and lemon curd/blackberry compote filling, a few more kuchens, and two (!!) fruit pies. I'm pretty proud of myself, but my roommates are starting to go a little sugar-crazy. Given how stressed out this means I am, I should probably seek therapy. But hey, flour and sugar are cheaper, right?

Me and General Slocum, chilling out, shooting the breeze, as one does

Christina was recently reading me the riot act over not posting enough about my new job, which is pretty much the most awesome thing ever. My response was that with my camera broken and now out of commission entirely, I didn't have any pictures of my fabulous (broke) new life in Chicago to post. "What's all this about pictures?" was her response. "Words, woman, words are where it's at! The blog is made of words! Words upon words of words, making a rainbow quilt of language!" Or something to that effect - it was late, I was tired, and the cell phone connection to Hawaii was sort of crap. So in that spirit, I want to tell you all a funny little story about my life in the costume collection.

A lot of what I end up doing at work is dusty and dirty. Last Wednesday, for instance, I got to work, unwrapped myself from the cumbersome winter gear that is uniform here in Chicago, and was promptly handed a swiffer. My mission? To clean the Chic Chicago gallery. "Chic Chicago" is the big costume exhibit that was mounted earlier in 2008. One of the best-received exhibits at the museum, it's a trip down the memory lane of fashion in Chicago. All the outfits displayed in the exhibit are considered haute couture or designer and were worn and owned by some of Chicago's most prominent women throughout the history of the city. It's a beautiful exhibit and lots of fun to look around, but what I was doing on Wednesday was getting up on the platforms and swiffering around the mannequins, hunting up dust. To do this, I donned a lab coat and latex gloves, in case I ended up having to touch one of the dresses. And then, to complete the look, I had to remove my boots and socks. They would have left marks on the display platforms, you see, scuffing up the exhibit. So there I am, in the middle of an open exhibit, scampering around antique and vintage gowns, some of which cost more than my four years of private university education combined, in a white lab coat, science-y looking latex gloves, and my stockinged feet. It was pretty absurd. I also felt a bit strange getting up close and personal with all these beautifully-clad blank-faced fiberglass mannequins.

So yeah, dirty. All of this, though, brings me to the point of this post: that a lot of what I do is awesome but it's usually the tiny little moments that make me realize it. Recently, for instance, one of the other interns and I were working in storage, cataloguing objects in the military uniforms section. At least 3/4s of the costume collection is made up of women's clothes because, let's be honest, throughout history women's clothes have been WAY more interesting than men's (the one possible exception to that rule being the clothes worn in the court of Louis XIV, because man, those dudes looked crazy). We do, however, have a sizable military costume collection, which is what we were working on. Military hats, to be exact, with a few ethnographic caps thrown in (you have probably never touched as many Masonic and Shriner hats as I have.)

One of the coolest hats I handled was an officer's cap from the Civil War. Union, of course, because this is Illinois, home of Lincoln, etc. etc. Navy blue (like I said: Union) with a silk braid across the bill and gold stitching forming laurel leaves at the front, it was ridiculously tiny. It also had an old tag on it, declaring that this was the cap worn by General Henry Warner Slocum (1827-1894.) Which begged the question: was this hat worn by a man named Henry Slocum who LATER became a general, or was he a general when he was wearing it? In the early 1860s he would have been in his mid to late 30's, right? So a little young for a general, but during the Civil War they went through generals like kindergarteners go through crayons, so age wasn't necessarily a great determinant for figuring out his status.

Regardless of whether he was a general during or after the Civil War, I got a little thrill out of holding a hat that had seen so much bloodshed and history. The bloodiest, most traumatic and heartrending of wars fought on American soil, the battles that turned brother against brother, and this lame little wool cap saw them all.

And then I handled another hat, this one extraordinarily dusty (and see? dirt comes up again. Full circle!) It was tan felt, with a wide flat brim that was covered in tan stitching details. Swirling around in curli-cues, the stitching was a remarkably detailed and even decorative touch on a hat that was otherwise entirely functional. And what did this very dirty hat's ancient tag say? "Taken from a Wyoming Indian at the Battle of Wounded Knee." Amazing, right? I mean, this hat was stolen off a man who, in all likelihood, was one of the 300 Native American slaughtered at the massacre. This hat was part of the battle (if you can call it that) that essentially ended the 100-plus-year conflict between white settlers and Indians. Maybe I'm geeking out over history to much, but I really couldn't get over this. And the dirt that I was complaining about? Some of it was probably original dirt from the battle. I had 120-year-old dirt and dried blood and Indian DNA and all sorts of other cool and creepy stuff all over my gloves and lab coat and clothes.

When I got home I looked up Henry Warner Slocum on Wikipedia. According to that venerable fount of knowledge, Slocum was a major general during the Civil War and later represented New York in Congress. One of the youngest Civil War generals, he earned criticism due to his slow movement and indecision on the battlefield at Gettysburg, earning him the nickname "Slow Come." So there you have it: from the hallowed battlefields of Gettysburg to the blood-washed site of a traumatic massacre to the humorous and infantile nickname of a young man who clearly had some time-lag issues, all through a bunch of gross old hats. See? My job is way cool.

Oh, and because it feels wrong to post this without ANY pictures, here is old "Slow Come" himself:

Flight 86 to Chicago

has arrived, with me in it!

I've actually already settled in to my new room, which is a charming little bedroom in my awesome friend Zoe's apartment. She and her equally awesome roommate (now my roommate as well!) Megan had extra space and generously offered it to me, so not only do I have an unpaid job, but I have a place to live to boot!

Enough with the exclamation points... time for bed. Peace out, crazies!

Judging without experience is my forte, after all; hence: museumist.wordpress.com

In keeping with both what I'm best at (judging without any sort of experience or knowledge to back me up) and what I hope to get good at (museum curating/material culture exhibiting) I'm going to be maintaining a blog where I write about museum exhibiting and review new exhibitions. I'll still be keeping up with Shoshana Writes as my personal blog, but if you want to hear about local museum shows, my thoughts on museum exhibiting philosophy, and why I love early Federal style furniture, be sure to check out www.museumist.wordpress.com.

All This Could Have Been Avoided If Only You'd Have Listened to Me

This is an old post from when I got back from Australia. I found it in my drafts folder, so I guess I never got around to publishing it. It is pretty ancient but it has some gems, and since I might not be posting anything for a while (there is apparently NO internet in the backwoods of PA... also, we can communicate with other people and towns when the visibility is good enough to see the smoke signals. And we gather around the town square to listen to the one Victrola play ragtime music) I figured this might be fun to read. So here you go: a belated edition of "All This Could Have Been Avoided if Only You'd Have Listened to Me:"

I think its time for me to make a list (as I am wont to do) of all the things I'm not totally okay with here in the U.S. This list will only include changes that occured while I was on a different continent, because listing all the flaws of my great country is a much more laborious task than I am currently up to. So here it is, Mistakes America Made While I Wasn't Watching:

1. Veronica Mars - or rather, the cancelling of it. Yes, it had some rough patches. And sure, it didn't get the best ratings. But let me tell you, when it was good it was great. Teen noir? Nancy Drew with an attitude problem? Extraordinarily emo biker gangs? Does it get any better than this? We'll never find out, of course, because the scrooges over at the CW didn't care enough to try to revive what might have been the only quality show on their network.

2. No Universal Health Care - so I know that when I left America we didn't have it, and so I shouldn't be surprised that we don't have it now. Somehow, though, I forgot all about our tortuous health care system while I was abroad. I got to tell you, though, that it sure was wonderful to know that I could waltz into any clinic anywhere in Australia and not have to pay a cent for my treatment. Unfortunately, though, the rest of the citizenry of the great U.S. will never get to experience that wild sensation. No, they'll have to go through the complicated process of referrals and reimbursments and the never-ending phone conversations with insurance carriers - that is, of course, if they're insured to begin with.

3. The New Cheeseboard Pizza - Yes, I know its bigger. I know it can accomodate more people. I know it can be a more pleasant place to eat. But damnit, half the point of going to Cheeseboard pizza was for the experience of waiting in the cramped line, sweating from the heat of the ovens and worrying that your eardrums were going to pop from the volume of the live jazz band playing in a space approximately the same size as your closet. That long, hot, drawn-out process made the feeling of picking up your pizza and settling down into the busy traffic-median greenway so much more enjoyable. Without it, I'm just not sure if its the same place.

4. Driving - So here is the thing: every time you get behind the wheel of your enormous hunk of moving metal and turn on the ignition, you are reaffirming the social contract. This contract is long and complicated, but at its most simple it means that you will respect the rights of other people to exist and get to where they need to go and that to do that you will make eye contact, acknowledge other cars, and generally act like a considerate human being. In return, other drivers agree to do the same, ensuring that the social contract is fulfilled and the circle of life moves forward. But this doesn't work if some people don't bother with it. OH MY GOD PEOPLE RESPECT THE SOCIAL CONTRACT. Seriously! I know I'm not a fabulous driver but if one more jerk in a giant SUV tries to run me off the road or honks at me for stopping at a freaking STOP SIGN, I will cut a bitch. DO NOT TEST ME.

5. Scooter Libby - did Bush really commute his sentence? Really? So not only was he the administration's fall guy, but he didn't even have to fall that far. Thats so messed up.

Of course, there are lots of things I love about America: our rocking Constitution, democracy (I still believe in it!), turning right on red lights, choosing from eight million brands of peanut butter in the grocery store, and so on. But really - lets get our act together on the health insurance. And the social contract. And if someone could find a way to resuscitate Veronica Mars, I'd marry them.

Getting Up to Speed

So, things that have happened since the last time I posted (in no particular order):
I turned 22
I learned to like (or at least choke down) beer
I graduated college
I interviewed in New York for jobs at auction houses and began to hyperventilate at the thought of moving to the city
I didn't get the jobs at the auction houses, making all my hyperventilating a waste
I graduated college
I baked scones
I baked more scones
I baked even more scones
I baked pain au chocolate
I graduated college
I got a red bike!
I moved out of my apartment and out of Atlanta
72 hours later, I moved out of my house in Berkeley and into a house in Albany
I baked rugelach
I baked pinapple upside down cupcakes
I applied for a million jobs
I went to a lot of parties
I studied
I stopped writing my thesis
I graduated

Somewhere in there I also slept, ate things that weren't baked, shopped, read, hung out with friends, and went to class, but you get the idea.

This past semester was crazy. It was my last, which made it poignant, but I don't think I realized just how final it was until graduation. I'm glad of that - it meant that there wasn't very much, "oh, I have to do everything before graduation" talk. Sure there was some - I doubt I would have consumed as much PBR as I did if I hadn't been thinking that - but I think my friends and I were pretty good about doing things because we WANTED to do them, not because it was our last chance ever, omg, end of the world, etc.

To go along with the random list above, I give you a photographic account of Shoshana's Spring Semester, 2008 (also in no particular order):
C and M 22 at around the same time, so they threw a joint birthday party which is was pretty crazy. On C's actual birthday, though, we went out to Cafe Intermezzo, a silly European-style coffee house and dessert bar. I say silly because it obviously thinks too highly of itself, but man, those desserts are killer. In fact, its probably one of my favorite places to eat sweet things. What you see in the picture below is me, intensely examining their dessert display while a Intermezzo Cake Expert (my term) guides me through my options. I had a lot of questions, so it took awhile.


Earlier in the month there was a crazy snow storm. Friday and Saturday were both completely snowed-in, and neighborhood kids (and adults) went crazy building snowmen and sledding down some very sad hills. Snow is so rare in Atlanta that we all got caught up in the excitement of what was, to be honest, a very sad little snowfall. Here are E and A dancing outside the Target Greatland (oh, my home away from home) enjoying the snow (its the gray haze behind us.)


I lived with a Protestant and two Catholics and I happen to love breakfast food, so I couldn't let Fat Tuesday (also known as Shrove Tuesday) go by without a pancake. C and I made crepes with nutella to have as a study break snack, and C even managed to find Polish doughnuts at the grocery store. Apparently they are only available around Shrove Tuesday. There must be some sort of Shrove Tuesday magic, too, because by Wednesday they tasted disgusting. Below E and I make faces at the pancakes,and the camera.


Suddenly it was March, and along with that came my birthday. I was home for spring break on the actual day and Isaac made the trip up to celebrate with me. He, my mom, and I went to Copia in Napa and then to a winery, followed by dinner with Kiva, Grandma, and Eva and Janusz. It was all very Northern California yuppie. Copia, if you didn't know, is subtitled "the center for wine, food, and the arts," and it is the very soul of bougie. A museum-cum-monument to Nor-Cal lifestyle, it elevates foodies and gourmands to the level of history-makers. I, of course, ate it all up. Here my mom and I stand, like greek statuary, next to the enormous urns made out of bottle caps that grace a grand quote by Robert Mondavi engraved in the marble at the entrance of Copia. I feel very epic, and yet very foolish.


Back in Atlanta I had a small party for my friends. My roommates, being the glorious people they are, actually bought me a gold brocade cape for my birthday. A CAPE. Its always good to know who my true friends are, and now I have the perfect standard of measure: would they buy me an absurd, useless item of costume-y clothing? If the answer is "no," then I really shouldn't be hanging out with them. Here I am, trying on the cape and unable to contain my excitement:


C and A were trying to help me get it on but I think the ridiculousness of the situation became too much for A. I can't tell if she's laughing or about to vomit, but if its the second then it must be vomit of happiness. Below is M and I at the party as I wear the cape nonchalantly, as if there is nothing weird about being wrapped in several pounds of heavy gold brocade:


At some point L and Z came to visit. They actually came separately - L and I had been planning her visit out since high school graduation so cruelly separated us, and Z and her friend K just happened to be driving through from Chicago to Florida for their spring break. Z and K got in right at the end of L's visit, so I had some time with each of them. Here are L and I at the statue of the weird flying children in Decatur Square. Decatur is a cute little town right next to the suburb where Emory is located - its home to Agnes Scott College and very precious. In fact, I have been known to mutter about how Agnes Scott girls don't deserve Decatur - Emory really should be closer to it. Still, its the closest actually commercial downtown near Emory (Emory Village doesn't count) and I love it.


Having L in town provided the perfect opportunity for a picnic in Piedmont Park, which is the Golden Gate Park of Atlanta. Here we are, late in the evening:


Finally, below you can see Z, L and I united at last in a Waffle House. I don't have enough space to talk about Waffle House (it requires its own personal post), but just know that when you are driving around the Southeast, nothing is more comforting or welcome then that yellow and black sign rising from the wooded jungles or concrete wastelands that surround the interstates. They are truly magical places, were the waffles are huge and copious and the potatoes come smothered, covered, and choked, or some crap like that.


Every year we have Dooley's Week, a seven-day celebration of Emory's unofficial but very legitimate mascot. Once again, this needs a whole post to explain (one that, unlike the epic Waffle House entry, I actually plan on writing) but it culminates with a huge school-sponsored party called Dooley's Ball. Technically a masquerade, people wear all sorts of crap to it. Here are C and A. C isn't in costume, and A says she was dressed as a pirate. I said she was going as a Hot Tranny Mess. You decide.


And here are C and I, practicing our dance moves as we wait for the shuttle to arrive to take us to the party. It never came and so we had to get there under our own power. This mostly involved walking in bare feet while holding our heels and bitching until an Emory Escort pulled up. It was already pretty full of other drunk students but we begged the driver to let us pile in, which he did. This means that I rode to Dooley's Ball sitting on the floor of a minivan, between the knees of my three best friends and two wasted strangers. Good times. But anyway, before we gave up on the shuttle we were waiting at the stop. C and decided to practice some of the steps we had learned in Social Dance the semester before. This is the result:


That is basically it. A lot of stuff happened this semester that wasn't documented on camera, and this is just a sampling of what I do have photos of. Also, I'm not including what might be the biggest thing - graduation. Another post about that is on the way, I just have to get my life together first.

Oh, but one last picture: at some point during the semester A decided she would try to ride me like a horse. It didn't work.

No, But Really

I know that this is going to sound incredibly self-centered, but sometimes I think the internet is in my head. Like the whole thing actually just forms in my brain, all the content and everything, and other people have somehow managed to gain access to it all but don't realize that they are really connecting to my brain rather than some amorphous world wide web. I'm not saying its imaginary or non-existent, just that my brain contains the entire web. And yeah, if the internet really was my brain Wikipedia would be a lot less in-depth and have more entries about recent sales at Anthropologie and pandas and fewer about quantum phsyics and Magic: The Gathering, but still. Everytime I convince myself that my crazy delusions are just that, something like www.cakesandbabies.blogspot.com comes a long and sends me right back into that headspace where Wi-Fi hotspots have access to my brain and the planet actually spins around me rather than the sun.

Because here is the thing: I am a long-time lover of cake and an admirer of babies. (I was going to leave it as "lover of babies," but than I realized how that might read. This is meant to amuse, not gross people out.) I have baked many a cake. I have not made many a baby (something that my mother, my college advisor, and my better sense are all relieved to know) but I certainly like them and have been known to hatch not-too-far-fetched plans to kidnap particularly cute ones. So I think we can establish that this whole "website devoted to food and babies" thing is something I would appreciate. IF I HADN'T COME UP WITH THE IDEA EIGHT BILLION YEARS AGO.

And by eight billion years I actually mean two. But seriously, two years ago during an especially nasty final exam period, C and I were freaking out in the library and talking about how great CuteOverload was for procrastination. (For those not in the know, CuteOverload is a site were people send in cute photos of their pets and visitors ooh and aah over them.) Suddenly, I was struck with the most genius idea EVER. I even have Instant Messaging proof, as follows:

Shoshanimal1: I just thought of the best/most dangerous website
Shoshanimal1: cuteoverload, but for babies
Shoshanimal1: human babies
Keeshi41: HAHA
Shoshanimal1: I KNOW
Shoshanimal1: the potential for AWESOME is unfortunately perfectly matched with the potential for creepy/illegal/pervyness
Keeshi41:hahaha
Keeshi41: yea you made it sound super shady
Shoshanimal1: because it is super shady
Shoshanimal1: only here, shady=amazing

So you see? I SAW THIS COMING.

I hope you don't think I'm accusing the Cakes and Babies folks of stealing my idea, because they didn't. The most likely explanation is that they are smart people who appreciate the combination of cute babies and yummy cake and thought it might be fun to make a website out of it - a sort of "two great tastes that taste great together." But maybe, just maybe, ethernet cords actually connect to my brain rather than the interwebs (which are, of course, a series of connecting tubes and thus are an improbable form of mass communication to begin with) and so when I come up with fabulous ideas, two years later they emerge as websites.

Which means that you don't have long to wait until some enterprising start-up will be selling rocket boots online. Now aren't you glad that this is all my brain?

Wednesdays

You know its that sort of day when the thing gets you most excited is iTunes radio playing a Joanna Newsom. Seriously, I thought I was going to cry tears of joy. Wednesdays suck.

A Few of My Favorite Things

And some stuff I don't miss at all.

Obviously there is a period that everyone who returns from an extended period abroad goes through—a process of re-acclimating, recovering from jet lag, and generally gathering their thoughts. When you are a prodigal daughter returning to a busy-body family and a heavily interested synagogue community, of course, the process is hurried along a bit by well-meaning comments and the oft-repeated question: "so nu, what did you like the most?" This is usually followed by a deep breath from the person interested and then another series of questions peppered out at you like gunshots: "do you miss it? What do you like about being home? How was Australia, really? We're better, right? I mean, you don't want to move there or anything. Not that there's anything wrong with that, ha ha ha DON'T YOU DARE GO."

I don't have answers for all the questions (or really, any of them) but I have been compiling a mental list of the many things I miss (and a few things I don't) about life in Melbourne, Australia as a country, and my semester in general. Some of these things will make sense to you and some of them won't—I'm writing this as much as personal reminder as an informative post.

Things I Miss:

• Breakfast at Brunetti's: a little overpriced and in the entirely wrong neighbourhood, Brunetti's was always worth the early morning hike. We had to get there before 10:30 on Fridays to make sure we got breakfast, which was surprisingly difficult. Still, they had the best raisin toast and jam, even if Lauren's bagels always left something to be desired. It had some of the best baby-watching in Melbourne, and I don't care if that makes me sound like a stalker.
  
• St. Jerome's: we didn't go there enough, and I regret that. An awesome downtown open-air bar populated by a relaxed mix of cooler-than-thou hipsters, suits fresh from the cubicles, and students getting away from the campus bar scene, St. Jerome's is low-key, friendly, and has the best DJ on Thursdays. He is from SF, actually, and I sort of fell in love with him when he played Trick Daddy at our request. Also, the bar serves toast with vegemite, which is simultaneously disgusting and awesome.
  
• Unilodge at 339 Swanston, Apartment 708: BEST. VIEW. EVER. I could see the top of the state library from my bedroom (and y'all know how I feel about that building) and our living room looked out over the entire city. I would walk into the living room in the early morning before my roommates were up and watch as the city woke up below me. Also, apparently the windows are good for throwing things out of, but I've never tried that. Honestly.
• Degraves Alley: A fabulous little laneway tucked into the city between Little Collins and Flinders Street (I think - that area of town gets a bit mixed up), Degraves is home to the sketchiest train station, the only waffle place in the city and a collection of small second-hand shops, anarchist bookstores and bobo cafes. Its also dark, dirty and a little sleazy, like only the best parts of a city are.
• Prudence: I mean, really, who doesn't want to spend time at a bar where they provide you with the perfect combination of alcohol and boardgames? I was dismal at Australian Trivial Pursuits but the cocktails more than made up for that. Also, I think the person who chose the music every night must have lived in my brain at one point because I swear, they played the soundtrack of my life there.
• Queen Victoria Market: PRODUCE, PRODUCE, PRODUCE. My goodness, there's nothing like a huge farmer's market in a restored colonial building to make you want a little wheeled cart to pull around behind you and fill with glorious vegetables that will most likely never get eaten.
• The Indian place at Union: Best. Dahl. EVER.
• Melbourne Museum and the Royal Exhibition Building: the museum was sort of a mixed bag of experiences but I spent so much time there that I felt like belonged. Also, the REB is gorgeous and making it the destination of my morning runs almost made the exercise worth it. (Emphasis on "almost," because in the end, nothing could make running on asphalt "worth it.")
• Microwave experiments: You would be amazed at the number of things you can bake in a microwave, as long as you're thinking creatively. Amazed, I tell you.
  
• The trams: I love public transportation and I have a special place in my heart for a system built so charmingly and optimistically on the honor code. I mean, sure, there are ticket-checkers, but they're usually old and fat. If you were desperate, you could easily evade one or, worse case scenario, beat one up.
  
• Biscuits: Tim Tams, Mint Slices, Caramel Crowns, Anzac Biscuits - you name it, I ate it, and probably enjoyed it thoroughly.
  

Things I Do Not Miss:

• Unilodge at 339 Swanston Street, Apartment 708: thin walls, no heat (that puny wall unit doesn't count, especially because I didn't figure out that it was there until three months into the semester), and worst of all, no oven. How did Unilodge expect me to get through finals without the appropriate environment for my late-night procrastinating baking extravaganzas? I didn't make a single batch of chocolate-peppermint cookies or cranberry scones this past semester. Even Experiments in Microwaving couldn't fully rouse me from my ovenless doldrums.
• The ATM Outside of Unilodge That Got Broken Into At Least Once A Week and, Upon Those Weekly Occasions, Was Obligated to Ring an Alarm for Subsequent Hours, Usually Late at Night: enough said.
• Bureaucracy: small schools shelter you, and after three years at Emory I'd gotten soft. University of Melbourne was like being back at Berkeley High, only bigger, more anonymous, and with accents. I loved it, but I could do without the namelessness and the Chaplin-esque feeling of being a very tiny cog in an extraordinarily large machine."
• "Americker": it ends with an "a," not an "er." If you're going to criticize my country, at least get its name right.
• Implied rights: seriously, no bill of rights? No documented protection of the individual from the tyranny of government? Really? Okay, if you're sure. I know I'm like a broken record about this and everyone is probably sick to death of me harping on and on, but I just don't get it.
• Peanut butter; Or rather, Australia's inexplicable lack of appreciation for that most heavenly of confectionery combinations, peanut butter mixed with chocolate. I never thought I would miss a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup quite as much as I did.
• The Changing of the Trams: like the changing of the guard, but with fewer horses, lamer hats, louder noises and at at the ungodly hour of 3:00 AM. There is nothing like the sound of a tram being shut down and, as far as I could tell, physically removed from the track in front of your apartment to wake you up from a wonderful dream about frolicking with peanut butter cups.
  

These are just the highlights; there are many more germinating in my head that may or may not see the light of day. Stay tuned for the Best of My Return to Berkeley post, as well as future musings on my second-favorite secular holiday (I'll give you a hint: there are some truths, and I happen to hold them to be self-evident...).*

Also, I'm around in Berkeley, keeping myself busy with work and spending entirely too much time with my mother (who I dearly love and adore, etc. etc.) so if you're nearby and would like to hang out (or are far away but would still like to hang out and don't mind paying the airfare to do so) please drop me a line.

*In case you were wondering, my first favorite secular holiday is Thanksgiving, because how could I not love a holiday built entirely around the dinner table?

The King and I: Adventures in Thailand

Okay. So. Thailand. Where to begin? As with any Shoshana-Down-Under trip, I traveled with a girl-gang, but this time my partners-in-crime were Treva Wasserman and Amanda Klein, two Butler girls who lived together in my apartment building and were friends from Providence College.

We left Australia late on Saturday, June 9 and arrived in Bangkok early Sunday morning. We were all a little overwhelmed - the flight was essentially a red-eye and we'd been cramming all week trying to finish exams and papers before the trip. From the lovely new international airport we caught a taxi into the city. We drove by this, which I thought was an exciting introduction to a new city:


The photograph in the middle is a picture of Bhumibol Adulyadej, King Rama IX of Thailand. The current king, he is the longest-reigning monarch in the world. Before coming I had read about the Thai dedication to their monarchy but I was still surprised by all the huge monuments built to the royal family. The royal family and the reverence the Thai people show them is wild and I'll have more on this later - I just thought I'd show you the first really Thai thing I saw on my trip.

The taxi took us to Kao San Road, which is backpacker central for Bangkok and where our bed-and-breakfast was located. Or so we thought. When the taxi driver dropped us off on Kao San, however, we couldn't find it. Other taxi and tuk-tuk drivers kept on drifting by offering to help us but whenever we said the name of our hotel they responded that it had closed down, but they'd "be happy to recommend another place, very nice, I can take you, 100 baht." Little did we know it but this was our first encounter with the taxi drivers of Bangkok, a species apart from all other taxi drivers in the world. We were starting to panic a bit (remember, no sleep, papers, oh, and did I mention the incredibly sweltering heat?) when Amanda (bless her) realized we'd headed down Kao San in the wrong direction. We walked the other way and within five minutes were checked into our very-much-still-open hotel.

After a much needed shower and a long nap (we got in REAL early) we headed into the even hotter morning to drop our bags off at the train station. From the train station we tried to catch a river taxi to Wat Phra Kaew but ended up paying twenty dollars for an hour-and-a-half river tour. Here is the tuk-tuk that took us to the pier:


To explain, tuk-tuks are these weird carts that look like Vespas and have a large backseat that can sit three passengers. They have roofs and are often seen careening around the streets of Thailand's various cities at ungodly speeds. They also don't have seat belts. Riding in them was like going on a horizontal roller-coaster but by the end of my trip they were my favorite form of transportation.

Anyway, the rip-off of a river tour was actually quite nice. Here I am in the back of the long-tail boat:


The river, called the Chao Phraya, runs north to south through the western section of the city but canals, called klongs, branch off of the main artery of the river and stretch east throughout Bangkok. The river tour took us down a few klongs but stayed mainly on the Chao Phraya. It was an interesting, unobtrusive way to see the city. Many residents had houses built on the river but facing the street, so we often got a backside view of their homes. A lot of the backyards had family shrines like this one:


Sidebar: On a night train we took a few days later I overheard a man say in English that "to be Thai is to be Buddhist and to be Buddhist is to be Thai." I think the thousands of Indian, Chinese and Japanese Buddhists in the world might disagree with the second part of his claim but there is definitely something to the first part. Religion is an ever-present part of public life in Thailand. We saw countless family shrines and statues of the Buddha scattered around. Its even intertwined with the state - many monuments are simultaneously to the king and to Buddha.

After the river cruise we headed decisively in the direction of Wat Phra Kaew. Once again, however, the lack of English, oppressive heat and misleading taxi drivers got the better of us. After a few hours of discouraging conversations with drivers who insisted the Wat was closed, but he'd be "happy to take you to another tourist site with lots of stores, only 100 baht to get there," we finally made it to the Wat.

Background: Wat Phra Kaew is an amazing Buddhist temple (wat means temple in Thai) that contains the Emerald Buddha. 66 cm high, the statue was discovered in 1434 when a chedi (the Thai word for stupa, a kind of mound-like structure used for Buddhist worship) in Chiang Rai shattered and a stucco Buddha figure was revealed inside. A monk removed the stucco and found the emerald Buddha underneath it. Wat Phra Kaew is actually part of a larger complex that contains the Wat as well as the Grand Palace. The entire complex is another example of the mingling of religion and state, with people coming to pay their respects as much to the king as to Buddha.

But anyway, the Wat. Here it is the complex from within the first set of walls but before passing through the inner gate:


Hopefully this can convey to you the sheer size of the complex. That was just one side of it, from across the green. Here I am inside the complex, leaning against one of the many temples that surround the temple that actually contains the Emerald Buddha.


This is the temple that holds the Emerald Buddha. The actual statue is in the room beyond the stairs, but you can't take pictures inside. Also, you have to wear modest clothes inside the complex and you can't wear shoes inside the temples. The coolness from the marble on my bare feet almost made up for having to wear a cardigan in 90 degree weather.


The entire complex was incredible and the attention to detail was simply breathtaking. I sort of fell in love with these guys:


Here is a final picture - hopefully it will give you a sense of the scale of Wat Phra Kaew and the Grand Palace.


After Wat Phra Kaew we took off for Vimanek Palace, one of the many royal dwellings scattered around the city. This one was built in the late 1800s by the current king's great-grandfather (I think - I couldn't really hear the tour guide) and is notable for two reasons: it is the largest teak mansion in the world and was built in the western Victorian style. It was used primarily to house visiting dignitaries, and I think its interesting in that it marks a period in which Thailand was beginning to interact with the international community on a large scale. I mean, if you think about, the late 1800s is when The Kind and I takes place. It makes me wonder if Vimanek was built in a Victorian style because the king was just really into gingerbread trim or whether it was an attempt to prove to Western critics that Thailand deserved international recognition as a powerful sovereign nation.

We couldn't take pictures inside but trust me when I tell you that it was beautiful and soothing. Here is the building from the front gardens:


After Vimanek we killed time hanging out at Siam Square, the shopping district where all the painfully hip Thai teenagers go to buy tiny skirts, designer jeans and wander around with milk bubble tea lattes. Then we headed to the train station, grabbed our bags from storage and boarded our night train for Chiang Mai. Here is Amanda marvelling at the engineering involved in creating a second-class upper sleeping berth:


Day two rolls around and we wake up as the train pulls into Chiang Mai. From the get-go Chiang Mai was more pleasant than Bangkok - prettier, more laid-back, and a little colder (and by that I mean "not so hot that my skin is boiling off but still hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk.") Chiang Mai is in the north and is known as the cultural center of Thailand. It has amazing food and is known for its cooking, massage, and meditation schools. More on the first two in a bit. It is also the seat of the ancient Lanna kingdom and is in fact a walled city, with Old Chiang Mai contained within the walls and New Chiang Mai spreading out away from the moat. Because I'm a dork who got excited by walls and moats (I mean come on, moats!), here are both:



After a taxi-ride to our hostel, the incredibly cool but unfortunately un-air-conditioned Julie's Guesthouse, and a shower and lunch we headed out to Wat Chedi Luang. Three blocks away from Julie's, Chedi Luang has the remains of the oldest and tallest chedi in the region. The complex was significantly smaller than Wat Phra Kaew and was totally deserted - the only people around were monks who attend the Buddhist university built around wat. Treva and I both decided that Wat Chedi Luang was our favorite temple out of all the ones we saw in Thailand. Here is a picture of the ruin:


Those four big chunks missing from the wall about a third of the way up in the photo? They once had enormous elephants sprouting out of the sides. You can see the remaining elephants on the other side of the building.

From Chedi Luang we headed to Wat Doi Sutep. Located a few kilometers outside the city in the Doi Sutep national park, Wat Doi Sutep is an incredible sight. We were told by numerous locals that if you don't see Doi Sutep, you haven't seen Chiang Mai. They're right, if only because Doi Sutep rises 1676 meters above the city and has a full panoramic view of the region. The resting place of a piece of the Buddha's body, Doi Sutep is an important pilgrimage spot for Thai Buddhists. According to legend, in the 1300s the king placed the relics of the Buddha on the back of a sacred white elephant and sent it on its way. The elephant walked without stopping until it died of exhaustion. The spot where it died was Doi Sutep and the king built a massive temple and chedi there to house the relics. You can see the top of the gold chedi from the city but the best way to view the wat is to take a taxi up into the national park.

Our taxi dropped us off at the base of the mountain. Stairs wound their way up to the wat, and at the base of the steps were merchants hawking everything from fried shrimp chips to buddha statuettes to water bottles. The water bottles turned out to be practical purchases because leading up to the wat were 206 steep brick stairs.

Once we huffed and puffed our way to the top and left our shoes outside the actual temple complex, we entered the wat courtyard. It was dominated in the center by the enormous gold chedi.


From the viewing platform at the top we could see the whole city laid out before us.


Here are the 206 steps after we'd stomped our way down. I actually had to do it twice because when we got to the bottom I realized I had received the wrong change at the ticket counter at the top. Back up I went and by the time I made it down again my legs were shaking.


By the time we made it down back into town it was time for dinner. We had booked ourselves meals at the kantoke, a three hour formal dinner that included traditional Thai dancing. We were driven out to the Old Chiang Mai Cultural Center and seated on the ground, our knees tucked under low tables. We ate loads of sticky rice, spicy vegetables and soup as Thai women performed traditional dances. The affair was geared entirely to tourists but I enjoyed it. Here I am eating:


And here is one of the dances. At the bottom of the picture you'll notice a little kid. HE WAS ROCKING OUT. Seriously, he kept on trying to climb onto the stage, and when his dad would swoop in and grab him he'd just move over to his mom and bother her with his imitations of the Thai dance moves. I watched him more than I watched the dancers.


The next morning we were off on a one-day trek. Treks are like organized hikes and can last from one day to a week long. They are run through certified agencies licensed by the Thailand tourism board. Our trek took us through the the hill country of Northern Thailand. We started with what might have been the most exciting part: Elephant riding! Unfortunately I couldn't get a great photo of me on top of the elephant, but I promise you I did it. Treva and I sat together on our elephant, and we named him Babar. Here I am, on top of Babar (he's there, even if you can't see him):


We followed the elephant ride with a trip down a river on a bamboo raft. I wasn't about to risk my camera, so I don't have any pictures. I made the right decision, too - our raft was capsized more than a few times and we all got utterly soaked.

After rafting was lunch, and then we made our way to a Karen village. Northern Thailand is the home of the nine Thai hilltribes, of which the Karen are one of the largest. Originally from Burma, Karen villages have now spread across Thailand. In the village we talked with some women who were weaving fabric. The villages have been turned into tourist destinations in an attempt to move tribal economies away from opium production, so even though the village felt a little commercialized I didn't mind the experience. From the Karen village we hiked through the hills, crossing terraced crop fields and almost running afoul of a very mean-looking cow. We made it to a waterfall where we took a break and some of the group went swimming. Here are Amanda, Treva and me:


From the waterfall we hiked to a Hmong village.


As we talked to villagers it started to drizzle. We tried to wait it out but when it became clear that it wasn't going to let up we started walking down the mountain path to the car, parked about twenty minutes away. Which is, of course, when the clouds decided to open up and dump all of their very wet contents on us. Stuck in a downpour I suddenly realized that there was a reason prices were lower during the "wet season." Its because they know you'll have to pay extra to dry your clothes and they feel bad for you.

After we dried off at the guesthouse and stuffed our faces full of pad thai we made our way over to the famed Chiang Mai night bazaar. It was an overwhelming sensory experience, with the bright lights from the stalls mixing with the scents from the street-side food vendors, and all of that coupled with the grabby merchants and the physical flow of multitudes of dedicated shoppers. I loved it, soaking in the atmosphere and honing my bargaining skills. I was rusty at the beginning but by the end of the night I felt that if I wasn't getting a steal at least I wasn't an easy mark either.

After the suprisingly exhausting trek we decided to have a relaxing Wednesday and signed up for a day-long cooking class. What we didn't realize is that eight hours of slaving over a hot wok in a non-air-conditioned room is not exactly a walk in the park. It was, however, amazingly delicious and loads of fun. Here I am, sitting at my work table with my handy knife:


Over the course of eight hours we cooked six dishes: pad thai, spring rolls, tom yum soup, green curry, tofu and veggies, and bananas in coconut cream. By the end I was well acquainted with my wok and in typical me fashion I named her Jolene. The green curry was the most fun to make, if only because we got to do that thing where you cook with the fire INSIDE the wok. During the countdown before we threw the flammable food into the wok I started shaking, positive I was about to burn my eyebrows off. I didn't, of course - you guys would have heard about that. Here I am, cooking with the live flame:


I took pictures of all my dishes, but here the are the two that turned out best. Pad thai:


And spring rolls:


We had planned on going out for drinks that evening but the cooking class wiped us out. Not entirely, of course: we still managed to make it out for round two of the night bazaar.

Thursday was devoted to a morning visit to the Hill Tribe Museum and an afternoon of studying (Treva and I both had exams when we got back, and Amanda invented things to study in commiseration.) In between, however, we managed to get in our second massage. Our first had been on the first day in Chiang Mai, and the experience (which only cost five dollars) was too great to pass up a second time around. We saw massages offered a dollar cheaper elsewhere but the upscale salon experience at our place was more than worth the extra 35 baht. Also, the ladies knew us by the second time. I felt like a veritable local. The experience was amazing - I never thought I'd enjoy being manhandled by an utter stranger so much.

After an uneventful and relaxing Thursday (in which I got no work done) we took the night train back to Bangkok. One exciting moment in a relatively uneventful journey back: when Treva sat down in her seat, she noticed that a bag was already placed in the seat across from her. When the train departed and no one appeared to claim the seat or the bag, she began to worry a bit. An hour into the journey she shared her worries with us. Thailand had experienced some bombings recently and suddenly it seemed all too possible that something might be wrong with this bag. At the same time, however, we knew we were just being paranoid and worried that it might be rude to rifle through some random person's bag. We tried to flag down a train employee but the language barrier was such that he thought we were asking where to put it and just gestured again and again to the overhead bin. We waited until he left and then Treva quickly zipped open the bag with both Amanda and I yelling at her over and over again, "be careful, we don't want to detonate the bomb, don't press so hard, STOP MOVING SO MUCH!" In the end, of course, there was no bomb and we felt like idiots. But at least it makes for a good story, right? Also, Treva gets a gold star for bravery.

We woke up again in Bangkok and after an tumultous taxi ride to our new hostel (way on the other side of town in the "Beverley Hills of Bangkok") we set off for, you guessed it, the markets. Now it may seem like we were being grossly consumerist, and we were. My defense, however, is that our behavior was totally normal. The Thais are HUGE shoppers - I've never seen so many people dedicate so much of their day to the pursuit of commodities. We were only shopping so much because we wanted to abide by the whole "when in Rome" axiom. It was a burden, honestly.

To get to the markets we finally took a real river taxi. It was an suprisingly exciting mode of transportation and was more like a bus than an actual taxi. We waited at the dock on the klong (canal) until the boat came roaring up alongside us. We had to board really quickly because the boat only waited for a couple of seconds before tearing away down the klong. We missed the first one because we were too confused about how to get on (you essentially jump as they don't bother to provide any kind of walk-way or even a gangplank) and we didn't move fast enough. Here we are after we finally boarded a packed taxi:


We had a small Shabbat dinner and wandered around our neighborhood for a bit, but Treva and Amanda had to be up early to catch their morning flight. I wasn't leaving until Sunday so I had all of Saturday to myself. I intended to hunt down a shul but the oppressive heat got to me and I ended up spending the whole day in my room with the air conditioning on full blast, reading and pretending to study for my exam. By the time evening arrived I was going stir-crazy, however, so I decided to do my favorite thing in foreign countries: go to the movie theater. I took the skytrain (Bangkok has a funny monorail system that makes me think of Disneyland) to Siam Square, where all the malls are centered. They all looked the same so I picked one on random. It was five stories high with an acquarium in the basement and it was filled with designer stores and snooty employees. The place was packed with well-dressed, stylish locals out for a night on the mall. I stood out like sore thumb in my travel-worn cotton pants, loose shirt, and dirty flipflops. It was an incredible social experience, watching all these young people walk in and out of pristine stores loaded down with shopping bags. If I was shocked by their lifestyle, I can't imagine what it must be like for outsiders to venture into our shopping centers and see the mall-walkers, the frazzled parents, and the gangs of pre-teens huddled around the various Hot Topics and Abercrombies.

The top floor of the mall was devoted to the movie theater, which was tricked out with chandaliers, silky wall-paper and fancy bars. Here is the theater lobby:


My ticket was so cheap (four dollars!) I decided to splurge on a large popcorn bucket and coke, so I struggled into the movie theater looking like the stereotype of the American glutton. It was awesome. Before the movie (Fantastic Four: The Rise of the Silver Surfer, in case you were wondering) the usual parade of trailers and ads played. When they finished I settled in, expecting the movie to start. All around me people were rustling, however, and one by one they began to stand up. Startled, I joined them, and here's where it got crazy.

I mentioned earlier that the Thai people love their monarch. And when I say love, I mean LOVE. There are pictures of him everywhere - a framed photo of him was in almost every store or restaurant we went to, the sides of buildings are covered in enormous billboard pictures of him and so on. Even buses have side ads that say "long live the king." Lots of people were walking around with orange rubber bracelets like the yellow LiveStrong ones, but instead of promoting a philanthropic cause they all read: "long live the king." Whenever people hear the national anthem (which has a lot to do with the might and benevolence of the king) they stop what they are doing, stand at attention, and sing. The whole thing is a little like Big Brother in 1984, only in this case Big Brother is entirely unmalevolent. There isn't anything oppressive or conformist about their love of the monarchy - the people truly love their king and think he's the best thing since sliced bread.

Back at the movie theater, everyone was standing in preparation for the national anthem, which appeared like karaoke lines at the bottom of a series of scenes involving happy Thai children, the countryside, and shots of the king looking simultaneously royal and like your gentle grandpa. It was one of the trippiest experience of my life - I kept looking around at the other audience members while trying to stay still and respect their custom.

Once the movie was over I went back to my hostel, were I slept for a few hours before driving to the airport. I boarded the plane back to Melbourne, preparing to fail my American Politics exam and get ready to return to America.

So those were my Thailand adventures. I'm writing this in my empty room, about to go to sleep for the last time in Melbourne. I'm not sure how I feel about leaving: I'll probably have a longer "goodbye to Melbourne" post later for those who are interested.

Drive by Post

I love travelling. I do. And Thailand has been absolutely amazing. But I'm coming to the end of my trip here and I'm looking forward to going home to Melbourne, and then really home to home.

Why am I so ready to come back? Because, to be honest, I'm a little overwhelmed. My feelings of whelmedness stems both from the frenetic nature of Bangkok and also the fact that MY BEST AT THE GUESTHOUSE WAS COVERED IN BUGS OMG AND WHEN I SWITCHED ROOMS AFTER POINTING OUT THE BUGS THEY PUT ME IN ONE WITH NO A/C. So I'm going to spend the rest of the night trying to sleep in the very loud but also wonderfully cold common room.

The thing is, I've been fine with all the crouch-toilets and bad water and pollution and fans instead of A/C and all those other things that come from travelling on a budget in a non-Western country, but after a week I'm ready for my clean bed and A/C, especially because I paid extra baht for it.

Moral of the story: as much as I love travelling, I would not make a good long-term backpacker.

Meanwhile, Back in the Northern Hemisphere...

I have for you an equation: THAILAND = HOT. I am having difficulty typing because the skin on my fingertips has melted into the keyboard.

Also, I am very sunburned.

Its a gorgeous country, though, and I'll have more to say when I'm lucid.

She doesn't call, she doesn't write

But she does update this abomination every once in a while. Due to popular demand (re: the mother's excellent nagging skills), I have gotten my act together and loaded more pictures onto my computer, which means that its time for another round of Amateur Photographer: Melbourne! These are sort of a mish-mash of stuff—places I've explored recently, plus some older photos that I'm throwing in because they prove that I am both actually in this country and that I have friends.

Rewinding a bit back to orientation, I give you the red cliffs of Noosa. If the Sunshine Coast is the bastard child of Santa Barbara and Sedona AZ, then this part definitely takes after the latter. I kept getting flashbacks to Tehiyah's 8th grade trip to Arizona, which was unexpected. Still, beyond the very red, very bright, very clothing-staining rocks is the entire Coral Sea, so its not such a bad deal.

Not only did I go to the beach, but I even swam. Theresa (roommate number 1) and I communed with the trees at Lake MacKenzie. We also both made valiant attempts at appearing effortlessly wind-tossled and cinematic, but I don't think it worked.





We took a nighttime trip around the city a couple days ago, so I give you Melbourne at night. I took this from the main bridge that crosses the Yarra River. The Yarra winds its way through the city, effectively dividing it into two sections. The photo is of the north side of the river, which is the side I live on. I haven't explored south of the river as much as I would have liked, because the university as well as the museums are on the north side.



Another picture of me. This one was taken by Theresa on Acland Street in St. Kilda. We've been here for THREE WEEKS and yet classes haven't even started yet, so I've had a lot of free time on my hands. I've taken to hopping on the tram and riding it as far as I can, getting off when I see something interesting. This picture was taken in the middle of one of those adventures—Theresa and I got off the tram in St, Kilda, got lost in a residential neighborhood, got hit by water balloons (whatever) and then tried to buy iced coffee at a cafe on Acland Street. Unfortunately, there is no such thing as ICED COFFEE in Australia. Seriously, you order iced coffee and they bring you this disgusting coffee, milk, ice cream concoction served in a sundae cup. Its overly sweet, slightly syrupy, and costs five dollars. The one time I asked for an iced coffee without the ice cream, the waitress looked at me quizzically and asked, "and why would you want that, love? Whats the point of the iced coffee without the ice cream?" As if that question could possibly make any sense.

Theresa, Lauren (roommate 2), and other girls from my program and I went to Brighton Beach last week, where I took this picture. Brighton has these little boxes lining the beach. Families own or rent them, and when we were there we saw people holding cookouts out of them.




This was one of my favorites—patriotism is the perfect beach acessory.

Alright, so thats it for now. Classes start for real tomorrow, which should be interesting. I only have American Politics and Society on Monday, but I'm looking forward to learning the Australian view of American democracy. I have been warned by many well-meaning people to not take offense, which means it should be exciting.