Maryland in June

It was summer in Maryland.

There was rock hiking and freezing waterfall dunking at Cunningham Falls during a heatwave, what Carbon Leaf calls "river on the skin." There was wedding gift shopping in Frederick, tasting olive oils and vinegars out of rows upon rows of metal countertop cisterns at Lebherz Olive Oil and Vinegar Emporium, exploring fair trade shops and discovering Cafe Nola, home of the happy-beef burger and yam fries. There was an huge blue-skied potluck Father's Day picnic at Piney Run with a canoe and hula hoops and more watermelons that we could possibly have made a dent in, hotdogs roasted over the charcoal grill sharing space with bacon wrapped chicken-pineapple-date kebabs, Spanish tortas and cheese jalepeno dips, and a chocolate-vanilla-marble layer cake with strawberries and chocolate chips that my mom and I baked and decorated with the names of all the dads. There was hammock book reading and beer drinking at the few bars in town my brother and I had never visited, bike riding to the coffee shop to write our travel adventure novel (we broke the 100 page mark!) and hanging out with friends. There was a horseback riding adventure in Knoxville where the state of West Virginia butts up against Maryland, and the Appalachian trail weaves through the woods where the no-see-ums fly around your face, the beating sun broken by the thick green foliage of the trees. There was a baseball game at Camden Yards when the late afternoon heat lingered under the evening sun and pigeons swerved over the crowd and the smell of beer and brats and peanuts, my Orioles in orange beating the Pirates. The losing team’s name played a handy nautical pun on the Tall Ships Sailabration Event crowding the inner harbor’s docks with masted ships from all over the world, the Harbor flooded with warm-weather celebrators wandering in shorts and sundresses, small children riding on top of shoulders and people of all ages with ice cream cones melting in their hands, sailors in whites on leave from the ships crowding into the baseball stadium cheering on the plays. There was a girls’ night out dinner out with my cousins that lead to a many-hour driving expedition through a summer storm so massive that it made headlines across the United States and Europe. Roars of thunder, lightening that by turns split the skies in many pronged streaks and turned the entire sky brilliant sapphire blue, and hail that led me to hide the car under the whipping branches of a stand of young trees, listening for the tell-tale crack of windshield glass and grinning like a fool while the electric excitement of the storm rained down like hail. With family and friends we watched movies and stars, had campfires in the yard and taught my 94 year old great aunt to roast a hot dog. Venus transited the sun, and using the Internet, a white sheet of computer paper and binoculars we watched it progress. So it was summertime, filled with fresh fruit and the smell of drying hay yellowing in the fields under the sun and green corn growing in leafy rows, and the taste of Old Bay spice on everything, eggs in the morning, sandwiches and slaw midday, blue crabs on brown paper tablecloths: Maryland in June. 

Denver Part II - May 12, 2012

I awoke this morning to the sounds of birds chirping.

My eyes blinked open, and I found myself ensconced in a chair, a pink sarong and the international flight blanket wrapped around me, my arms protectively hugging my backpack. It's been another night in an airport. One was poor planning. Two was poor luck. This is turning into a habit. But at least it was Denver.

The birds were, of course, stowaways, presumably the smart ones who've figured out that it gets cold in Colorado in the winter, and in here there's a heating free ride with cookie crumbs. It was a bit of a relief to my psyche to wake up to birds singing after so many hours trapped indoors. Enough natural light comes through the central ceiling to let them know that it's five thirty, dawn, and time to start the morning chorus, and wake sleepy passengers.

Rousted, I brushed my teeth, glad for the millionth time I keep my toothbrush on me while traveling, checked on my gate, and came back to The Bou. Because the Universe loves me, this is what was pictured on my cappuccino cup this morning:

Only two and a half more hours before I can board for Baltimore Washington International!

Denver - May 12, 2012

God, I love Denver.

After three days in transit since leaving Byron Bay Thursday morning, including the groundhog-day like phenomenon of Friday happening twice, I’d made it most of the miles to Maryland when my plane got stuck on the tarmac in Los Angeles. I missed my connection, and at six pm in Denver was told apologetically that, since I’m flying standby, I was on my own until the next flight at ten am.

At first this was depressing, largely because I’d been promised dinner and a nice comfy bed before the “STBY” on my ticket was noticed. But after an hour or so of wandering the wilds of the Denver airport, I rediscovered its many charms. I sat in a Woody Creek café and had a reasonably priced and scrumptious dinner, with lovely orange and wood lighting making a dramatic contrast with the blues of falling night over the tarmac and airplanes outside the windows.

I found a sports bar right next to my terminal which claims it will be serving up hot oatmeal breakfasts before my flight leaves in the morning.

I’ve found the Caribou Coffee.

And the wireless is free.

I’m in heaven.

So I’m sitting in a comfy chair on the top floor of the airport (heat rises, and Denver is COLD), happily catching up with the world.

Next up, it’s a week of family, including my older brother and sister in law in town and an uncle’s reunion at an Orioles game, and my team is WINNING! GO BOYS GO! and god I can’t tell you how I’ve been wanting an Old Bay crab pretzel with Natty Boh.

Life is grand. 

Sometimes, it Takes a Kangaroo - May 10th, 2012

Yesterday was my last day in Byron Bay before traveling back to Maryland for a bachelorette party and wedding, and a month with family and friends in between. 

I had breakfast at Mac’s, dropped off my mail, went to work to say goodbye and pick up my last week’s pay, returned my library books, had a meat pie from the French bakery L’Ultime on the beach. I finished souvenir gift shopping, and went to the dive shop to see if there was a space for a volunteer on the one o’clock dive boat.

Half an hour later, I was headed out to sea.

Fishes galore, a big spotted ray, woebegone and leopard sharks, Julian Rocks served up an afternoon of warm, calm waters for my last run of the season.

Back in town, I flopped on the beach like a wet fish to dry off in the sun and sand. Melancholy set in. Thinking about leaving the roaches behind along with the sea helped a little.

I sat and watched the sea until the sun started cooling, then went home to pack. Instead, I sat talking with one of my housemates for hours about purpose, and the environment, and the nature of humanity. Very productive. At last it could be avoided no longer, and I packed at the speed of a turtle, carefully choosing a place for each thing, orchestrating my bags for the journey, and swept the sandy wood floor before falling asleep. 

I left against my return my surfboard, my Aussie hat, a laundry basket full of hangers, snorkel mask and drybag, my fluffy garage sale blankets, and enormous rainbow umbrella. In the morning, I put away the last things, toothbrush and contacts case and pillow, then stood around taking photos of things until I kicked myself into high gear and made breakfast.

There is something so deeply lovely about standing outside at sunrise when the air is cold and your breakfast is steaming hot. Breathing in crisp, clear chilly air, nourishing food warming inside, the whole universe is thrown into high relief, crisp and inviting. I’ve discovered this again and again, the magic of chilly air sunrise breakfasting, both while camping and having meals outside on my deck at Browning Street. Every time it charms me anew. The sun splashed warm tones against the leaves of the banana trees, the birds cavorted, and my oatmeal was done to a turn.

I hiked in to the bus stop and sat down in the sun, planning to fondly watch the town wake up. Mostly, I started feeling bored. Uh, oh. This was going to be a long, long trip. Days on end, the longest continuous travel I’ve ever done by myself, and the boredom was already beginning to lap at the edges of my sentimental goodbye. This could be a looooong couple of days.

The melancholy continued on the bus out of town, through Lennox Head and Suffolk Park. Passing through Ballina, I spotted The Giant Prawn, a huge pink sculpture and exultation of absurdity. 

This brought me much glee. 

The bus changed to a train, and shortly outside Casino, I spotted a wild kangaroo.

My day was made.

Melancholy gone, transition made, I’m now watching the cattle country roll by outside my window, becoming increasingly excited about the journey ahead, many hours of amazing scenery unfolding, books to read, movies to watch, tasty snacks and journeying companions and exciting surprises that all await before I reach that lovely place at journey’s end.

I'll be back in Byron for the whale migration soon enough.

Right now, a month at home is sounding really, really good.

Maryland, here I come!

A Perfect Day (cookie disaster notwithstanding) - May 8, 2012

The day begins at The Bay Leaf café, sipping a latte reading “A Reef in Time” on a sage cushioned windowseat. Already, the skies though crisp and cool are a blue promise. 

From there, to Santos’ Organic Market for hunks of organic milk, white, and dark chocolate, and to Woolworths for vanilla, butter and eggs. The pizzeria and its denizens have been so good to me; tonight’s my last shift (of this tenure, anyway). It’s time to make them cookies.

With a stop back home it’s off to the beach with Daphne (my surfboard), and a beach bag with my towel and book.

The weather is perfect. Byron has lifted its face from the clouds this week to bid me remember it fondly. The water was warm, the waves clean and not smashing or sandy, the current wasn’t a drag (hehe get it – a drag?), and the sunshine was the beating heart of Byron Bay in all it's splendor. 

I went back home and baked in a frenzy, tossing together cookies like I have so many times before, excited to share my amazing American cookie making skills with these chefs who have fed me so many times, as a gesture of fond farewell. I didn’t have any of my usual kitchen equipment, but everything seemed easy enough to makeshift; what defines a mixing bowl is that something is being mixed in it, and a spoon is a spoon, right? The flat metal tray appeared to be oven-safe, etc. The dough tasted amazing, and I was running short of time. I baked the cookies up and wrapped them in wax paper on my Frisbee and raced down the street, adrenaline pumping. It would be stupid to be late my last day, cookies or no. So I did what I’ve considered doing many times when running short on time, and hitchhiked down the main street, being treated to a soliloquy about artistic flow and jumping out a block from work.

I arrived in a fluster, surprisingly emotional about my last shift. I offered around the cookies, grabbed an apron and clocked in.

The chef was sweet enough to make a ‘yum’ sound and tell me they were good.

It’s the first time a man’s ever lied to me to compliment my baking. 

Still grinning from my amazing day, and the adrenaline of running and hitchhiking to work, I grabbed a cookie.

They were terrible.

Really, really terrible.

A horrible, metallic tang lingered in my mouth even after the flavor of the cookie had gone. I couldn’t believe it. I was totally appalled. I’ve never made a bad cookie in my life, and I have made a great many cookies. What could possibly have gone wrong? I had amazing, high quality chocolate, butter with an 80% butterfat, eggs I’ve delighted in a million times. But there was nothing for it, it was a flopped cookie effort.

I expressed my displeasure at this vociferously, and the chef laughed and agreed. I should have known if anyone could understand that kitchen failures happen every now and again, it would be a culinary professional. One of the guys insisted, honestly I think, that he liked them, and ate a fair few. I made him swear he wouldn’t let anyone else touch them in exchange for my not throwing them out immediately.

I had a great last shift. It was a quiet night, the moon rose enormous and yellow, and an incredible street fiddler was set up busking down the block. My work cycle there came full circle, finishing by washing the floors and scrubbing the last trays, taking a huge box of leftover pizza home.

I went and sat on the beach and watched the moonlight reflecting on seagulls wings, and listened to the surf and sea before walking home under tropical stars. 

Culinary disasters or no, it was a perfect day. 

Incidentally, I was going to throw away the remainder of the cookie dough, but my roommate insisted that he wanted it. He baked it up in a ceramic pan, and it tasted like triple chocolate cookie, no terrible aftertaste in sight.

This concludes the lesson about the importance of using a proper baking pan. 

Goodbye, Byron (...for a little while) - May 7, 2012

The weather channel said the full moon was passing closer to the Earth than any point in the last eighteen years. They predicted huge tides, and by the sea, from the lighthouse, the full moon is always spectacular. With my sojourn to Maryland for a friend's wedding festivities and a visit with family and friends planned, it was to be my last full moon in Byron for a while. The skies were clear, and I wasn't going to miss it.

I was also sleepy.

No problem, it was six pm, I'd take a nap then do the hike.

I woke up at midnight, and thought, screw it.

I woke up again at four am, well rested, and thought, YES! I still have time before work! So I grabbed an apple, took a hot shower, and dressed in many layers.

 The hike was beautiful.

I got to work at quarter to seven. My boss arrived with an an amazing banana bread he'd made with bananas fresh from the trees, the slices panfried in butter and still piping hot. Ohmygod, yum.

And then, step by step, I got to make the dough. I was over the moon. I've been itching to make dough, to delve into the intricate art of this morning ritual which is such a deeply basic expression of civilization, of humans choosing to live together in community, a centuries old tradition of bakers waking early to work with flour and water and salt and oil to feed the town around them.

We worked for a while, finished setting up, and then he cooked breakfast, a spectacular affair with eggs and herbs and onions and sausages. God I love working in a kitchen.

I ended the day feeling misty, writing letters on the beach, listening to the drummers who gather nightly at dusk and play through the sunset. It was only then that I realized I know one of the drummers; I've been working next door to her for months.

It's such a small place, and still there is beauty to be found anew every day, if you have a will to look and eyes to see.

PLATYPUS!

This was the morning – I was going kayaking, finally, at last, a boat I understood!

Dan, my property manager, has two kayaks, and had promised to take me to explore one of the rivers in the hinterland of Byron Bay. So at six thirty am I was up, breakfasted, and making crepes to pack with chocolate and apple for dessert. (I’d gotten a text last night saying he had lunch covered, promisingly asking about beef, eggs, or prawns.) We were soon on our way. Cresting a rise, the view swept away over the side of the hills to reveal the sea in all its glory. The road went on through “the bush,” lush vegetation overgrowing the narrow strip of black(ish) road that curved and wound and meandered through the hinterland, turning off to driveways and lanes here and there. At last, we arrived at paradise: a cabin in the hills run on rainwater and nearly off-grid, with an amazing garden encroaching everywhere, and two yellow kayaks promisingly in the yard. 

I was introduced me to Vietnamese basil, a remarkable herb that suddenly revealed to me why Asian restaurants can produce curries that I’ve been totally unable to replicate at home, lemon myrtle, a plant whose dried leaves can (and did, that morning) be boiled into a delicious tea, society garlic, my new favorite plant, a flowering herb with a pretty purple aspect and the raw pungent flavor of strong garlic, and pineapple sage, a broad leafed herb with a distinctive flavor of pineapple. There were many varieties of tomatoes climbing from the soil, including a tiger stripe that later graced my lunch, a black pepper plant whose buds go stark red overnight when ripe, a rare Italian bean plant whose long pods house white and purple striped beans with a crunchy nuttiness, several papaya trees, a male and a female bearing green fruit, and a greenhouse shed full of sprouts, as well as pumpkins, chocolate mint, and wild flowers blossoming all around like weeds, including a healthy patch of birds of paradise, a blossom ubiquitous in this country and still remarkable and beautiful to me on every encounter. Rolling in the hills down the fields, cows grazed here and there, rows of macadamia trees climbed the next rill, and lush bush flora and fauna flourished.

Dan had prepared a tropical cake made with banana, pineapple, and passionfruit cream icing the night before, and I happily accepted a pre-trip slice. Tying the two yellow kayaks to the roof of the car and strapping them with Thule-style winches, we drove to the river. Stopping just after a bridge, we ditched the kayaks in the grass on the side of the road and Dan drove to meet a taxi and leave his car twelve klicks downstream while I dragged the boats through the tall grasses and down the muddy slope to the river’s edge, stowing the bucket with our lunch inside. I still didn’t know what my bushland host had cooked, but after the cake, I was confident in his culinary skills. I walked carefully, mindful of the many varieties of deadly snakes whose habitat I was treading, but without much fear. Snakes don’t love to bite people, and I was announcing my approach very clearly as the grasses rustled around my legs, not to mention the large yellow kayaks I was towing.

Standing in the tall grasses by the river’s edge, listening to the rushing of the water through the reeds and the birds in the trees, my mind was calm. The river here was shallow and a bit muddy, moving quickly after the recent rains. There was a light wind, and the sun passed behind and slipped forth again from clouds wandering overhead.

Dan returned, and we launched into the river. The kayak was light and highly responsive, and, thank god, a boat I could easily pilot. We began downstream, flowing with the river. I felt so balanced I wanted to dig in and race, but it soon became clear this was a wandering river trip. Splashes along the riverbanks told me why. Turtles and lizards dove from their perches in low hanging tree branches and roots every few feet. At first I was hearing the splashes and seeing ripples of water more than the animals making the sounds, learning where to look and what to look for. Soon enough, the noisy riverbanks resolved into eastern water dragons everywhere. A ripple and a splash in the water had me blink twice, and Dan asked if I’d seen the platypus.

PLATYPUS?!?

Yes indeed, the platypus frequented this river as it ran from the mountains to the sea. I kept a sharp eye peeled for the small, brown, furry, and surprisingly adorable creatures. Several more splashes resolved into eastern water dragons, one a massive size, his clawed back feet vanishing as he swam against the current below my boat. The river went through shallow, rapid areas, steep bends around the riverbanks of changing heights, and broad, deep pools. A pair of ducks took off flying downriver, brilliant teal triangles on their wings taking me by surprise. Several cows grazing on low, grassy hills in between the trees observed our progress downriver, and rounding a bend a sheer earth face rose several meters high of red topsoil. Dan said the areas of Byron Bay with this red topsoil covering were the areas shaped by the eruption of Mount Warning, our local formative volcano, the areas of brown sandy soil being the remains of more ancient land, shaped by the sea.

The water continued flowing downriver, and I was becoming much savvier at knowing where to look for local fauna. Soon enough, in the water beside my kayak in a deep, still pool, a brown animal surfaced. Paddling as silently as possible with all possible haste, I slipped through the water to its side.

A PLATYPUS!

I’d spotted a wild platypus, its body perhaps a foot long. Small, beady black eyes, surprisingly cute rounded duck's bills, and fat little tails, platypi are way cuter than I'd been giving them credit for. It glanced up at the enormous yellow duck-like kayak that had just arrived and flipped below the water, turbid enough to provide complete camouflage. I was beside myself with happiness.

We paddled on downriver, sometimes sun and sometimes clouds overhead. Some of the clouds carried rain, but it was easy enough to paddle close to the sides of the river below the natural umbrella of the trees. Soon enough Dan got hungry for lunch, and we pulled off on an appealingly graded embankment. Sticking my paddle in at the water’s edge, I realized it was quite deep all the way up to the edge. No worries, we’d just step out carefully.

The embankment turned out to be muddy and slippery in the extreme. Handling the lunch pail, a large white fisherman’s bucket, and the boats and paddles with care while choosing out footsteps and grabbing on to roots, Dan still slipped in once, sinking immediately waist-deep. He climbed back out and lifted my kayak up onto the ledge, shoulder-height overhead. I pointed out we could just tie the boats to the heavy, sturdy roots projecting from the embankment, which he conceded was an easier and drier plan, and secured his to a root.

We lunched like kings. Dan had made a salad out of his garden, chock full of edible flowers and fresh, brightly flavored herbs gracing the presence of Australian beef, good, tender stuff cooked with a peach, mint and lime glaze. As we lunched, the rain came down harder, and we waited it out leisurely on the muddy riverbank, watching the water flow by. I unfolded my drybag to make a dry spot to sit, and the trees kept the rain from our heads.

Eventually, the rain slackened and, having feasted and beginning to get chilly, it was time to get moving again. Dan climbed down and untied his boat, stowing the lunch pail and offering me a hand down.

I looked at the river. I looked at the upturned yellow kayak. I looked at the steep, muddy, slippery embankment. There was a slim chance of me climbing down without sliding off the edge and soaking myself. There was no chance at all of staying dry while trying to arrest the momentum of the kayak toward the water as soon as I tipped it the slightest bit in gravity’s favor. I waved Dan off the lower strip of mud onto the water, thinking I could slide the boat down the ledge to that skinny, muddy landing and somehow step down the five foot ledge behind it without going straight down off the edge.

Fat chance.

Standing on the bank, one hand on the kayak, looking down the slope at the immediate entry into the water, it occurred to me it looked awfully inviting as a waterslide.

“What do you figure the odds are of me being able to slide straight into the water from up here?” I called out.

Dan laughed, shaking his head. “No way! That looks like it would hurt!”

“Do you reckon?” I asked inquiringly, eyeing the entry. It looked simple enough. Simpler than the time I decided learning to cartwheel on stairs was a good idea, anyway. 

“Well the highway’s just there, it’s not too far to the hospital,” he said jokingly, sure I wasn’t going to try it. “If you did, you’d be a legend!"

I looked at the entry a moment longer, picking my spot and lining up the kayak. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to break my nose trying, and while I might get very wet doing it, I was definitely going to get wet and muddy climbing down the slow, hard way. Besides, the slow, hard way would be, you know, slow and hard.

I swung my leg over the kayak, dropped gingerly into the seat, braced my feet on the forward lip of the boat for balance and for the purposes of not breaking my nose, and inched forward. One scoot was all it took for gravity to take over, and my kayak and I sailed over the ledge.

For a moment I was at an alarmingly steep angle of entry to the water, the nose sinking and water rising toward the lip of the cockpit. I threw my weight straight back, horizontal to the boat and perpendicular to the water. The nose bobbed up and the kayak moved forward, and we were afloat! Dry as a bone, not a bit of mud, and delighted with myself, I crowed my victory as Dan cheered.

After that, it was easy paddling downstream, with pockets of rain and more ducks and water dragons.

Eventually, we turned left and paddled a while upstream to meet the bridge where Dan had parked the car.

“Here we are,” he said after a while, indicating a patch of riverbank that looked to me exactly like all the other patches, with no road or car in sight. Wondering where exactly the car was, I paddled up around the next bend, spotted the bridge, and came back with a shrug, pulling the boat out of the water. We carried the boats up a muddy grassy hill and through a field liberally spattered with cow patties. The road came into view, with the car parked on the side. Between us and it was a barbed wire fence.

“What’s the plan here?” I asked, realizing what it was as soon as I asked. The boats were easy enough to slip under the bottom rung of the barbed wire, and Dan showed me how to climb through, chatting about a local girl who sings a song about growing up climbing through barbed wire and drinking on the courthouse stairs.

“I suppose I’ll have to be vague in my blog about the location,” I said, asking him to take a photo for evidence.

“Oh, it’s no worries,” he replied, assuring me that the local farmers were happy to let people use their fields and streams, as long as the livestock were kept in. It’s an ethic he claims is borrowed from the local Aboriginals, who are the legal owners of the land.

We drove back to his place, dropped the boats, and had a celebratory round of cake, with chai hot chocolate to warm up our insides, duly chilled by the passing rainstorms. We chatted a while, and eventually set off back toward Byron.

Halfway back to town, we stopped at an overlook with a vista clear out to sea. From that height and distance, it was easy to see how small the town proper of Byron Bay really is, just one street really, with a puddle of lights around it. Dotting the shoreline were three pockets of lights, one Byron, one the Arts and Industry Estate, and further up the misty, far off lights of South Tweed. In the hills of the hinterland, there were scattered homes, people living quiet, peaceful lives.

Dan asked if I wanted to see a rainforest.

We drove to Nightcap National Park, where a narrow waterfall cascades hundreds of feet down a straight rock face of grays and oranges and browns. The sun was setting and casting an amazing array of colors over the clouds under the fulling moon. This is supposed to be the closest the moon’s been to Earth in eighteen years, and they’re predicting huge tides for the weekend. The rainforest canopy stretching from the base of the falls hundreds of feet below the overlook was a lush, tropical green, liberally mixed with palms. A flock of birds took off in the distance.

“Loads of leeches down there,” Dan said. “You come out covered in them, and just when you think you’ve gotten them all off, one climbs up your shoes while you’re driving home.” Salt’s the thing, apparently. Happily, I remained leech-free.

By the time I was de-muddified and had eaten dinner back home, the moon had fully risen, shining so brightly over my backyard it eclipsed the steady beams of the lighthouse that I know are still sweeping out to sea. With any luck, the nights will stay clear and dry and I can hike out to watch the full moon over the sea one last time before my trip back home. 

Kung Fu Chamomile - May 1st

It’s seriously flipping freezing.

And so I am beginning the day, after naturally waking at six fifteen, nestled into a huge wrap of blankets with a mug of chamomile tea, finishing Kung Fu Panda.

Life is very sweet. 

The Pod at Rainbow's End - April 30th

I’ve seen dolphins nearly every day this week.

Monday I went to the beach with my book, reveling in the sunshine. I dressed in a bathing suit, layered up on sunscreen, grabbed my beach towel, and headed out the door. As I walked, the clouds arrived and loomed low and threatening, with little spits of rain.

Rats.

It wasn’t actually raining yet, so with determination I plodded on and arrived at the surf and settled in. A chapter or so later I looked up, and there, in the surf in front of me on Clark’s beach, were dolphins. 

Indo-Pacific bottlenose, their long dark bodies clearly visible in the belly of the clear aquamarine of the wave as it rose to break.

I gasped and was on my feet before a moment had passed, leaving all my things behind, racing down the beach, chasing the pod as they swam, chasing fish. 

I chased the dolphins clear across Clarks Beach, down the Main Beach, and to the Wreck. As soon as they passed the point between the Main Beach and the Wreck I was scaling the wall of boulders, uncovered at low tide, and walked out on the rocks, watching fins and flukes break the water’s surface and dolphins swimming through the waves. I was in heaven.

I was also freezing. The clouds and wind had rolled in in force, and slightly soggy from an accidental half-swim around the rocks, I was chilled. The dolphins eventually started back down toward Clark’s beach, and I climbed back down to follow them, grateful I didn’t have to choose between leaving my post watching the pod and rescuing my (library) book from the tide. 

As I walked back down the beach, the sun moved through a patch of clouds, and as the wind kicked spray from the tops of the breaking waves high into the air, an enormous rainbow appeared, arcing from behind the town clear over Byron Bay and cascading straight down into the sea, the rainbow's end illuminating the water in front of The Pass in its many colored splendor. Honestly, all that “rainbow’s end” stuff – I didn’t know rainbows could actually have and end, a place where they seemed to physically touch the land or sea.

As I stood and watched the place where moments before dolphins had been, and where just now a rainbow splashed down into the bay, the clouds shifted again overhead, and a second arc appeared in the sky, half a double rainbow rising over the first, complete cascade of many colors. Oh, come on now, I thought. Now you’re just being ridiculous.

(*Note: My god, this town knows what to do with a latte. This is my zillionth ‘go somewhere and order a drink so I can use the free wi-fi,’ and everywhere you go, lattes arrive with thick cream tops over perfectly steamed soy and roasted decaf, fancy art of some kind adorning the surface. Granted, they’re all four dollar lattes because that’s how Byron rolls, but I’m still impressed.)

So that was Monday. On Wednesday, sitting on the rocks by the Wreck after work lunching on a shift slice of gourmet eggplant and gorgonzola pizza, the dolphins appeared again, fishing in concert with the diving birds.

Thursday I hiked to the lighthouse, fulfilling an old plan; hike to the top, buy a gelato, proceeds from which support the national park, have a gelato feeling good about iced cream and the funding and watch the sea. I was not two licks in to vanilla and forest berry when I saw two dolphins traveling down the shoreline around the lighthouse’s cape, their long dark dorsal lines breaking the water and reflecting beautiful light. Delighted, I watched them swim. A local older man introduced himself, chatting to me about the mountain goats who used to live on the side of the bluff and the one wily old one they simply can’t catch, and the flora and fauna and history of the region. While he talked, we spotted two sea turtles, and a second group of dolphins, this time about thirty of them feeding near Tallows Beach. I ran off to get a closer look, spotting another two turtles, the pair of dolphins I’d seen earlier, and the whole pod. I sat on the rail and nearly died of joy. 

Cheeseburger in Paradise - April 29th

Sunday, April 29^th, 7:30 am

It’s full-on Autumn here. The last two days have been cold and rainy, and today promises to be the same. By cold, I mean jackets and pants and closed shoes and chilly fingers and waking up with a cold nose and toes, and by rain I mean all day long, sometimes lightly and sometimes in sheets and scads. It’s the perfect indoorsy sort of morning. I think I shall spend it in my pajamas.

Some Time Later...

The morning passed pleasantly, in pajamas as I predicted, it was time for lunch. I headed for Mac’s Milk Bar. A local joint two blocks from my house, it’s been closed on every previous passing, but I had heard good things and was determined to try it out.

Third time’s the charm. Armed with my ten percent off coupon from Kool Katz Surf Lesson, I walked down the block, reflecting that distances are greatly relative based on weather conditions, and whether or not one has brought one’s umbrella. The last two times I attempted to visit the famed local burger joint, it’s been closed. Today, with my giant rainbow umbrella and a respite in the rain, the walk felt very short and easy.

Mac’s Milk Bar, open 7-3:30 seven days, is a subtropical treasure. Comfortable diner-gone-tropical-Ozzie-décor, free wi-fi, free local papers, friendly staff, it’s where the Scooby Gang would hang out if they were Aussie backpackers.

Burger with beetroot, roasted onion, barbeque sauce, a leaf of spinach-like lettuce and a perfectly toasted sesame seed bun. It’s enough to get you singing Jimmy Buffet’s Cheeseburger in Paradise, and I certainly was. (In my head. Outside my head, I was chewing, and not frightening people by singing loud, off-key American classic hits.)  

From lunch, feeling fortified and brave, and went home to dress in the appropriate Aussie adventuring gear for my next venture; out to the lighthouse. Layering several shirts and sleeves over a pair of short mesh short and flip flops, a huge umbrella over my head, my body would stay warm and dry (ish) while my legs and feet went for a swim, an inevitable occurrence these days whether you’re walking in the streets or the ocean. The rain has been coming down non-stop for ages with only short breaks for sun, some days barely at all. There are periods of rain so heavy it turns the air white.

So, dressed for the venture (as the sign in Katoomba National Park said, there is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing), I headed for the lighthouse. There, en route, on the path just above Wategos Beach, I spotted a dolphin. My second sighting of these marine mammals since coming to Byron Bay, huge dark gray Indo-Pacific Bottlenose dolphin leaping clear out of the water, it fills my heart with joy.

I continued the hike walking on air, watching the sea under the rain. As I neared the top, I could see a huge gray mass of air rolling in across the sea from the south, turning the air opaque from clouds to sea. I was just reaching the height of the trail, where the clifftop trees grew short and the sea swelled to the side a plummeting drop below, when the thunder started.

Drat.

I was near the top, and desperately wanted to ask the park staff at the lighthouse whether or not the whales had begun their migration, so I walked the rest of the way, pulling the umbrella closer over my head, trying to look very short and un-lightening-rod-y from the perspective of the sky. I’m only five foot three, so this wasn’t very difficult. “Park” staff in this case has a double meaning – the parks and wildlife staff affiliated with the Cape Byron National Park (a public service permitted by the Aboriginal owners of the land) who are the parking wardens, wear bright green rain jackets and excellent blue Indiana-Jones style hats, and are the ones who work standing outside the lighthouse in full view of the open Pacific, where everyone comes to stand and watch for whales. Only two spotted so far, they told me, and those being very early frontrunners; the whole population of fourteen thousand will largely migrate north in June and July and August, turning back to migrate south again August through October.

Information gathered and soul flying high on dolphin spotted, and the thunderstorm looking like it might settle in, I started back down the mountain via the shorter route under taller trees. As I neared home, the pathways turned to rivers, small leaves running like fish through actual currents which had sprung up as the massive influx of water rushed downhill and into stormdrains. The sports fields near my street were completely flooded, and hundreds of seagulls and black-headed ibis were happily feasting in the marshy grass. Some moments of the rain were so heavy and gusty I held the umbrella in front of me, walking entirely in its shadow, the rain pelting its exterior and my ankles and feet, the kookaburras in the trees overhead laughing at the absurdity of my rainbow shield. Laugh on, birdies, it kept me dry!

It’s still raining in the night outside, but I’ve had an amazing day, and in here, in this the Why Not café, the chai is warm and the roof is dry, and life is good. 

Tangent - Toilet Paper

“I am the Lorax, I speak for the Trees”

Several weeks ago, Ben and I went to see The Lorax. Dr. Seuss’ loveable orange Guardian of the Forest is so obviously right in his outrage at the cutting down of the Truffula Trees, and we his audience share his righteous indignation at the Onceler for his foolish Thneeds.

We arrived at the theater knowing what to expect, after all it’s not a story that changes much (you don’t mess with perfection), but it was to be a charming and wonderful evening all the same, a great story well told. In anticipation of this, and not wanting to miss a moment, I said, “I’ll be right back, I just need to pee.”
In the toilet stall, not paying much attention (come on, most of us adults have successfully navigated restrooms many times in our lives), I was thinking instead of those iconic words, “I am the Lorax, I speak for the Trees!” Sing-song and poignant, catchy and fun, this line played through my head as I reached for the toilet paper. And stopped.

I am the Lorax, I speak for the Trees.

What a terrible waste.

Trees, who are the life’s breath of our planet. Trees, whose noble growth bears stately rings, who weather the seasons and time out of mind. Trees, whose beauty steals our breath away in blossom and in fade, who nurture young animals and hide small creatures from the dangers of the night, whose leaves too conceal predators in their graceful, deadly hunts.

Trees, for whom we ought to have the utmost respect as a species conscious of our actions and prone to taking far more than we thneed.

And what do we do?

Pardon my French, we shit on them.

Have a sniffle? No worries, here’s a tissue, blow your nose, dear.

James Cameron through Jake’s voice in Avatar, speaking of our people: “They killed their Mother.”  Recall Grandmother Willow from Pocahontas, the wise old talking tree, and the sense of child-like wonder believing in the animated spirit of the trees inspired. Say what you will about hippies and tree huggers, but spark-of-life stuff entirely aside, it’s downright wasteful, and on a massive scale. After all, who even among the tree-huggers doesn’t need to pee?

Anyway, I’m not quite sure what to do about all this without entirely abandoning the hygiene practices which have stood me in good stead to this point in my life, so in the meantime, today when restocking my bathroom at the grocery store, I bought recycled toilet paper.

We’ll work from here.

Bay Leaves and Surf Skis - April 26th

April 26^th, Thursday, 8:24 am

I am at the Bay Leaf Café, sitting on a dried-sage-colored woven window seat in an open window with my feet in the sun. This is partly because I like sunshine, and partly because I’m still freezing. This place is utterly hidden by day; the dark shutters completely camouflage it into the surrounding wall, only a metal lettered sign reading “Bay Leaf” under the eaves and the graffiti of Yoda on the outer wall betraying a local café, open mornings only. I came in because I’d been told me they do the best drinks in town, and because exploring a secret is fun.

The barista who greeted me was the consummate barista; intense blue eyes, strikingly lean jawline, answers to my inquiry about soy chai just between snarky and welcoming. My chai arrived steamed loose-leaf in a white tea pot with a small empty cup on a saucer, a tea-strainer laid over the cup and a little white ceramic dish of honey nested inside the strainer. Hot and sweet and perfectly spiced, the soy balanced so perfectly with steam that it makes me realize I’ve never had soymilk properly steamed before. All in all, at the bottom of my first cup and letting the honey melt into the second, I am warmed and fortified enough to begin my morning tale.

It began at four thirty am, when the alarm clock trilled its funky tune. I had a date with destiny, a pre-dawn appointment with my dreams come to fruition. Ten to six am, I was to go out in a surf-ski. I planned to be early. Ten to six am? Child’s play! I will wake at four thirty, shower, breakfast, and arrive chipper as the morning sun just beginning to peek above the horizon like a freshly cracked egg.

At four thirty this morning, when the familiar ringing began, I stabbed at the face of my phone-clock with a groggy finger. I’m getting up, I told it, just let me lie here and adjust to the hour for half a minute. All right, as chai seeps into my bloodstream and memory clarifies, I realize that’s not exactly true. What I really thought was *&$%#^$!@*$  it’s cold. This was the first truly freezing morning we’ve had in Byron. I mean really, genuinely freezing. The girl at the French bakery L’Ultime said yesterday that she’d heard it was going to be the coldest morning yet, but gaaaah it was cold! I huddled under the blankets and shivered and reminded myself that a boat awaited.

At five twelve my eyes opened with a start. All thoughts of showering and breakfast flew out the window in the frigid morning air. Complementing my body and spirit on their fortitude and dedication and thanking them profusely for waking me up, I threw off my pajamas while cursing the air temperature, and dressed as quickly as possible in my athlete’s two-piece bathing suit, the leggings I’d VERY wisely purchased not an hour after hearing the words “…ten to six. Yes, a.m.,” a swim-shirt, and a pair of warm-up pants and the heaviest jacket I brought to Australia, thin cotton with sleeves and a hood. Braiding my hair still stiff with the sea-salt of yesterday’s swim and stuffing it under the hood of the sweater, my flip-flopped freezing toes and I, wearing this practical but unfashionable layering of clothes, hurried to the water.

I arrived at the beach front boat shed just as the lorikeets were beginning their morning wing-out as the first glimmers of pre-dawn light cascaded across the surface of the still sea. Unable to believe my luck, I got ready for my first surf-ski experience, dreaming about racing out across the bay.

I spent the next hour largely underwater.

Surf-skis are great watercraft. Long and narrow, amazing for balance and speed, they require a certain amount of muscular coordination to stay upright, a built skill set. If one foolishly ignores the narrowness of the craft and thinks one will be able to handle it like a kayak, one will wind up very, very wet. At six am on a breezy morning, repeated dunkings are a very chilly experience. Luckily, I am very stubborn and, so help me god, I finally, at long, long last watched the sun rise from a boat over the clear blue waters (and sometimes from under a boat, under the clear blue waters) of Byron Bay.

*************

Oh, good gracious, what a day. I realize now part of my motivation for keeping this blog is that I find myself living lifetimes in each day. If I don’t keep a record I get confused, sometimes frustrated wondering why things are taking so long when I only decided upon them hours or days before, sometimes overwhelmed by the scope of the things which have been, not having time to digest one experience before the next begins. Keeping a record of the chronological pace of things helps a bit.

Also, it’s more fun when you share.

So after the pre-dawn surf-skiing and writing at the Bay Leaf Café and the farmers market and making lunch, I wrote at home until about one, at which point I wrapped up and decided the day was much too sunny and perfect to not go back to the beach. My muscles were still quite tired, but I donned my bathing suit and grabbed my surfboard, just in case. The waves were perfect- tiny, clean, and clear, good for paddling about in looking for sea turtles, with some wave-riding just for fun. Inviting, I thought, braided my hair, set aside my book, unvelcroed  the ankle leash of the board, and walked to the water’s edge. GOD it was cold. The water that had felt warm this morning in comparison to the air now, in the full strength of the noonday sun, was practically icy. Nope! I happily retreated to my book, and read and watched the perfect blue of the sea, flipping over or turning around when I got too warm on one side, enjoying the decadent sun, eventually even propping up the surfboard to protect my face when it became too strong.

At last, I felt my internal clock ticking down; I’d promised myself a day in town as well, and I was properly roasted. Walking back through the tree-lined dunes and through the little strip of littoral rainforest on my path home, I was arrested by the sight of rainbow lorikeets feeding overhead on red tree blossoms. They’re the most beautiful birds, striking in their many colors, green wing-backs over multicolored beaks and bellies.

I arrived at home, changed again, and went into town, determined to find close-toed shoes for work friendlier to stand in eight hours at a time than my boots, and in search of string for some shell necklaces I’m making. While walking around town and getting hungry, I made an amazing discovery.

There’s  a place in town that sells $2.50 sushi rolls. In a town where everything is a gagillion dollars, this is a pretty good deal. I wondered how they afforded it. Stopping in for a Philly roll, I started chatting with the Asian girl who was cleaning an unfamiliar stainless steel counter-top machine, and was introduced in polite, halting English to The Sushi Roller. Who knew such a thing could be automated? Really, it’s brilliant economics.

I wandered and shopped, and got hungry again, so I stopped back for a seaweed roll and took it to the beach, happening on the Golden Hour. The sea had been postcard-picture perfect all day long, clear blue skies, crystal waters, so pretty it’s hard to look at for too long, especially when you don’t have anyone to turn to and complain that it’s too perfect to be real. As I stood there leaning on a fence over the dunes by the shore, soaking the Golden Hour in through my skin, I met a California ex-pat part-time surf photographer named Scotty, who was taking full advantage of working with the light… until his friends got back with kebabs, anyway.

The light began to fail, and I turned my feet toward my last errand of the it’s-my-day-off-do-all-the-fun-things day: The Balcony. A restaurant and bar with, you guessed it, a wrap-around balcony that I can see from where I work, I’ve often thought it would be a lovely spot for a sunset drink. I was waiting for the sun to go down far enough that they’d open the shades for the evening, in that magical moment before it gets dark and everything is cast in a beautiful rosy light. On my way to a martini, I was stopped in my tracks by nature’s happy hour: the lorikeets.

They flock together in the trees by the sea by the hundreds, and I was lucky enough to be passing as they gathered. Forgetting cocktails for the moment, I focused on the plumage of real birds, stilled awed and delighted by the natural spectacle that I’ve witnessed now at sunset by the sea many times.

Of course, if you will stop and watch the birds, sometimes you’ll get crapped on.

But that’s okay. It’s all part of being there.

 I stayed and watched the birds until they seemed content with their aerial antics for the evening. Checking the time I was delighted to find I hadn’t missed happy hour after all. I stopped off to de-bird myself and went to The Balcony.

Lychee martinis were up on happy hour. Listed in the menu as “a real lady pleaser,” let me report that this lady was totally pleased. I could see the sea from my seat outside behind the patch of railing I’d been eyeing from below, and the martini was delicious, served with two lychees on a stick. Unsure of the etiquette but deciding they looked tasty, I ate and enjoyed them.

The clouds were rose, the martini was amazing, I could see both where I work and the sea, I contentedly crossed Have a Drink at The Balcony off my List of Things To Do.

Happily juiced upon lychee and Cointreau, I arrived home to discover a new housemate. We are now an Aussie, a Japanese lady, an American, and a Korean. For the first time in ages, all of us were home and around the kitchen, so we sorted through the fridge and freezer and cupboards, made our new roommate some shelf space, and acquired some delectable leftovers from old roommates, and established a “community food” shelf.

Roommate situation sorted, I grabbed a jacket and went back outside, to the Green Garage. The night had become very cool, and can only be described as smelling like starlight. The air is so clear and the sky so dark blue and bright, the stars twinkle like St. Nick’s eyes. It makes you want to stop and watch all night, but you don’t because then you’d freeze, having so much tropical sun in your skin from earlier in the day contrasting with the falling chill of night. So I walked the block to the internet, blissfully looking at the stars.

Arriving at the outdoor internet a block from home, Google informed me that many people eat the garnishes with relish (no pun intended) and that Rachel Maddow thinks it’s a bad idea. While I generally think Rachel Maddow is mostly right about everything, I’m going with the majority here; if it looks tasty and is tasty, taste it!

It’s all of seven thirty pm now, and I’ve been writing in in my pajamas again for almost an hour, museli, yogurt, and green apple waiting on my side table. I feel great looking at the clock and the sky, having been up before the dawning and being tired at this hour, ready to curl up and cozy into inside as the sun has gone down in the world beyond.

My god, how lucky am I? Honestly, I swear, and I know it’s terrible but I confess it’s true, all this having fun and living the perfect life is seriously stressing me out around the edges. There’s such a sense of “oh my god, what an unreal opportunity, don’t screw it up, squeeze every second and last drop of perfection out of each and every blessed day, don’t take a single heartbeat for granted.” Day by day, moment by moment, really, I’m learning to take it easy and do things naturally, and making the most of each once-in-a-lifetime moment, living lifetimes in moments, and the spaces in between.

Life here is beautiful, it’s amazing, it’s exhausting. Like a puppy just out of the box on Christmas morning, scampering from one amazing new experience to the next all day, I’m going to curl up here and see if I can also perfect the art of resting, the taste of salt and lychee on my lips. 

Anzac Day - April 25th

Today was Anzac Day, a day commemorated in Australia in honor of the men and women who died in battle, a day to recall the atrocities of war, the sacrifice of the fallen, the broken promise of World War I being the War to End all Wars.

There was a four am service at the memorial gates, by the sports field two blocks from where I live.

I didn’t go.

I slept in instead, and when I woke up at a deliciously, decadently late hour, the sun was out in force. Grabbing my book and throwing on a bathing suit, I raced for the beach, and happily lay in the sand roasting the ceaseless rain out of my skin and bathing in the sunshine.

Around eleven, I’d been sunned enough to bear the thought of leaving the sand and I was pretty curious about this Anzac day thing. The Anzac cookie I’d had yesterday (a ginger biscuit affair) had been pretty tasty, and beyond that it seemed to be culturally and locally a big deal. There was supposed to be a parade down the main street at eleven, and I wanted to see what was what. So I walked in to town and kept my eyes open.

As I walked, I passed yet another sign for "Anzac Day 2 Up" outside the Hotel Great Northern and interrupted the man setting up the outdoor tables, feeling perhaps a sense of kinship as his long striped apron was the same as the one I wear at work. I asked him first, if he had a second, and second, what the heck this "2 Up" thing was. Outside every bar in town for a week there have been signs, manufactured, hand written, chalked and markered, everyone was about it. I’d even had a Kiwi ex-pat shop-owner tell me weeks ago to stop by the Northern and watch 2 Up on Anzac day, although being a Kiwi she didn’t know what it was either. The aproned man outside the Northern kindly explained that it was a game the “diggers,” or guys in the trenches in WWI, used to play, involving betting on whether a set of coins would land both heads up or both tails up. The “spinner” throws the coins, the betters bet, the referees make sure everyone pays up, simple enough. According to my informal Anzac educator, this used to be hugely popular in bars and other establishments around Australia, but since there was no way for the house to take a cut and the government a tax profit, it was banned. It’s allowed now only once a year, on Anzac day, and the public houses take full advantage. 

I thanked him for the information and kept walking, and pretty soon spotted the crowd around the memorial gates. Wandering over, still wearing shorts and a t-shirt and carrying my beach bag, I was happy to find the crowd a mix of people, many dressed as casually as myself, others in dress clothes, and some in uniforms. Not feeling my attire was disrespectful, I entered the crowd, a smallish throng of maybe seventy people, and listened to the speech. A decorated older man delivered the address to the veterans seated on two rows of folding chairs, side tents of other dressed-up people seated on more folding chairs, a small Anglican choir with a keyboard, a row of older flag-bearers in uniforms and very young cadets at parade rest around the memorial, and one man in slacks leaning back against the wall, an old fashioned bugle in his hand. The rest of the audience informally gathered around in the barricaded street, some with dogs on leashes, others leaning against the folding picnic table where a sign said the local scouting group had been selling soft drinks. I was standing next to a very, very old fashioned Red Holden that gleamed like it was fresh off the production line, piloted by a very elderly lady in an excellent hat. I don’t know who she was, but I suspect she may have been a WWII veteran. Either way, she and her chariot radiated respect and understated panache.

I hadn’t intended to stay, but the speech drew me in. Apparently a vet himself, the man spoke calmly and plainly, describing war as one group of young men who don’t want to be somewhere trying to kill another group of young men who equally don’t want to be there. It was a good address, and well delivered.

The ceremony proceeded as such things will, ending with the singing of the Australian National Anthem, Advance Australia Fair, which I admit I found totally and utterly charming.

Australians all let us rejoice,
For we are young and free;
We’ve golden soil and wealth for toil;
Our home is girt by sea;
Our land abounds in nature’s gifts
Of beauty rich and rare;
In history’s page, let every stage
Advance Australia Fair.
In joyful strains then let us sing,
Advance Australia Fair.
Beneath our radiant Southern Cross
We’ll toil with hearts and hands;
To make this Commonwealth of ours
Renowned of all the lands;
For those who’ve come across the seas
We’ve boundless plains to share;
With courage let us all combine
To Advance Australia Fair.
In joyful strains then let us sing,
Advance Australia Fair.



The ceremony concluded. As I walked back down the street I ran into the property manager of my house-share, wearing a jacket decorated to the hilt. He turns out to be a history buff and military-remembrance club member coming from several generations of decorated military service. At my curious prompting he told me the stories affiliated with the medals and insignia, including one which was a peace medal given to all Australian schoolchildren after World War I as a promise that this terrible war had ended all wars. Poignantly, this medal was pinned to a jacket with rows of service medals from World Wars I and II. 

He gave me a sprig of rosemary, which people wear pinned to their lapels on Anzac day, and told me I really ought to go check out 2 Up. I did, later, passing through the Beachie on my way back from the beach that afternoon. Two men in jackets stand in the middle of a square of floor. One guy balances three coins on a stick and tosses them in the air. If the coins don't go over the "spinner's" head or if they touch the lines marking the square the toss is invalid and redone. Betters hold the tenner they're wagering on top of their heads, which quickly becomes amusing in a public house where winnings are quickly turned to beer. 

Cheers, Australia, to Anzac Day. 

Sunrise, Boat Hope and Butternut Squash - April 24th

I woke up at five thirty this morning, hearing the lorikeets beginning their morning wing-out (tangent later) and feeling my knees sore from work yesterday. I got up, brushed my teeth, had a drink of water, and realized I was awake enough to stay up. So I grabbed a tub of yogurt left over from dinner last night with half an apple already sliced into it, tossed in a handful of oatmeal, grabbed my purse and computer (maybe I'd actually make it to the Internet this time!) and headed for the beach to watch the sunrise. The morning was blue and beautiful, with high gray clouds blanketing the sky.

Jonson Street was just beginning to wake up, the delivery trucks and trash collectors and street sweepers for the early places going about their morning routines, the dawn in Byron I’ve become accustomed to on my morning walks to work. Except this morning, I passed the arcade of shops and went straight to the sea.

I sat on the rocks and watched, and it was beautiful. I watched a few early morning kayakers heading out into the sea, and felt very jealous. I need a boat. I need a boat like I need groceries. Determined again on this score, I made a few phone calls home and watched the sky lighten and waited for one of my favorite Internet cafes to open. While I was chatting on the phone, one of the guys paddling a boat came back in from the water. I got off the phone quickly and hurried over to accost him. He was very friendly, and told me to come back around nine or ten and talk to the Man in the Office in a way that gives me great hope.  

And so now I’m sitting here at the Fresh Café, with a cup of soy hot chocolate with very exciting foam art on top and a fresh blackberry maple almond muffin, about to finally! successfully get online. I’ll be here for a while catching up on my list, and in a few hours I’ll go speak to the Man in the Office, and with any luck, soon be headed out to sea.

Dolphins and Julian Rocks and Whales, here I come!

… 12:38 pm

VICTORY is mine! At ten to six am Thursday morning, I’m going out in a surfski! We’ll take things from there, but it looks like I might be able to arrange a boat share. First things first – Thursday morning, out to sea with me! YAHOO!!

The day became quite rainy, so now I’m cozied in at home doing laundry and watching Beauty and the Beast while the butternut squash steams and the eggs boil for my pumpkin-seed bread and mesclun salad sandwich.

God I love life.  

A Detour and a Fish Hawk - April 23rd

Monday.

Seven am, and I’m at work running like a madwoman, scrubbing and sorting and organizing and cleaning. I get off work at four after a good day with colleagues, chatting and joking around the continual roll of work. (Plus, my boss bought me lunch, the steak pie I’d been eyeing at the French bakery).

I had planned to go home and pick up my computer and come back down the street to use the Internet. I hadn't posted any of the blog entries I'd written, and was sadly behind on emails, some of which I really wanted to write. Well, maybe just a quick peek at the beach, first. I’ll walk home that way, I told myself. I walked up the block from work to the parking lot and park area that looks over the beach. Resolutely, I turned my steps toward home. Well, maybe I’ll just stop for one second and look at the water and breathe. Okay, actually, I’m going to climb down and walk in the sand, but toward home. Hey, what are those seagulls doing? It looks like a bunch of fish have gotten trapped around the base of those rocks by the surf, and they’re diving and fishing there. That’s very cool to watch. I wonder if I can see the fish if I walk over that way and oh my god, that’s an osprey, god what a beautiful bird. Hey there seems to be quite an afternoon aquatic afternoon tea going on out here; maybe it will attract the dolphins! I’ll just climb up there and have a look at what the osprey is looking at.

Long story short, I stayed on the rocks for hours. I watched the birds diving and eating fish, saw the osprey (or fish hawk, as they are also called) catch a huge silver fish that flapped like mad then went rigid in its claws, saw a homo sapiens successfully surf fishing with a line and rod, and half a dozen crabs scuttling about, getting smashed by the surf and scuttling right back up the barnacle-covered rocks. The sun set, the wind was strong over the water, and it was gorgeous.

Okay, now to home and a quick shower, then to the Internet.

Monday night in Byron in the off-season is pretty slow. There was only one wireless spot still open by seven, and they’d moved on to their very expensive dinner menu. Somewhat discouraged, I turned back toward home, stopping by the glaringly florescent Wicked Travel backpacker center to use half an hour of free Internet on their not-so-speedy computers and checked in with the essentials of the outside world until the connection speed drove me mad, and rethought dinner. My path took me to Woolies for high-protein organic berry yogurt, a jazz apple happily on special, and a pack of Wallaby Bites, a locally produced cereal and nut compote dipped in chocolate. Now I’m home happily munching, listening to Sinatra, and about to dive into my book, The Porpoise Watcher, a naturalist’s memoirs bought from a local second-hand and swap book shop.

I suppose I'll post these entries someday.

PS- The cockroaches. Still a bummer on principle, but seem to be avoiding my toothbrush now that I’ve stuffed a Clorox wipe into the bottom of the mug. Hypocritically, I find the zillions of tiny lizards climbing the walls very cool. Practically speaking they’re probably carriers of much nastier stuff (read: salmonella) than roaches, but they’re SMALLER than the roaches, and somehow the tiny sticky feet are totally adorable.

PPS- The lighthouse’s beam sweeping over the tropical trees under the stars in my backyard is never going to get old. I’d probably sleep out there if the mosquitos didn’t drive me back indoors.

A Misguided Roman - April 22nd

Today began, as so many mornings do, just before dawn, getting ready to go to work. I went to work. I worked. It was good, and as usual quite a workout. One of my co-workers made me a fantastic sandwich for lunch with baguette from our local French bakery and the supplies being in a kitchen affords; amazing simple high quality local and imported ingredients. 

I finished work at three and changed into the running clothes I’d packed, put my essentials (wallet, cell phone – in a drybag – keys, flashlight, hairtie, lipbalm, pen) into a new running backpack. It’s made by Roman, I bought it yesterday, and I was pretty excited to take it for a test run. It felt great sitting on my back while walking around, it looked good, I felt good about it, I’m often spot on about that sort of thing.

Drat.

I'm pretty sure I'd have to have been six feet tall for the pack to properly strap to my torso and not bounce everywhere. I couldn’t run with it at all, except by removing the backpack and holding it in my hand. Luckily it was very light, so that was easy to do, but it turned much of the trek into a hike which, after being up and running since before sunrise, wasn’t too hard to swallow.

I hiked up toward the lighthouse, watching the sea and looking for dolphins. I crossed the two beaches and turned off for the Captain Cook Lookout halfway up the pathway o’ endless stairs through the coastal rainforest which cradles the bluff on which the lighthouse sits. The surf has been huge the last few days. The lookout juts far enough out into sea and the rocks surrounding it are low enough to the waterline that the crashing breakers of waves traveling in from the open Pacific are spectacular. I stood a while, then hopped up on the rail and sat a while, then sat and watched a while longer, drinking in the sea (and watching for dolphins). No cetaceans surfaced, but I did spot an absolutely massive sea turtle. For half a second I thought it was a seal, being of apparent similar size and a sort of brownish color. It took two breaths and lingered at the surface a moment, then disappeared back into the blue.

Sunset was stunning as usual, and I was starting to feel tired. I thought I might go home, head back into town, maybe find the Internet or read my book, blah blah blah. I was not even up a third of the steps back  up to the main trail before my feet turned themselves toward the lighthouse.

You never know, the whales might be early. And the view from there is always a sight to see. 

By the time I turned back toward home the mists were rising to the south over Tallows beach and clouds of it were forming through the tops of the trees in the rainforest that surround Byron Bay. The lights of the town from a distance were becoming hazy with the night mists of the sea rolling in, and the stars began to burn through the gathering twilight. It’s very near the dark of the moon, but the sky is so clear and the light pollution so low that Venus shone a silver path across the sea, as brightly if narrower than the shimmering reflection of the absent moon. 

The night gathered and the mists rose and the stars came through in force as I made my way back home. 

(*Note: Luckily for me, the Roman was returned with no problems, and will hopefully go on to make some tall person very happy.) 

Pros and Cons - April 21st

Pros of Living in the Tropics

• Tropical ocean
• Tropical weather: sunshine and greenery everywhere as far as the eye can see, even when standing on top of a mountain
• Laid back lifestyle 
• Coastal Rainforest
• Early sunrises over the sea, late sunsets over the mountains, both beautiful
• Watching a band perform by the sea with happy hour local frothy foamy beer
• Walking one block to the sea after work, sitting on a rock under two frond-y trees and watching the surf roll in while eating a late dinner, then scrambling down the rocks to the sand, kicking off your shoes and walking into the water, looking at the brilliant stars twinkling overhead in the navy bright-darkness of the sky while seagulls play in a nocturnal aerial dance, the white of their wings and bellies illuminated by the streetlamps and passing headlights of the cars in the parking lot over the beach, the gyrations of the white lighthouse on the distant hill ensconced in rainforest looking over the beach, a guardian of life and faithful watchman by the sea, talking to the sweet German backpacker who’s also wading in the surf, a bottle of liquor in her hand although she’s no more than friendly drunk, inviting you to come join a gaggle hanging out by the giant sand sculpture of Puff the Magic Dragon who is complete with burning nostrils by the rocks under the trees, and hurrying home to beat a huge tropical electrical storm swelling on the horizon, going to sleep in a lovely home by the sea … for a few hours, anyway, before work the next morning by the sea, to begin it all again...

Cons of Living in the Tropics

•           Finding a huge cockroach climbing on your toothbrush. AGAIN.

Rainbows and Folk Rock - April 20th

(Blog: Continued from The Adventures of Ben and Karen, a joint adventure blog with my brother)

It was a dark and stormy night.

Actually, it still is. That’s why I’m sitting here, cross legged on the bed in my pajamas, recording my most recent adventures, kicking off the blog Where in the World is Karen Eileen Carmen.

First port of call: Byron Bay, New South Wales, Australia

Until very recently, this adventure has been a joint venture with my little brother (okay, okay, so he’s like ten feet taller than me, I’m still the older!), recorded on the blog theadventuresofbenandkaren.blogspot.com.

It was an amazing adventure.

Yesterday afternoon, Ben boarded a bus headed for home to continue his adventures in the Northern Hemisphere. He’s been in continuous transit since he left Byron at just after 5 pm yesterday which would put him now, at 9:30 pm today… just about halfway there. I walked with him to the bus stop yesterday dressed for a run. Don’t get me wrong; I’m excited for both of us, Ben for his continuing adventures and me for mine. But it’s sad to see this chapter come to an end. And so I did the only sensible thing to do, and went for a very long run.

My feet took me to the sea.

I ran the blocks through town from the bus stop to the shore and across the loose packed sand, carrying my flipflops in one hand and a flashlight in the other. The surf was huge, making the serious surfers happy and the sunset spectacular. I ran and watched the sunset and the sea, headed for Captain Cook Lookout, a jut of land over Little Wategos Beach, officially kicking off my Cetacean Spotting Season. Rumor has it that the dolphins like to hang around Little Wategos. And records have it that the humpback whales coming north from Antarctica to breed will be passing by Cape Byron, the easterly most point of the Australian continent, migrating from May through November. The first of the whales have already been spotted from the lighthouse, and so this is largely my objective here in Byron; spot the whales and watch the dolphins. Inauspiciously, I saw no cetaceans or large sea life of any kind on my run yesterday, but it was a beautiful night all the same. Warm and clear (at long, long last! There has been oodles, buckets, and scads of rain these last few weeks), the waters around the lookout point darkened and, after a bit of a chat with a visiting Colorado-native-former-wrangler-computer-professional, I ran the rest of the way to the Cape Byron Lighthouse to watch the stars.

As day fades to night here, the stars gleam through the navy blue sky, its colors rich over the sea. First Venus shines through to herald the night, and the others follow suit. Soon the Milky Way shines through, a vast carpet of shimmering light so brilliant it seems you could walk on it, if only you could turn your feet to the sky.

It was a gorgeous run.

I found myself back home and fell asleep.

At eight this morning I was at work, but not before walking up to the beach and watching a few minutes of a surfing contest taking place between the Main Beach and the Wreck, our local shipwreck. Ben and I spoke to a very informed older volunteer at the lighthouse a few weeks ago who knew everything there was to know. Apparently the shipwreck in question was a courier of goods and staples between Byron Bay and Sydney back before the roads and railways were good enough to make transport efficient by land. It got caught in a huge storm by the pier and smashed. The locals saved the crew, but taxes hadn’t been paid to the land authorities on the parts of the ship that came from overseas, since the ship had never been brought in to land. They wouldn’t permit the salvage without collecting the tax, and so there The Wreck remains to this day, providing a haven for fish, a great surf break for surfers, and a bit of the tiller sticking up out of the water that local kids climb on. (A few years back, a couple of high school girls played hooky from school, swam out to the Wreck, and were treed up on the tiller by sharks who circled below until they were rescued by the surf lifesaving boat, but not before being plastered all over the east coast evening news! This is in no way a deterrent to continued climbing on the Wreck, or to Ben and myself snorkeling there. But we kept a weather eye out just in case.)

Anyway, I worked until about four today, then knocked off and headed for the Beachie (The Beach Front Hotel) to see a Melbourne duo called The Pierce Brothers. They played a set at open mic night at the Buddha Bar on Wednesday night, and totally rocked my socks. They started tonight at five, which was perfect, because I had a very important post-work errand to run:

Project Giant Umbrella.

Back in the day, when it was still summer here and it rained in between bouts of fierce sunshine, I bought a little four dollar folding plaid-patterned umbrella. It was whimsical, it was plucky, it wasn’t the sturdiest but it had heart, and kept me dry enough… for a time. Then the Season of the Rains arrived in force, weeks and weekends and weeks of endless deluge, with days on end without enough sun to properly dry one’s soaked clothes. Now I understand why tropical natives don’t wear much. It’s not just because of the heat; it’s because you’d NEVER dry out, and soggy pants are not a thing to be borne for long.

And so I went to the Rainbow Shop (guess what they sell- on t-shirts, headbands, wall hangings, umbrellas, you name it), and bought an umbrella the size of a tent. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a bit, but it’s large, and sunny, and many colors, and most importantly of all, keeps the raindrops from falling on my head, or anywhere within a several foot radius of my nice dry self.

So, umbrella in hand, I went back to the Beachie, bought a happy hour XXXX Gold (my favorite Aussie beer) on tap, perched myself at a bar table on the outdoor patio with an umbrella only slightly bigger than mine overhead keeping the storm off my table and, more importantly, off my beer. From my perch, I could see the sea to my left, the huge rolling breakers catching the colors of the darkening sky under the stormy yellow clouds, and the stage to my right, where the Pierce Brothers were setting up. 

Two boys from Melbourne, the Pierce Brothers are a musical force of nature. Sitting on barrels turned into stools, one plays the guitar like it’s a part of his body. The other plays the guitar sometimes. And the harmonica. And the didgeridoo. And percussion, sometimes on a bongo drum, sometimes with his hands and sometimes with stick, and sometimes drums on his brother’s guitar, with his hands or the sticks. And sometimes, most amazing of all, he wraps an arm around his brother’s neck and they BOTH play the same guitar, or he holds the harmonica for his brother to play (while he continues with the guitar) while ALSO playing the didgeridoo. Folk/rock and definitely Australian, their sound and energy are a joy to watch as well as to hear. 

After an amazing performance, and a dinner of beer and free happy hour bar snacks (read: meat pie and sausage roll. Aussies know what they are about with beef.), I had a very rainy walk home. But that’s okay; I carry a smile on my lips and a song in my heart and a big flippin’ rainbow umbrella over my head.