MissLeonie.com

Liam, LB (Chris, for future reference) and LBG (Masha) trekked out to Sydney on the 9:15 train. We got on a separate train from Central to Town Hall to do a quick shopping run and have some lunch. Liam ate a foot-long Subway sandwich with green stuff. Clearly, this was a good omen (Liam hasn’t eaten vegetables in years and in fact claims that I have probably saved his life by going out with him. My vegetables addiction hasn’t gone unnoticed and he’s tried a few things by now.)

After we collected our jaws from the floor, we got on a train to Circular Quay. Our bags were checked for booze, glass and, I assume, bombs. We all passed, which is a miracle, given Liam’s facial hair. The good omens continued.

The Opera House forecourts were packed with people already. We quickly realised we wouldn’t be obtaining a front row seat. After we were chased off a staircase by a self-important security guard who turned out to be wrong, I was sent off to find a better spot. See, the laws of the universe demand you send a girl to scout, because girls are cute and will be more successful. Men, as Liam will tell you, can pee standing up, so there’s equality.

I found a forsaken first row bench. There were a few bags on it though, so I checked with the American guys next to it. They explained that it was occupied. As we spoke, he came back. In Japanese English, he explained that he was saving the bench for his family of four, but the area behind it “was OK.” “Win!” thought I. I quickly phoned Chris and told him to look to his right. Of course, as I said that, he turned around, so there was much confusion. Masha saved the day when she spotted my waving. The herd was reunited, and we set out to sit on concrete for 12 hours.

We had the presence of mind to bring books, magazines and homework (Chris’ teacher, if you’re reading this, however unlikely that may be, give the boy points for effort, will you?). We also stocked up on water, soft drink, muffins and what was left of my foot-long Subway sandwich. Rain was forecasted, but the day was clear, hot even. Luckily, we’d also packed sunscreen. None of us were seriously burnt, which is a first.

Then the waiting began. This is a long post, because it was a looooong day. Some girl thought she could push in front of us at about 6. She and her Greasy Boyfriend walked all the way to the front and proceeded to sit down on the fence. The nice Japanese man (He of the Bench) tried to explain that he was displeased, but his English wasn’t sufficient to deter her. He was also far too polite to simply tell her to get lost. I felt bad for him: he must have been there since early in the morning, trying to create a perfect day for his family. Then Self-Righteous Blondie enters the stage and decides to ignore the poor guy. I got up and said that it wasn’t very nice of her to just push to the front when everyone had been sitting in the heat all day. “We’re not sitting here to have a good view of the bench, or the Opera House behind us. If you don’t mind, we’d like to get the bridge view we came for.” She defended herself by saying people had spoilt the view she’d queued for for hours as well. “I’m sorry to hear that, but that doesn’t give you the right to do the same to other people. I think it’s quite rude of you to assume you can turn up in the end of the afternoon and block the view of people who have been supremely uncomfortable for most of the day.” In the spirit of Sars, I was polite but firm. It worked! She sighed a lot, and looked very annoyed, but I looked even more annoyed and showed no signs of backing down, so she gave in. Victory!

The Japanese man was fantastically nice. Heartwarmingly nice. I didn’t know such sweet people still existed. He thanked me, his wife thanked me. Earlier that afternoon, he had bought three beers for the American guys sitting next to him, as a thank you for keeping his seat. Mind you, these beers cost 6 dollars a can. So nice! A little while after the Barge-Arse Adventure, he offered me a seat on his bench. Liam and I proceeded to take turns, while Chris and Masha sat on magazines and newspapers. (Highlight of the day? “So Chris, how does it feel to sit on Paris Hilton’s face?”) When it was my turn, I told Liam to rest his back against my legs, so he’d have some back support. The Japanese man gestured and told us it was OK if the two of us wanted to sit down. I smiled and smiled and said thank you, trying so hard to convey how grateful I was, language barrier or not. With space for two people vacated on the floor, people tried to set up camp. The group behind us had two extra mats. They put them down and told us that we should absolutely use them if we wanted to. Sweet! It was one of those “two birds with one stone” moments: we were more comfortable, they didn’t have to worry about being overrun.

There were the nine o’clock kiddie fireworks, with the cute Indian boy who was all excited (we let him stand on the bench so he could see more). There was half the barmy army singing silly call-and-response songs. There were the Americans, who, once intoxicated, wanted to start a wave. There were the Invited Guests of the Opera House, who weren’t too posh to participate in the wave. There were the police men on boats, waving at us. There were the ferries, honking and being greeted with cheers. There were people of all nationalities around us; everyone was happy and nice. It really restored my faith in humanity. I took hundreds of photos, as per usual, but it’s hard to keep your camera steady enough to take good photos of fireworks. The midnight fireworks were phenomenal - they even had fireworks on the roofs of the skyscrapers! It was an altogether great experience, with great people. I wished the nice Japanese man a happy new year, because come on now, you bond over sitting next to each other for that long. He held my hand with both his hands, thanked me so much, wished me the same. We smiled a lot, both trying to show our appreciation of and gratitude towards the other. I shook his wife’s and daughter’s hands. More smiling. Happy New Years from the guys behind us. Happy New Years from random people on the streets on the way to Central.

It was the longest day of my life - I actually just passed out into sleep on the train, and proceeded to drool on the jacket Chris had so chivalrously lent to me. I woke up at our home station, gave myself a quick wash to get rid of the filth of sitting on the floor all day and travelling in a booze-y train, and blissfully fell asleep at about 4am. It was the longest day of my life, but it was worth the trouble.

Liam and I went to Chinatown, Darling Harbour and Taronga Zoo today. I’ll admit that I had never been to a Chinatown before - I loved it! There is so much colour and liveliness! I expected to feel out of place, but just like the rest of Sydney, it felt very welcoming and friendly.

We eventually stumbled across Paddy’s Market, an absolute gem for fake designer bags and cheap band T-Shirts. As long as you don’t expect anything you buy to last particularly long, you can find great things. Liam got himself an Opeth T-Shirt, I got Sydney souvenir shirts. There were tonnes of market stalls with make up, purses, souvenirs, sun glasses. The best part is that no one is pretending to sell authentic wares. It’s just a celebration of cheap copies!

After lunch, we headed down to Darling Harbour where we got on the Monorail to Town Hall. We then got on a train to Circular Quay and bought a Zoo Pass at the ferry jetty. The Zoo Pass included ferry and bus transportation to and from the zoo, entrance and a cable cart ride over the zoo. Given our recent experience with cable carts and the looong line, we gave them a miss, but the Zoo Pass is still good value for money. I got a cheaper student ticket, but even Liam’s regular ticket was just AU$ 39. Entrance to the zoo only will cost you AU$ 32 as an adult, so the Zoo Pass is well worth it.

I love zoos. Petting zoos, native animal zoos, fancy zoos… you name it, I like it. Taronga Zoo was quite possibly the nicest zoo I’ve ever been too, and I’m not just saying that cause I finally got a decent picture of a wombat. The animal enclosures are beautiful, there is plenty of information and you can’t beat the view. I saw some animals I’d never even heard of (a bongo, anyone?) and admired a few favourites (I love pelicans!).

After seeing (almost) all the animals, we walked down to the ferry jetty and made our way home. By the end of it, my feet hurt and Liam’s ankles were about to go again, but it was all worth it.

PS.The first thing Liam said when he saw the picture above was that the giraffe resembles Chris Martin, the Coldplay singer. His brother agrees. I don’t quite see it, but perhaps you do.

Our long awaited Blue Mountains trip started at the ungodly hour of 7am. Rather, that’s when I got up to wake all the other kids. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Liam more appalled at one of my ideas. His face said, “Go away and let me SLEEP! Leave me alone woman!” His mouth merely said, “Gwwrrr.”

Driving to and into the Blue Mountains was magical - I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many trees together. Katoomba, the main city there, vaguely reminded me of Temora. Both towns had this old quality about them, like rare archaic remains of an era without chain stores. That said, Katoomba’s Thompson Family Restaurant had been replaced by the “Three Sisters BBQ Chinese Restaurant,” so perhaps it’s losing some of its authenticity after all. Liam and his dad were amazed (read: appalled) at the number of people. It seems that tourists really discovered Katoomba and its beautiful surroundings since the last time they were there.

After finding a (paid) parking spot (hurray!), we walked down to Echo Point. I took hundreds of photos, especially of the Three Sisters: a rock formation (in the non-musical sense of the term) of three rather large vertical rock columns. We walked down to the first one, and got on it by means of a tiny, dodgy looking staircase. It gave me a good case of vertigo, but again, the view was breath-taking and well worth it.

After some souvenir shopping, we headed to Scenic World, which consists of four things: a Scenic Railway, a Scenic Walkway, a Scenic Skyway and a Scenic Cableway. We chose the Valley ticket, which included the railway, walkway and cableway. We went down on the steepest railway in the world (it’s unbeaten at 52°), walked through a rainforest via the walkway, and joined the queue to get back up using the cableway. We didn’t fit on the first batch to be sent over, so we were left waiting for the cable cart to return. And waiting. And waiting. And then some more. It never returned! By the end of it, we got a bit nervous. The cable cart was either not going to return at all, in which case the queue that had formed behind us would make a dash back for the railway as well, or it would return after being somehow repaired, in which case we’d be the guinea pigs. Personnel seemed to be getting a bit jittery as well…

We got out of the cue and powerwalked back to the railway station, where we got on the first train up. The railway ride is spectacular: it used to be a miner’s transport to the Blue Mountains coal mines, until they found that more and more tourists begged for a lift up. Sensing that money could be made, the company built a custom train for tourists. The views are amazing, the trip down quite a thrill (though Liam claims they have slowed it down significantly) and all in all, it’s well worth the AU$16 entrance fee. The only reason passengers don’t fall down is a knee-bar that you rest your full weight on. A great idea, of course, except not after you’ve just had a bit of a cricket accident. I picked “pressure on bruised knee” over “plumeting to my death,” though.

After our Scenic adventure, we got back in the car to go home. I don’t remember anything after Hornsby - not until I woke up when we were almost home. I think I must have fallen asleep on several shoulders, too, not just Liam’s. It has to have been a good trip if you’re so tired by the end of it!

Boxing day was spent in the shopping centre. We weren’t so much hunting for bargains, though. One of Liam’s friends rung us to ask if we were coming, and once there, it turned out to be a little reunion of Liam and his high school friends. We ate Yum Cha at a lovely Chinese restaurant. I’d never had any before - let alone eaten with sticks - but I mastered both, meanwhile avoiding obscure dishes such as chicken feet and shark fins.

It turns out that what I perceive to be Chinese food is rather Dutchified. At least, I’m assuming the Aussie variety is more authentic, because it’s closer to the source. Everything tasted great (except for the pork crunchy thing) and we had a really good time!

Christmas Day was lovely! We all got a load of presents. What’s more, everyone had clearly put a lot of effort into finding a great present that would really please whoever it was for. I’d say we all truly got into the Christmas spirit.

After unwrapping our presents (and watching Bailey unwrap his - cute!) Liam’s grandmother came over. She’s a lovely lady. We were worried that Bailey might annoy her, as he likes to do with guests. We all bought him toys, however, so by the tame she came over, Bailey was too worn out to be a nuisance. While we ate a beautiful Christmas lunch, he took a nap in his “hidy hole,” a little bed he’s made for himself on the bottom shelf of the linnen closet.

In a less traditional turn of events, all the “kids” went to the park for a game of cricket. I’ve never played before and only saw it played for the first time at the start of the Ashes, a couple of weeks ago. There are a few things you need to know about cricket:

1. Yes, the padding looks ridiculous, but you’ll want to use it, because -
2. The ball is like a round brick and -
3. The stitches on it will leave a mark like an obscure tattoo.

In short, the game is centred around a bolting bloke (”bowler”) flinging a ball - as fast as he can - at the pitch in front of an unlucky fellow wearing mattresses (”batsman”) . The Master of the Mattresses then has to block or hit the ball with a wooden plank roughly the weight of a six-year-old. There’s also a bit of running on the part of the batsman, but hardly anyone bothers with that unless there’s a full field of players.

Riveting as that sounds, I was inspired to give it a go. The first time Liam bowled at me, I hit exactly one ball. It was more a reflex than anything else: the ball passed behind me and I just stretched an arm. Liam and his brother both had a go at batting, after which I asked Liam to fling a few girl balls at me. A ball that “slipped out of his hand” put a nasty swollen circle mark on his brother’s back. I asked Liam to halve that speed, then divide it by three and take it easy. He threw some underarmed balls that I actually managed to hit, and although I ruined the bat by aggressively smacking the ball with the edge of the bat constantly, I was getting better. I even progressed to normal, albeit unbelievably slow bowls.

Liam doesn’t get to complain about my ruining his bat, because he bowled something reminiscent of a rock into my knee at what he guessed was about 70k/h. Lovely. A bunch of hard-core cricketeers were playing next to us the whole time. When the ball hit me, their batsman went “Ouch!” I turned around and smiled, and he asked, “Didn’t that hit you in the knee?” I cheerfully replied, “Yes!” I grew up doing gymnastics, horseback riding and tennis - I’m used to pain. It didn’t even hurt much, my knee just went numb. After a while, two big vanes seemed to be attempting an escape: they seemed to be popping out. I put a bag of frozen peas on it for most of the afternoon. My knee looks weird and feels weird, but given the fact that it was a cricket accident, I’m lucky I have something of a knee left. Does it hurt now? Yes, it does sting a little. Do I care? No, let’s play some more cricket tomorrow.

For whoever has been paying attention: how did I hurt my knee taking the above 3 rules of cricket into account? I’m too short for the leg-pads, so I didn’t wear any. I have the option of being gutsy, or having my legs strapped to pieces of wood reaching from ankles to waist. I prefer the “now with bendable knees” option. Hey, I’ve got one bendable knee left, and a war wound, and the respect of a bunch of tough blokes for just taking the hit and playing on without 1. falling over or 2. crying. How’s that for a Merry Christmas?

It’s Christmas Eve! In this house, you can tell, too. People have (almost) finished gift-wrapping a small country’s GDP worth of presents; the annual Quake I marathon has kicked off; A Christmassy Ted is ready to go; and both girls in the house are trying to look their prettiest. The house is decorated, and although the classic Eau de Pine cannot be smelled in Australia (articificial tree), the tree looks fabulous. I’ve spotted some champagne glasses, so I’m guessing Christmas Eve will be wonderful.

Giftwrapping was a bit of an ordeal. Liam is gift-wraptically challenged, so I’ve been trying to wrap odd shapes and sizes all day. I’m especially proud of the pictured wrapping adventure. I’m going to be a real Martha Steward by not admitting it took me the best part of an afternoon. Each errr.. each bottle-shaped item has its own jacket and its own ribbon. None of them are wrapped exactly the same, making each unwrapping adventure unique! Finally, the six bottle- bottle-shaped items! were wrapped together in an altogether exciting combo of red curly ribbon, bells and cello-paper. Santa told me so, anyway.

Merry Christmas!

(The snow? An acute case of wishful thinking: Australia’s got rain, the Netherlands has nothing better.)

Liam and I went into Sydney today. It was humid and oppressive here slightly north, but Sydney had a bit of a breeze. I expected the city to be crawling with frantic people looking for Christmas presents, but it was relatively quiet. The Queen Victoria Building (QVB) is always busy, but big Dymocks resembled a small town library, only with an infinitely superior collection.

At Myer, I found a beaten up copy of The Corrs’ Forgiven, Not Forgotten. For some unknown reason, old Corrs’ albums still go for a lot of money. This particular copy was selling for just AU$10 though. They had another more wholesome copy, but I’m cheap, so I went for its little bruised brother. I’m really enjoying it already. I figured that, with my imminent departure for home, I could use a little help to stay cheerful. The Corrs make me happy, so I’m buying the Corrs.

The city is Christmassy, but not as Christmassy as I expected it to be based on such movies as Love Actually. Very lovely still, though. The QVB will probably always be my favourite building. It’s so unusual, in the way that modern shops have been combined with a huge, traditional building. I like that about Sydney anyway: the Virgin store on George Street is another example: a modern shop in an impressive old bank. They’ve managed to keep a lot of the old features, inside as well as outside. And these old buildings are surrounded by sky scrapers. I’d never seen anything like it before, but I love it. And it’s even better with Christmas decorations!

It’s easy to forget how much this blog is about me Me ME. It’s where I write about my experiences, my life, my hopes and my worries. A blog works like a magnifying glass: it enlarges the subject matter. Sometimes it’s best we don’t enlarge our little worries, lest we blow them out of proportion, and spend too much time worrying about things that do not matter or cannot be changed.

That said, it is often best to write about what you know. I happen to be an expert in “being Leonie.” Furthermore, writing has always helped me process things to make sense of the world. I was given a journal on my 6th birthday, and rude as I was, went upstairs to my bedroom to write a little DURING the party. I haven’t stopped writing since, or hadn’t, until July this year. I wanted to spend more time feeling, seeing and living; and less time worrying and rehashing. Writing helps me process, but it also feeds my innate ability to think too much. Daily (…sort of) chunks on a blog are just the right dose.

Worries I shouldn’t think so much about anymore:
- Liam’s job; since he got to keep it. That’s also a worry, but hey, you can’t have it all.
- Getting all my stuff home: as I’ve said before, I have managed to buy half of Australia. But really, who cares. It will sort itself out.
- Christmas presents: it’s the thought that counts. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, as Liam would say.
- Going home soon: because we have the internet and other technology on our side. I should be thankful I don’t live 200 years ago. Now THAT would have been a predicament of sorts.

I’m sure you’ll understand that the last worry is a big one - I will cry, and I will be unhappy. However, I found something out today. I was devestated to hear a friend’s mother has serious cancer. The way the family are handling it and the strength this wonderful lady and her family are showing have inspired me, and showed me how blessed I am. It has been a (very sad) wake up call. It has taught me that there is no point in sooking, none at all. Yes, we don’t always get what we want, but most often, we don’t get what we’ve got.

I don’t get to complain: I’m healthy and I’m happy, overall. None of my worries will really matter in the long run. My thoughts are with my friend and her family. It’s time to stop thinking about myself.

This is just going to be an afterthought to my previous post.

I’ve realised that, although I am a firm believer in doing good, I have very little faith to accompany it. I don’t pray the official way, but I do send thank-yous while looking up. I’m genuinely thankful for whatever good comes my way, but I have no clear idea about who or what sends it to me. I believe in karma, for want of a better word: do good and it will come back to you.

However, sometimes the most fantastic people are met with the most devestating situations. I don’t believe in fate, because I want to believe that we can make a difference by choosing to live our lives a certain way. But if karma fails, such as in the above situation, I need faith so I can keep believing. I don’t have that faith, not really, so I’m at a loss.

I know that suffering can teach us things and can make us better people, but I fail to understand why great people have to suffer. It seems cruel that the decision is made for them, even after they have put so much of their own effort into becoming better. It seems that God should start teaching the people who are sorely lagging behind first, and give the people who are trying on their own the benefit of the doubt a little longer. People who truly believe can find reason in these situations by clinging onto the notion that God knows what’s best, and surely there is a well-thought out plan behind all of it. I can’t quite bridge that gap, and am left with the childish notion that it is all very unfair, which doesn’t get me anywhere.

I’ve often said that the life of the Amish seems like paradise to me. To choose to live a good, honest life, being blessed with ignorance, seems a great way to live. However, having the knowledge of the world I have, I can never go back to the innocence they possess.

I should end this with a great conclusion about which way to go and what to believe, but I haven’t got one. I just have a long list of questions and a stubborn mind to meet the answers.

On a happier note, I’m almost done with the Christmas shopping. It’s a lot of fun to experience a traditional Christmas for once. At home, we decorate a tree and have a nice dinner - that’s pretty much the extent of the tradition. The weather is (usually?) more old-school at home, but other than that, Australia beats the Netherlands in the Christmas stakes. I’m looking forward to Christmas: presents, Christmas cake, Christmas pudding, a traditional dinner (with turkey!). It’s bound to be good!

Although I haven’t resolved my religious questions and doubt that I will anytime soon, I’m sure the Lord and His Offspring won’t mind if I celebrate in their honour.

For some reason, things never go right. No matter how many lovely things may happen, something always screws it up. You can be an honest, hardworking man whose ankle gives way at work one day. You can be called a liar, because of your legit claim the ailment occurred at work. You can be made to jump hoops for all sorts of doctors, only to find that some previously unknown pre-existing anomaly in your ankle, combined with unlawfully heavy work, has caused your swollen ankle. Forget that you had a full medical check before you started the job, twice. It won’t help you keep your job, not after your ailment has been labelled partly pre-existing by a specialist. You can enjoy your night, knowing that by this time tomorrow, you probably won’t be asked to come back to work again.

So much for being an honest, good person. So much for not daring to speak out against unlawful working conditions, because you don’t want to be a bother. So much for just getting the job done. In the end, as it turns out, none of that will help you or keep you safe. It doesn’t make you immune to being treated like a fraud.

I know it’s almost Christmas, but this situation isn’t hallelujah-inspiring in the slightest.