Chook – An Aussie slang word for chicken that’s commonly used as a ‘nice insult,’ especially when somebody has done or said something really obviously retarded that’s only worth laughing about.

Ok. I admit it. I may be a bit accident-prone. Clumsy. A klutz. Have been called a spaz, a goof, a nincompoop. But when my colleagues gave me The Australian First Aid Guide to put on my weekend reading list, I knew my clumsiness had followed me around the globe, all the way to Australia. I was turning into a galah. A goose. An old chook. Birdism – name-calling Australian style.

There is a lesson to be learned from making mistakes, looking absolutely ridiculous in front of a crowd of strangers, and yet, recovering from your own Most Embarrassing Moments gracefully.  I have had plenty of those dumb-things-I’ve-done-moments, made mistakes all over the world. Ran into lampposts in Germany. Slipped on ice in Canada (right in front of Starbucks, of course!). Did a faceplant in Washington DC.

And yes. I have made plenty of stupid mistakes since my arrival in Downunder. Some of them can be explained with being a New chum – a person from abroad unacquainted with the Australian life and customs. Others were pure stupidity. Foolishness. Naivitity. Clumsiness. So here they are – the things you should not do in Australia, but which I did anyway, ‘cause that’s just what I am. An old chook. A flaming galah! 

The Frowned-upon

Do not order a jumbo coffee.

While I may, after some initial struggles and embarrassing moments, have mastered the art of ordering a cuppa, I made a complete fool of myself the first time I order that jumbo coffee at the local coffee shop. “Are you from America?” they asked me, silently putting that offensive label on me. Never ever call a Canadian an American! Though, apparently  only an American would order half a liter of coffee with four shots of espresso in it. Quantity over quality. I wish I could say I didn’t care. I still order my jumbo cuppa, but I always make sure to wear my Canada regalia.

Do not tip the waiter

My first night out in Downunder. Determined to celebrate my beautiful new flat. Even if that meant going to a restaurant on my own. I enter one of the many eateries in this town. The place is dead. Winter in the Northern Beaches. I am the only customer, yet the waiter leads me to the only table right in the middle of the room. Talking about being the centre of attention, which  I did not desire. The whole evening turned out to be a rather humbling experience – going out on your own and doing so gracefully isn’t an easy thing to do. To top off this rather embarrassing experiment, I committed the faux pas of tipping the waitress canadian style – 20% added to the bill. Not because the service was so great. It’s hard not to be served well when you are the only customer – but because that’s what we do where I come from. In Australia you don’t necessarily tip. Service workers are paid fair wages and tipping is not an expected part of going out. I’m sure the waitress didn’t but, yet another lesson learned for me.

Do not talk loudly on the bus

In fact, it’s best not to talk at all on the bus. Especially in the morning. People read or sleep or check their phones. But they do not talk. Or even whisper. Even if it’s your colleague you are sitting next to. You do not engage in a conversation or you get shushed by that lady in the front seat right next to the bus driver. You do say thank you, though, when you get off the bus to make the bus driver’s day a bit better. And you give that cranky old lady a friendly wave. She needs it.

Do not use disposable coffee cups

No coffee without a keep cup. It took me a while to figure out what a Keep cup was. The iconic barista-standard reusable coffee cup that comes in all sizes, shapes and colours. Invented by an Australian company over ten years ago to fight the growing amount of non-recyclable single-use coffee cups that end up in landfills. The goal is to get rid off single-use coffee cups altogether. Along with straws, plastic bags, and all other single-use plastics. We have coffee travel mugs in Canada, too. The difference is that the people down here actually use their reusable cups. And if they forget theirs, they simply won’t have a coffee. Good on ya!

The Embarrassing

Do not wear your Roots sweater

Root is an offensive Australian slang verb meaning “to have sexual intercourse with.” You don’t wear your Canadian Roots sweater. You don’t root for a team. Root beer is called Sarsaparilla. And you don’t tell people that your hair salon is called “Vintage Roots”. Unless you don’t care. Which I don’t.

Do not call it a fanny

A bum is called a bum, not a fanny – that’s the front bum. A fanny pack is called a bum bag. It’s ok to use rubbers in class and to wear your thongs in public. You go to the toilet, not the washroom. And the Map of Tassie is definitely not a geographic term.

The Dangerous

Do not touch a snake

Or even get too close to take pictures if you see one at the school playground. Don’t try to hold a koala in the wild either. They are protected. You can pet that koala at the wildlife park. And if you do it right, you probably will put it back to sleep. Because that’s what they do pretty much all day long. And yes, don’t assume kangaroos are cuddly creatures. You may approach a wallaby if you want to get up close and personal, but don’t try to take a kangaroo on. They have a pretty intense boot on them.

Do not forget your sunscreen

Slip. Slop. Slap. Seek. Slide. That is: Slip on a shirt. Slop on sunscreen. Slap on a hat. Seek shade or shelter. Slide on some sunnies. Simple.

Do not ignore the warning signs

You swim between the flags. Or even better – you don’t swim in the ocean at all. You do not ignore fire warnings during bushfire season. You do not go for a bush walk on your own. 

The Simply Crazy

And then there are the simply crazy mistakes you make – hopefully – only once. Like signing up for an Australian Coastal Trail Run. Been there, done that. Never again. And if I forget, please, hit me over the head. And take my hat off first.

The Bouddi Coastal Run. Just another opportunity to follow my passion of running and taking in the beautiful scenery around me, I thought. Picturing a picturesque boardwalk along the shore, flat and easy, I signed up without even checking what I was signing up for. 14 km – not too long. I’d be done in less than two hours and could take some great #instapics on the go. 

I have never done a trail run. Nor bushwalking (besides that little escapade into the bush behind my school that nearly cost me my life). I hate walking or hiking and I resent climbing stairs. Doesn’t matter if up or down. Hate it. I don’t like running on the beach. I don’t do well with heat. My optimal race is on a flat, circular loop in the dark. 

The Bouddi Coastal Trail run was every I hate put into one event. 1.4 km along the beach to start with, waves washing over your feet, not quick enough to avoid them, leaving your shoes and socks soaking wet. When finally done with the tiring track along the beach, we had to climb what seemed like the stairway to heaven. Up, up, up we went, a slow line of exhausted runners snaking up steps, and we had only just begun. 

Once we reached the actual trail along the coast, things began to  move and everyone started running like a pack of Orcs hunting for hobbits. Weathered boardwalks, rocky ledges, narrow and dusty bushtrails, over tree roots and rocks, dodging branches, avoiding the thorny thicket of the bush. Always running on the left – even in the bush there is a certain etiquette to follow – making room for the real trail runners with their fancy water packs on their backs, their professional looking trail running shoes (needless to say those were not dripping wet) and their fit, lean and well trained bodies. Maybe preparing for a trail run was more than carb loading the night before.

My goal for this run (every run really):  do not trip and fall. Needless to say, I did not reach it. After 5 km my legs were getting heavy and tired, my body aching from the unexpected strain of this run, my mind exhausted from having to focus on what was in front of me to avoid falling over it or in it or down from it. 

Tripped over a root on the narrow path, did a faceplant into the bush, looking absolutely ridiculous I’m sure, quickly trying to recover gracefully from my fall. Simply remaining in a fetal position, rocking myself back and forth to seek relief, and giving up was not an option. So I got up and soldiered on like Frodo climbing up Mount Doom. Bruised and bloodied, with my spirit slightly crushed. 

Stopped racing and starting enjoying. Took pictures of the stunning scenery around me, savoured the treats at the half-mark stop, had a chat with the first aid people, gave them something to do. Faked running-like-the-wind pictures with my very own Sam on my side, took my shoes off at the final stretch of the run and let the warm sand and ocean water play with my toes. 

Eventually I made it over the finish line, bruised and battered and almost delirious, apologizing to the mirrors of the cars parked along the road  that I bumped into when making my way back. Trail running, especially when ill-prepared, may be another thing NOT to do in Australia. But I learned my lesson that even if I keep falling, making a complete fool of myself, I can get up and keep going. 

And Finally

The final thing NOT to do in Australia: be offended by the Australian humour. When Australians call you a bloody galah or an old chook, not to be offended by this friendly banter, but to take it as a lighthearted sign of their friendship. Even if they ask you to read the Australian First Aid Guide. They only mean well.

But it was long ago and it was far away, oh God it seems so very far 

And if life is just a highway, then the soul is just a car 

And objects in the rear view mirror may appear closer than they are

Meatloaf

The scene seems almost surreal. Nightmarish. Haunting. A lone kookaburra perched on a branch of a burnt tree. Torched, black bushland around him, thick dark clouds of bushfire ashes in the apocalyptic orange sky. The setting sun a dark red. Bushfires make for a dramatic sunset. A strangely beautiful, yet grotesque image of this week’s devastating bushfires.

It was my 90 year-old dad in Germany, that first made me aware of the ravaging bush fires in the area.

“Are you ok?” he asked via email. Hours behind, but miles ahead of me when it came to what was going on around me. The most dangerous bushfire week Australia had ever seen, with over 100 fires racing through Southeast Australia. State of Emergency declared for New South Wales. Fires in Sydney’s suburbs. Catastrophic bushfire conditions declared for the Greater Sydney Area for the first time ever.

I was ok. And obviously completely unaware of what was going on around me. Me in my perfect little bubble of ocean and beach and endless sunshine. The odd post on Facebook about fires raging in places I had never heard of. The smoke in the air from controlled back burning, that made us keep the kids in for recess. Not even when school closures for over 600 schools in the area were announced, and ours one of them, did the situation really seem dangerous to me. I don’t live in the bush. So, of course I’m ok.

I am not going to pretend to be an expert on bushfires in Australia. Or bush in general. Because clearly I am not. My very limited knowledge stems from talking to people and the internet. And so I can only write about what I read and hear and see.

The bush. Someone asked me why it is called bush fires and not wildfire like in America. Well, dah, I thought, because this ain’t America, and it is the bush that is burning. But what’s the bush anyway? A wooded area, dry soil, bushes and some Eucalyptus trees. A land where people do not live – a long way away from cities.

Well, with Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park nearby, there is bushland all around us. I drive through it every morning on my way to work, people live in it, our school is surrounded by bush. 

I can only write about what I know, and so one day this week, I set off to explore the bush right behind my school, looking for a small waterfall that came recommended by my colleague. 

A novice to bush walking, I have to admit, I was very ill-prepared and extremely naive and dumb in hindsight. Plan you route (kind of knew where I was going, but not really). Bring water (nope). Never walk alone (nope). Be aware of the current Fire Danger Rating and any bushfire alerts for the area (surely, catastrophic ratings the day prior didn’t apply anymore). And I was not even considering any dangerous animals lurking in the bush. Sometimes objects do appear so very far.

After some searching, I finally found the small trail leading through the thick bush, marked only sporadically by blue plastic ribbons tied to random trees. Slid down rocks, stumbled over roots (ok, maybe I have a tendency to fall), but after 20 minutes I had indeed found the tiny oasis my colleague had talked about. Distracted by the peaceful beauty of this place, I guess had not paid proper attention to the path leading me back to civilization. And I quickly realized what it meant to go for a walk in the bush. I had no idea where to return, falling over thick dried branches, tumbling down boulders, trying desperately to get back onto that faint track through the bush. Eventually I did and I have to admit, I have never been happier to see the school grounds. But I had learnt how powerful and wild nature still is out here, how quickly you can get lost in the bush. How fast things can turn and go wrong. 

The danger of bush fires lies in how quickly things can change and become dangerous. And so, given the catastrophic fire danger ratings and the proximity to bushland (right behind us), our school was one of over 600 schools in the area that decided to close on Tuesday.

With report cards due, this seemed to be a nice opportunity to stay home and catch up on some work, maybe even relax a little. Surely, this wasn’t going to be much different than a snow day back home. Well, it turned out, I was wrong again.

The worst thing that can happen to you on a snow day, is that you have to shovel the driveway yourself, because your kids are in pyjamas all day, playing video games. Yet, the threat of fires around us quickly increased throughout the day, homes being detroyed, people having to flee their homes. Though I did not have to have a bag packed, like colleagues of mine, in case they had to leave (though I do admit, I placed my passport next to my bed – just in case), or check the Fire-near-me-App to see if there was a threat to their home, things actually did appear closer and more ominous as the day progressed.

An extremely hot day with temperatures in the high 30’s (and this is still spring!), increasingly strong winds, super dry conditions due to the lack of rain, had fires in the nearby Blue Mountains and Sydney’s suburbs burning. By the afternoon the sky had turned an ominous hazy orange, the smell of smoke in the air.

And then the winds from the South came. Clearing the air, cooling it down. Within hours temperatures had dropped by over 10 degrees. A catastrophic fire day had come to an end. Until the next time. The new normal.

Pages and pages could be filled with reasons for this “new norm”. How climate change changes the nature of bushfires, makes them more dangerous, more extreme, creates drought conditions that are ideal for fire to spread. How the fire season has lengthened and starts earlier and ends later. How we continue to point fingers and blame each other instead of taking actions. The inaction of politicians. Our own complacency. 

How quickly we go back to our own everyday lives of report cards, and Friday night dinners, and weekend runs through the bush. That very bush that continues burning in other places. Things may not be as dangerous as they seem. But they may actually be closer than they appear.

There are more things in heaven and earth,

And therefore as a stranger give it welcome

Horatio, Than are dreamt of in your philosophy

Hamlet

Snowvember. The first snow back home. A blanket of pristine white covering all, pretty to look at…from the safe distance of my sunny backyard patio. Soon turning into wet, grey November slush, I can’t say I miss it too much. Yet, there is something strangely bewildering about a November day without the cold and gray, the rain and gloom. November in Downunder with its November sun, trying to confuse me. Confuse me like a cuttlefish.

I’m a November baby. All my life, birthdays were gray and bleak and often filled with fine drizzling rain. Red strawberries on my birthday cake the only spot of color on a gloomy day. 

Happy Birthday in Downunder?  Blue skies and a perfect sunrise. Crazy hats and skimpy dresses. Melbourne Cup. Nup the Cup. Taylor Swift cancelling her performance to protest animal cruelty. A 29 year old international celebrity replaced by two local singers performing an Australian classic that was a hit when I was her age! You’re the voice…. Australia’s unofficial national anthem. Who knew.

Trying to get into a bar to cheer me on as I was moving forward on my journey of aging, proved to be harder as expected. Pubs closed for private functions, or packed with best dressed racing fans, we finally were able to settle down at a sun drenched table in a beautiful place surrounded by beautiful people. Getting old never felt worse.

November birthday. A  – what should be – somber month, the beginning of winter, the spirits of the dead, hiding behind dark sunnies and bright orange mimosas. 

Sunshine and a walk on the beach. The soft surf playing with my feet in the sand. Mystical white oval shells. Cuttlefish shells. Cuttlebones, to be exact. A schulp (I had to have that one looked up). As mystifying and perplexing as November in Downunder. 

Confusing as a cuttlefish. By changing its color, and accurately replicating the shape and environment to camouflage, it tries to confuse you. 

Australia is a very confusing place. And not only because November doesn’t feel like it should.

For starters: it’s continent, island, and country – all in one. 

Its wildlife is confusing – well we have talked about that. Either poisonous or odd. Spiders, and snakes. Wombats, and platypus. 

And even the beaches here are confusing: possibly the nicest and best in the entire world, they are also extremely dangerous. Sharks, stinging jellyfish, stonefish, and surf boarders. Only the beauty of the sunrise makes taking the risk worthwhile.

Considering all these hardships –  the heat, the dangers, the wombats – you would think the people living in Australia are as sad and gray as a rainy November day. 

Instead, they are friendly and happy, cheerful and always willing to share a kind word with a stranger. Never ever have I had so many good wishes come my way. Hugs, and flowers, chocolates, and presents chasing my state of confusion, my hidden November blues away. 

I once read that the only correct answer to “So, howya’ like our country eh?’ is “Best (insert your own regional swear word here) country in the world!”

Best bloody place on earth, bar none, strewth! Confusing or not.

“There is nowhere else I’d rather be, nothing else I’d rather be doing.I am at the beach looking west with the continent behind me as the sun tracks down to the sea. I have my bearings.” (Tim Winton, Land’s Edge)

“Please, no more beautiful beaches!”

Tina B. is gone, but her words remain with me. Uttered under her laboured breath up the steep Barrenjoey Lighthouse Walk, surrounded by the beauty of yet another gorgeous beach. Half joking, half serious – I get it.

How many pictures of the beach can you take – the beach in the morning, the beach in the evening, the beach at night. Beach walks, beach talks, beautiful beaches. I don’t get tired of it, but I have a feeling my audience back home might. Tired of the beauty around me. The Good, the Bad, the Ugly… one day I’ll write about the ugly side of Sydney. Like the decomposing wallabie on the side of the road on my way to school. Or that darn kookaburra!

But for now, here’s one more beautiful beach. THE beach! Bondi Beach!

Sydney has more than 100 beaches. Bondi is alpha. A crescent of blonde sand, supposedly one of the best beaches in the world, definitely an Australian icon. Cafes, restaurants, lifeguards, the surf and saltwater pools … did I mention lifeguards? I too watch Bondi Rescue! I know what I’m talking about. 

So, to celebrate the eve of my 50th year, I decided to dedicate the weekend to the “Bondi Bubble” and beyond. Surround myself with things I love – books, good food and drinks, friends, and the three Ss: sun, sea and sculptures.

Sculptures by the Sea. The largest free to the public outdoor sculpture exhibition in the world. On its 23rd year. Attracting more than half a million visitors every year. And I was going to be one of them.

More than 100 sculptures from Australia and abroad transform the Bondi Coastal Walk into a temporary sculpture park. To get a little taste of Sydney’s favourite art event, we decided to take our grade 1 and 2 classes to see the sculptures. 64 children, 6 teachers, and a lot of people. A LOT!!!

Bondi Coastal walk is Sydney’s best known walk along the sea shore. Spectacular ocean views, towering sandstone cliffs, crashing waves, and yes, more golden sand beaches. Nice and tranquil, this usually is a place to relax, go for an early morning swim or a jog along the cliff top trail. 

No such luck today. A never ending stream of visitors snailing along the 2km from Bondi to Tamarama Beach, our classes amongst them. 

“Keep to the left! Stay together! Look another sculpture! Don’t stop! Keep going! Don’t touch!” Me barking orders to keep my students together, sounding like your stereotype German villain constantly shouting “Schnell! Schnell!” People say Germans always sound like they are angry and shouting. I was shouting. Shouting by the Sea. 

But it got us to where we needed to be – Tamarama Beach at the end of our Sculpture walk. A very, very long walk, the kids later complained. Kids these days… Saw amazing sculptures along the way though – mini clay houses perched on sandstone cliffs, towering pencils, winding golden swirls, pink metal tanks and – the kids’ favourite – woven bamboo huts. “I like it when you can go inside art and touch it.” Out of the mouth of babes. I agree.

Our very, very long walk finished with a focused tour of a few specific sculptures on Tamarama Beach and a visit of one of the local artists. Blue fiberglass pods in the sand, rusty metal views of the sky, prickely zip tie statues to touch.. The warm white sand between our fingers, the azure blue ocean waves rolling behind us… ” There is nowhere else I’d rather be, nothing else I’d rather be doing.”

As interesting our excursion to Sculptures by the Sea was, I am looking forward to revisiting Bondi’s Sculptures on my own. Maybe earlier, much earlier during the day, with hopefully less people around. Watch the sunrise over the South Pacific Ocean. Continue on, past the frenzy of Bondi Beach, along the stunning path that hugs the cliff tops and beaches all the way to Coogee. Colorful wildflowers and crazy rock formations along the way, iconic Waverley cemetery and breaching whales out on the sea…. Ok, maybe not. But breakfast at a beachside cafe for sure. Bacon and egg roll, here I come.

I have found my bearings. Bondi bearings.

P.S. Easy like Bondi morning

Sculptures by the Sea early Sunday morning – what a difference a day makes

It’s no secret – Australia is full of things that can kill you. Deadly snakes, the world’s largest crocodiles, tiny jellyfish and hairy spiders, great white sharks, boxing kangaroos and ferocious koalas, vending machines… And if these wouldn’t get me, my first visitor in the great land Down Under definitely was, because she was on a mission to get us killed.

Finally. After 100 days of solitude, my first visitor. Don’t get me wrong – I thoroughly enjoy living on my own. Maybe too much at times. But I admit – it does get lonely, and it was nice to be greeted by a human being instead of talking to the ants in my kitchen sink (I like to strike up a conversation with them before I kill them. Seems more humane.)

“Hi honey! How was your day?” 

“Fine thank you. Today I went surfing and then I had a gorgeous nap. Did you bring home some dinner?” 

Yes, I did. After a long day at work. While SHE were sleeping. On MY bed.

Ah, to live the life of leisure like my friend and first official guest in my new home. Tina B. from T. (name and identifying details have been changed to protect the individual’s privacy). Twin soul and carrier of the legendary selfie stick (say cheese!). In Australia for two weeks and on a mission. To live in the moment. Enjoy life. Roll with it. And find danger whenever and wherever possible. Killing me softly.

MI 1
While I was fighting the threats of an increasingly cheeky kookaburra in my backyard, eyeing the contents of my popcorn bowl conspicuously, Tina B. was out looking for danger elsewhere. 

Cairns, gateway to Australia’s Great Barrier Reef and city in the tropical Far North Queensland. Close to the Daintree National Park, with its mountainous rainforest, gorges and beaches. I’m not saying I was jealous – I didn’t mind schlepping to work every morning while she was frolicking on a ridiculously gorgeous beach. At least I still had my friend the Kookaburra keeping me company.

Snorkeling in jellyfish infested waters, wrestling crocodiles in swampy groves, fighting gigantic deadly birds that will literally tear your heart out and collecting deadly shells on the beach, Tina was staring death in the face non stop. Should have told her that it’s more likely to get killed by a vending machine falling on you than by an australian animal – especially the vending machine at my school!

MI 2
Mormon Twins on Manly Mission! Dressed alike, looking like fools: white top, dark bottom, with only the name tag missing: Hello my name is Gisela and I am on a mission! With Tina. Tina B. Ready to show her the stunning beauty of this place. 

Manly Coastal walk with its outstanding harbour views, lush greenery, and gorgeous golden beaches. Where every turn around the corner gives way to yet another, even more stunning view of the sparkling blue ocean. 

Beautiful. Ridiculously beautiful. Stunningly gorgeous. Breathtaking. Out of this world. We were running out of words to describe what was right in front of our eyes. It was the beauty of the scenery that was killing us. 

That, and the 3.5 hours it took to complete this walk. A pilgrimage more likely. Pondering life and the beauty of it.  Appreciating what we had instead of regretting what we didn’t. Living intensely, excessively and in the now. 14.000 steps. 423 calories. Just enough for half a bacon and egg roll. On rocket. 

MI 3
Everyone has a bucket list, and so did my friend Tina B. Snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef – check. Surfing on Bondi Beach – check. A Sydney Harbour Tour. 

Not a big fan of boats or waves or anything water related, Tina’s wish list clearly wasn’t mine. But, the things you do for a friend.

Now, when I heard harbour tour, I was thinking big boat, snack bar, “Oh look the Opera House!”, selfie click. Say cheese! I surely could handle that. Popped a few sea sickness pills, good to go.

Until I saw the boat Tina B. had booked us on. Forget big boat. Forget snack bar. This thing did not even have walls. Nor seat belts. Our captain (Captain Crazy surely was his name) briefly mentioned life vests under the seats. I didn’t want to check. 

We were going on a 20 seater speed boat out on the open waters. The ocean. To see whales and dolphins and other dangerous things. Forget the Opera House. Forget the snack bar. I should have known, that when my friend said harbour tour, she clearly did not mean that.

But, by now nicely drowsy and mellow from my medication, I signed my life away, took a few barf bags, got seated in the center back of the boat and awaited my doom. Which was flying over the choppy surface of the Sydney harbour waters like only James Bond would, dodging big harbour tour boats, bumping over meter high waves out onto the endless sea. Never ever have I felt so exposed, so small. 

The guy next to me was barfing, begging Captain Crazy to make the boat less bumpy, and even my friend Tina B., thrill seeker, daredevil, my queen of danger, looked a bit pale and concerned by now. Feeling for the life jacket under her seat, she advised Captain Crazy of other (much bigger) boats being uncomfortably close. There were no life vests, I think, nor was there any response from our guide. Just manic laughter!

And then, while bopping the water like apples in a bowl on Halloween, we got rewarded by the sight of humpback whales swimming very close to us, breaching, jumping, showing of. For a split second the thought of one of these friendly giants flopping on our tiny bark, crossed my cotton wool head, only to be washed away by yet another spray of salty sea water in my face. Waving whales and smiling dolphins, lazy seals and screaming seagulls, definitely rolling with it like Tina B. always said. This is what living intensely, excessively – and potentially shortly – felt like. 

On our way back to safe shore, Tina B., having regained her zest for life, suggested water skiing at the back of our speed boat. On dolphins, backwards and blindfolded. Killing me softly.

There is a list. A list of things. Things I say. Funny things. Different things. Strange things. My colleague keeps it – the list. She told me about it. The list of things Gisela says. 

I say Grade 1 –  they say Year 1. I say homeroom – they say classroom. Gym – sports hall. Washroom – toilet. Snack time – morning tea. Garbage can – rubbish bin. Eraser – rubber. Pencil crayons …

Art class in Grade 1, err Year 1. Simple task – colour in the picture. Or, at least, so I thought.

“Ok. I want everyone to color in this picture with pencil crayons.”

Dead silence. Twenty-one pairs of eyes staring at me. Confusion written all over my students’ faces.

“What do you mean, Frau Koehl?”

“Well, I would like you to colour this picture with pencil crayons. No markers please!”

Confusion slowly turning into bewilderment.

“You mean textas?”

“Err, yes. I mean, no. No textas.”

“So what should we use instead?”

“Pencil crayons please.”

There was that silence again. Which, by the way, is extremely rare in a classroom filled with 21 students, and therefore even more unnerving.

“So we can use anything we want?”

“No, not anything you want. Pencil crayons please!”

This was way more complicated than I had anticipated. Maybe we should have used water colours. At this point some water spilled here or there seemed minor compared to the drama that was unfolding in front of me.

“But which one is it – pencils or crayons?”

Ah, finally it dawned on me…. Another word on THE LIST: pencil crayons. Apparently a pencil crayon was not a thing in Downunder. 

“Ok. What do you call this? I asked, holding up what I thought to be a pencil crayon.

“A pencil!”, twenty one tiny voices shouted in unison.

A pencil? My turn to be confused.

“So what about this?” I continued, a pencil in my hand, held up high for everyone to see.

“A lead pencil!”

I was beginning to understand the problem.

“And this?” I presented a crayon.

“A crayon!” the kids shouted, perplexed and probably wondering under which rock they found this chalkie.

“Well, then. Please use your pencils – coloured pencils. No crayons! And absolutely no textas!”

Fast forward a few weeks. Swim lessons. 

Gym class, I mean sport, had proven to be another obstacle course of words. It was the sports hall (not the gym), joggers (not running shoes), and the water fountain was the bubbler. You play tip (not tag), footy (not soccer), and flag football was called Oz Ball.

Taking 21 year 1 students swimming is a challenge in itself. Trying to get them all to remember all required items in Australian slang, almost impossible. 

The Rule of 5 – bring the following:

1. swimmers (not the kids who can swim, but their swimming costumes!)
2. thongs (not the fancy underwear, but flip flops)
3. cap (a cap)
4. goggles (goggles)
5. towel (bigger than a face washer)

      Optional: rashies (watershirt – makes sense)

      No sunnies! 

Ready to take a dip!

Exhausted from yet another week of trying to say the right thing at school, I treat myself and go out for breakfast on the weekend. Brekky and a cuppa! A weird long black. Smashed avo on toast. Poached egg on top. Bacon and egg roll.

“Excuse me!”

I wave to the waiter, who is young enough to be my son. 

“I was just wondering – what exactly is a bacon and egg roll?”

There was that look again. Disbelief? Bewilderment? Pity?

“It’s bacon… And eggs… On a roll.” Babytalk. Elderspeak. Slow and simple and overly pronounced like I’m a three year old.

“On rocket.” he finishes.

“Rocket?” My turn to look puzzled.

“Rocket. Salad. Arugula.”

Arugula becomes rocket. Peppers turn into capsicums. Fries are chips. Chips are chips. Cookies are biscuits, and so are biscuits. Ketchup is called tomato sauce and you put it on your sausage sandwich. A fizzy drink or a chardy? Plinkity plank. Plinkity plonk. Plinkity plink – and you wonder why I drink. Plonk from the bottle-o. Defo!

Ah, all the words with o! The bottle-o. Liquor store. Servo. Gas station. Smoko. Avo. Arvo. Good afternoon. Garbo. Hospo. Journo. Povvo – like when you are down to 2.99$ on your bank account. Devo. You get the idea.

And last, but not least: the things you should not say, but say anyway, because you don’t know any better.

You take a sickie, not a sicko. It’s not a fanny pack, but a bum bag (not sure how that makes it any better). And to root means to have sex. So, to all my Canadian friends, leave your ROOTS sweater, err, jumper at home! Cheers!

The Southern Scenic Route – a symphony of colours along the highway that links Queenstown and the iconic Milford Sound. White snow capped mountains, pale green slopes, yellow heather hiding in brown shrubs, lush silver ferns swaying in the crisp blue alpine air. Every moment an #instamoment.

With a day to spare in Queenstown, I decided to book a day tour to Milford Sound. To be honest, I didn’t really know what Milford Sound was. I think I was confusing it with Mumford & Sons, the music band – that’s why it sounded familiar. Ignorance is bliss, they say, or in my case, sheer stupidity pays off. I was about to have the best day on my trip!

Milford Sound, New Zealand’s famous fiord (with an i, not a j) and Eighth Natural Wonder of the World, only 75km from where I was in Queenstown, yet the tour was going to take 12 hours, including a 2 hour boat cruise in the fjord, err, fiord.

Given my state of ignorant bliss, I had not heard of the Southern Scenic Route nor the fact that to get there, you had to basically go in a circle for over 250 km to get around lakes and mountains. No direct route. So I prepared myself for a long ride, packed a book in case it got boring and set off into the early morning.

Birds singing (sounding very much like birds back home, minus the loud Kookaburra noise), the sun slowly rising behind the mountain range, Queenstown was still sleeping off last night’s party. At 6:45 am sharp, a luxurious coach bus pulled around the corner to pick up our group of 14 random strangers and myself.

Somebody asked me the other day, if I had met a lot of people on my trip. Too old for the backpacker crowd (been there, done that), too young for the grey haired seniors on coach busses, I haven’t really met that many strangers. Other than guys rescuing me in the storm, really, and, well, bus drivers.

Maybe because I’m always sitting right next to them in the front row (best seat in the house, always found the last row on the bus overrated), I got to know quite a few a them. Funny, informative, entertaining, I enjoy their company. That and the beautiful view riding shotgun.

Today’s bus driver was called Jonnie. Jonnie from Auckland. With a brother in the Northern Beaches, Sydney, and sister in Owen Sound, Ontario. Same sound, different place. Maybe he was making that up, but it worked for me.

And while we were making a way out of town along the long shores of Wakatipu Lake, Jonnie told us all about farming in the area (sheep, cattle, deer, and more sheep), about glaciers and fjords ( really Milford should be called Milford Fiord. But then it wouldn’t sound like Mumford & Sons, I guess), about flora and fauna and Trump clumps.

The dark brown grass with an orange tint, originally called red tussock, that was gently swaying in the wind all around us, Jonnie explained, reminded him of Donald Trumps hair. And that he had thought of giving each Trump support a bit of Trump clump, together with a hat saying “Make my hair great again!”.

I could tell, Jonnie had given this a lot of thought – it’s a long drive to Milford Sound.

Green pastures soon gave way to yellow alpine tundra – Eglinton Valley. Once filled with glacier ice, a wide open place with rocks on both sides and a flat, golden tussock floor. We stopped for our first #instamoment, Jonnie offering to take pics and I happily obliged. It’s hard getting pictures of yourself when you are traveling by yourself and are not very good at taking selfies.

We continued along the way, stopped a few times at places like Mirror Lake with its perfect reflection of the mountains, the Disappearing Mountain (very Lord of the Rings Ish), slowly entering the Fiordland National Park.

Trees turning twisty and gnarly, foliage became more and more dense and green and lush, we were now traveling through ancient rainforest territory. 100% humidity, water dripping everywhere, Jonnies windshield wipers going crazy.

And to the sound of swishing and swooshing, he told us about Cheeky Keas (very intelligent parrots with a fetish for rubber) and Dazzled Possums (very dump, pesky animals that threaten New Zealand’s bird population and therefore are being caught in traps all over the area. Their warm fur gets made into possum socks, possum gloves, possum anything).

On the road to our final destination, we encountered Mr Grumpy and Mrs Nice, a flag couple regulating traffic along the way, married for over thirty years (maybe it helps they never see each other, standing at either end of the construction site) and a dickhead (New Zealandish for the idiot, who passed our coach bus in a tight corner).

We reached Homer Tunnel, caught up with dickhead (who received some words of explicit wisdom from Jonnie), slowly crept through the raw, dark passageway through the mountain in front of us, to be greeted by the stunning sight of the downhill sloping, windy road towards Milford Sound. Numerous waterfalls cascading down the granite walls on each side, like veins of life coming down – trickling, gushing to feed into the fiord.

And then, after fours hours of travelling through rich green farmland, dry alpine tundra, and dense wet rainforest, we arrive at Piopiotahi (Little little bird).

Towering peaks, covered by moss and ferns, hiding behind misty clouds, waterfalls plummeting down their sheer sides into the teal cold water of the fiord.

Seals lounging on slippery rocks, seagulls screaming above our heads, water and wind everywhere. There was a speechless silence of wonder and awe on that tiny boat. Feeling small in the face of nature’s beauty – truly one of the most beautiful places on earth.

Back on the bus, Jonnie told us to just sit back and relax, lulling us to sleep with the gentle rocking of the ride.

They say sometimes the journey is the destination. The Southern Scenic Route is great. With sunshine, even better. But with Jonnie behind the wheel, it was the best part of my trip.

Nice legs and a rosy complexion. Beautiful and elegant, yet surprisingly zesty and refreshing. Standing right in front of us, teasing us, tempting us. Her name was Gwen Rose. Church Road Gwen Rose 2018. The first taste in a long line of sample wines – one of the few we would remember – she left a lasting impression. You never forget your first wine. Or something like that.

Welcome to Hawkes Bay. New Zealand’s Wine Country on the east coast of the North Island. Known for its full-bodied reds and complex Chardonnays, sunshine, Art Deco and crisp, juicy apples. And furious winds!

On my journey through Middle Earth, this was like Rivendell – magical valley and home to the elves. Lush and green, peaceful and sheltered from the dangers of the world. Not so sure about the latter, considering the sign that greeted me upon my arrival in Napier, Art Deco Capital in Hawkes Bay.

Taking the warnings light-heartedly, I set off to explore this lovely town by the sea, oblivious to the dark clouds in the sky. Half way up Bluff Hill on my way to the local lookout, the wind was picking up and fat drops of rain started falling. Having gone too far to turn around, I soldiered on, braving heavy rain, gail force winds and lightning.

Palm trees and ferns were bending and bowing to nature’s force and I was beginning to understand the term The Roaring Forties. This was the 40th parallel south after all, and strong winds were very common in this part of the world (I actually learned about the Roaring Forties much later, along with the Furious Fifties and the Screaming Sixties , but it was indeed extremely windy).

In the end, I did get swept away. Not by the storm, but by a middle aged man (gruffly looking version of Aragorn maybe) and his messy, but very dry car, that came to my rescue, stopping right next to me, offering me a ride back down the hill.

“ I know I shouldn’t do this, but I’m going to anyway!” Famous last words. He just laughed.

I did survive my first day in Hawkes Bay. Despite the storm and the stranger and getting stranded. The best part about travel often is the people you meet – locals and other travelers. Their stories, their kindness, their smiles and their friendship.

The next day I met Bucky. Bucky was a retired school teacher and my guide on a tour through this beautiful Art Deco town. Endless sunshine and blue skies, as if nothing had happened, I was willing to give this place another chance.

“Hi, I’m Gisela!”

“Oh, hi Diana! Nice to meet you!”

“No, it’s GISELA. With a G.”

“Ah, yes, Diana! I once knew a Diana… Diana Peterson. Very lovely lady.. Let’s go Diana!” And with a gentle push onto the road, he started the tour.

I let it go. Being Diana for an hour was okay with me, especially if it made Bucky happy. And I think it did. We zigzagged through town, dodging cars, stopping here and there, learning about the earthquake from 1931 that totally erased the town ( so maybe those warning signs should be taken more seriously ), about the reconstruction of the city centre within two years, about Art Deco and its bold designs and clear lines, colours and patterns. Time flew and soon it was time to say goodbye.

“Goodbye Diana! Nice to meet you!” Goodbye Bucky!

And then there was Chuck. And Janine, Clara and the couple from England, whose name I don’t remember. Together we went on a wine tour, exploring the famous grapes of Hawkes Bay. With a crowd getting increasingly rowdy, Chuck remained calm and collected, and drove us from winery to winery.

Church Road Winery ( where a lady from Saskatchewan – of all places – poured us our first glass of Gwen), Ross Hill Farm Winery (where it was time to reveal our place of origin – Clara from São Paulo, Janine from Sydney, the nameless couple from Brighton England and myself: a German from Toronto living in Sydney).  Ash Ridge Winery (where we all bought countless bottles of wine, because that’s what happens after three wineries) and last, and I have to admit, also the least, Te Mata Estate Winery. Beautiful scenery, heartless service.

The day ended with cheese and crackers  (and please, no more wine!) in Te Mata National Park. What had started with polite small talk at the beginning of the tour, had by now turned into heated discussions about Brexit and Trump (no matter where you go, there is always talk about Trump), life and loss and dreams coming true. And for a few hours this interesting mix of people became best of friends, sharing stories and a couple of glasses of wine.

As for Rivendell – I did end up visiting the real Rivendell near Wellington before leaving for the South Island. A truly magical place, with a group of magical strangers that I’ll never see again, but that I got to spend a few magical hours with on my journey through this magical country.

Bewitched and windswept by the Roaring Forties.

“May the wind under your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks.” ( The Hobbit)

I’m having a PMM. Or actually a few. A whole week of PMM. In fact, I have been PMMing for a while now. Not to worry – I’m ok.

PMM – Pinch Me Moments. The moment you realize that your dream has become true. Or is just about to… and you – smack – right in the middle of it. Stuck in a dream. Your dream.

Pinch me. How can this be happening? This can’t be for real! Overcome by happiness and joy and immense gratitude, I get speechless. Not for long, but I do. That or I start swearing. They do that to me – those pinch me moments.

I am travelling in New Zealand for two weeks. On my own. Kind of like my own Eat Pray Love. If you’re gonna do midlife crisis, do it right. Julia Roberts would be proud of me.

Started at the top of this beautiful country and slowly making my way down. Or at the bottom going up? It all depends on your point of view.

New Zealand has been on my bucket list before that was even a thing. My teenage dream. You see, for a while I wanted to be a shepherd. In New Zealand. I had heard that they had quite a few sheep down here – 20 per person to be exact! Done.

I also wanted to be a priest by the way. Apparently I have a thing for herding things. And people. Anyway. For obvious reasons, neither one worked out. But my wish to travel to “the land of the long white cloud” (Aotearoa,Māori for NZ) remained on my list.

A little later in life, another wish was added to that list – travel to Middle Earth, which happens to be in … yep, New Zealand. Who knew?

I love everything Lord of the Rings. Read the books. Read them again. Watched each movie. Several times. I love the shire. And the hobbits. I love Gandalf and Aragorn ( who doesn’t love Aragorn?). My favourite, though, is Frodo. Love his sadness and his hairy feet. Love his hobbit ears and wisdom. I have learned a lot from this hobbit.

So when the travel agent inquired about what I wanted to see in New Zealand, I said…. No, I didn’t say ‘Frodo!’, because that would have been weird. Though I wanted to.

Instead I said: I want to see anything LOTR please.

And so this is what I’m doing right now – travelling through New Zealand, trying to find Frodo and his friends, encountering a few pinch me moments along the way.

PMM#1 Mount Eden, Auckland

Easy like Sunday morning, I decided to walk up to the Mount Eden Lookout to get a good view of Auckland, the first stop on my trip. Busy roads turned into suburban streets turned into wooded paths –  I was slowly making my way out of the city.

At the entrance of the park, was an old stony staircase, covered with moss and lichen. A weathered stone wall running along its edges, separating the steps from a beautiful lush field of green grass and small white flowers. Following the dark, shady way up the hill, the thick growth of trees and ferns suddenly gave way to a gigantic crate of a volcano that had been asleep for over 28.000 years. I must have said something like ‘What the heck!’, because a lone hiker in front of me turned and looked at me confused and a little concerned. Pinch me! I wanted to say. This was just too surreal – I had actually arrived in Middle Earth! But that probably would have sent him running.

PMM #2 Hobbiton, Matamata

Once the film set to both the Lord of the Rings as well as the Hobbit movie, this part of a sheep and cattle farm in Matamata near Rotorua is now a permanent tourist attraction on the Northern Island of NZ. In the summer, almost 4000 visitors daily. 40% of them have no clue about the story.

Well, I wasn’t going to be one of them. I knew what house Sam Gangee lives in ( the one with the yellow door), the name of the large tree overlooking the village ( the Party Tree), recognized the path that Bilbo Baggins runs down, shouting “I’m going on an adventure! “, the corner where Frodo waits for his longtime friend Gandalf…

And while I was looking over the green rolling hills, the little round colourful doors, the stone walls and wooden fences covered with (fake!) moss, I thought how unbelievable it was, to actually be in this peaceful, happy place called the Shire I only knew from the movies. If someone had played the Shire melody, I probably would have wept like Sam on Mount Doom. Only mine would have been happy tears.

PMM #3 Te Puia Geothermal Valley, Rotorua

If Hobbiton was the Shire, than this was Mordor.

I knew that there was hot springs and geysers around – the awful smell of rotten eggs hanging over the town as well as the mysterious misty clouds over the tree canopy kind of gave it away. But nothing prepared me for what was going to be a mix of Jurassic Park and Mount Doom.

Gigantic redwood trees and ferns, steaming rivers and bubbling mud puddles, yellow crusted crevices, and black lava rocks. The scenery was so surreal that it probably was more of a WTF moment than a PMM – which is pretty much the same, just much better.

So here it is, New Zealand, my dream come true. Thank you for giving me those pinch me moments that are so difficult to describe. I haven’t known you for long, but you have been on my mind (and list) for quite a while. And so far you are an absolute dream come true – despite the imperfections any place has.

I love how you start raining though the sun is shining. How, quite honestly, you stink ( though no one seems to notice but me). I love your people and your language and how you struggle with everyday problems like all countries do. I love that this small flightless bird called a kiwi is what represents you. I love how you make my dreams come true.

So what do you do when a wish comes true? You enjoy it (oh I do). You share it (doing that with you). And you are grateful (Thank you).

So somebody pinch me please! Cheers!

Early morning twilight. My bedroom tinted grey.  In the distance the faint sound of waves crashing ashore. Palm leaves gently rustling in the morning breeze. The first rays of sunlight quietly peeking through the closed wooden shutters. Good night Canada! Good morning Sydney!

I lie in bed. Still tired yet wide awake. I dread the unavoidable. Bracing myself for what will happen next. What happens every morning at the crack of dawn. Seven days a week. Sunshine or rain.

Sleeping with one eye open, gripping my pillow tight, I wait for it. And there it is. A low, hiccuping chuckle first, lonesome and almost testing. Slowly turning into a loud cackle, to finally end in a crescendo of raucous laughter joined by other fellow birds. 

Welcome to the infamous Kookaburra, laughing in the old gum tree right next to me. One of Australia’s best known sounds, contender for world’s most annoying animals. Every morning at dawn and every night at dusk, it sends its manic laughter-like call across the neighbourhood, letting the world know: “Hey, I’m here! Where are you?”

In bed, you bloody thing, trying to sleep! It’s not even six o’clock! Here they call it The Bushman’s Alarm Clock – who needs a phone when you got your own personal wake up call. It’s way too early, but after all that ruckus the thought of sleep seems impossible. I get up. I can still hear that darn Kookaburra laughing at me.

Spring has sprung in Sydney. What started three weeks ago, on September 1 to be exact, is in full gear. Colour explosion. Brilliant blossoms and blooms. Vibrant shades and curious shapes.

I usually don’t do flowers. Or birds for that matter. But it’s really hard to ignore either one of them in this beautiful part of the world. Some of them more shy and reserved, like the hardy shrubs along the coast with their tiny pink and white flowers, asking shyly for your attention. 

Others throw themselves at you, chase you, force themselves upon you, make you stop and look and shake your head in disbelief.

On my way out the door, bright orange trumpet flowers greet me, heralding the beginning of a new day. I have no idea what they are called – I call them orange trumpet flowers. Who cares?

Actually, I do care a little to my own surprise. A friend gave me this awesome book that categorizes all flowers by colours. Like cars (What car was he driving? – Err, a white one?) I look up the orange flower: Trumpet Flower (aka Clivia) it’s called. No shit, who would have thought! Told ya!

On my way to the bus stop, the morning sky from slowly rising sun  (the Kookaburra very quiet now – probably went back to bed, that bloody bastard), I get greeted by an impressive display of Australia’s flowers. Almost makes me miss my bus. While other early risers are getting their first coffee (I guess The Bushman’s Alarm Clock woke them up as well), I randomly stop in the middle of the sidewalk and stare at what grows on the side of the road.

 ‘Ah, the Canadian!’, they probably think, ‘admiring nature! They probably don’t have any flowers in the snow-covered world she comes from!’ –  We do, but not like this! Flowers on steroids! Spring in technicolour!

The bright red Bottle Brush hanging from the trees, offering a lone Rainbow Lorikeet some breakfast. I am so excited to see that bird, I later told the kids at school. They were not very impressed: “ A lorikeet? I have two living in my backyard – they are called Billy and Bob!” I guess you are used to having awesome parrots around when you have already given them names.

Or  the crazy Bird of Paradise Flower with its bright orange and blue bloom, which always reminds me of Beaker from the Muppet Show.

 A tree in someone’s front yard sprouting poinsettias I only know from Christmas markets back home. It’s only three month ‘til Christmas. Maybe I should bring some home.

At the roundabout, a gigantic totem pole like thing called a Giant Lily (again, could have told you so) pointing it’s blood red rosette towards the sky.

All over Australia, there are Aboriginal Dreaming stories linking people to plants. One local story tells us about the creation of this beautiful red bloom: A tribe was trapped in a cave after a landslide. One warrior survived, although badly injured. He went back and forth, helping the others make it. His injuries were so bad, though, that he slowly died. And as he did, so the legend of the Giant Lily, his blood seeped into the plant, causing the flower to turn red. 

Next, the Old Man Banksia with its shaggy look – I will not even attempt an explanation of its name, but I get it! 

And finally, shortly before I reach the bus stopn,  another trumpet shaped flower, yellow this time with brown stripes. Good thing I did not touch it in awe – after some research, it turns out The Golden Cup is poisonous! 

Australia is a land of extremes! Colours so vibrant, shapes so unique. And pretty much anything will kill you! Even the pretty flowers!

It’s the last day of school before our well deserved Spring break and I’m off for two weeks. Looking at the first signs of Australia’s technicolour spring, I’m almost sad to miss it. Kookaburra and all. But only just! I’m off to the Shire and I sure hope that bloody bird doesn’t find me there! Hooroo!