Saturday 18 July

Time: 1742

Brief summary of the last few days: I attended several rather boring orientation sessions at UNSW; walked the course of my classes (I have one class that ends at 1700 and is followed immediately by another class which starts at 1700—a fifteen minutes’ walk across campus! Oh, dear). I acquired a student ID, which I promptly lost—not too surprising when you consider a. that I have walked for about four hours or more every day since Wednesday, so it could be anywhere in this crazy city, and b. since I have no furniture, everything I own is tossed in ever-increasing piles on the floor…it’s probably under my dirty laundry or some bus timetables or something. I did meet a few other students, all international: Sashika from Sri Lanka, Jocelyn from Philadelphia, Anusha from Malaysia, and Rolando from Peru. The ladies and I were going to go out tonight, but plans fell through—not that I minded, because today was a fantastic day!

Actually it started last night, when I walked to the movie theatre and watched HP6. For the first time in a week and a half, I was warm, having bought several pairs of long socks and cheap long-sleeve t-shirts, which I am wearing under a regular t-shirt and a sweatshirt and a coat—the wind off the ocean just goes right through you. Anyway, Tom Felton has grown soooo attractive. And thank goodness I was not the only adult alone in the theatre; I sat near a guy my age by himself, and two other guys who were making up for what were probably feelings of insecurity by being very loud and rambunctious. Movie was great—but I don’t want to spoil anything for those of you who haven’t seen it yet. In the words of Yasmeen, GO SEE IT!

So this morning I left my apartment around 0800, planning to find an Internet café to print out several pages of pre-reading which I owe my first class. After forty-five minutes of walking, I caved and bought a bus ticket to Bondi Junction. I’m really getting to know this place: I had never ridden that particular route before, but I bought the correct ticket and got off at the right stop, no problems. Spent $18 to print 85 pages of reading, walked another forty-five minutes to lunch at a new café, and after eating my Cajun chicken sandwich (actually decently spicy) and rather pressured by the waves of people waiting for a table, I paid quickly and went to the tiny Clovelly beach, where I promptly fell asleep in the grass with my reading on my chest. Woke up way overheated from the bright sun, lorikeets cackling in the trees above me and inquisitive pigeons running in and out between my sneakers. Returning up Clovelly Street—the long street of café’s, bakeries, Blockbuster, and Laundromats right next to me—I stepped into the Green Mango and ordered a coffee and brownie. Then, feeling somewhat tired and meditative, I sat down and started to write the following:

This week has been rather strange, like being in limbo. I suppose I’ll figure this country out eventually, but for now, it’s easy to be frustrated—having no work to do and no one to talk to makes for a rather boring few days. I am writing this from a table on the street by the Green Mango, I tried to sit down inside, but was told the café is closed—it’s 1530 on a Saturday, and here I sit, waiting for my coffee. I order a different type of coffee every time because even Alice couldn’t tell me the difference between a flat white, long black, short long and the god knows how many other types of coffee they have here. I forgot to ask for a spoon, and I am stirring my flat white pathetically with a sugar wrapper. If I continue to spend money this way, I will be impoverished indeed in just few days—but the temptation to stop at the grocery store, the bus ticket seller, the cafes full of beautiful people in designer jeans is too tempting—all I want is a little human contact. This day is one of those where you sweat in the sun, but when you stop moving your fingers clench up. I suppose school will help me settle into a routine, where I will have enough work to do, but for now—

There is where I stopped my rather glum and self-pitying ramble because the waiter, who turned out to be the café owner, stepped outside, touched me gently on the shoulder and handed me a spoon (with which I sheepishly stirred my coffee) then began jabbering with the four guys next to me—who moments before had been having a spirited discussion in Italian. They were comparing the benefits of gluten-free pasta, now, and the evils of white sugar, and I guiltily hid the remains of my brownie under a napkin. I overheard the café owner, who had a strange accent (yeah, stranger than the Aussies, even) offer the men a limoncello, and I asked him, jokingly, if he was giving out free limoncellos. Suddenly I was best friends with Enzo (Vincente), Lukas (Luke), Mikaele (Michael), and Tim (an Australian). They fired rapid inquisitions at me about Connecticut, UNSW, and whether I had plans tonight (yes). They were very nice, Tim in that open Aussie way and the Italians in that slightly creepy but loveable Italian way. They left, and I gathered up my books, when Paul, the café owner, stopped me. “Don’t leave!” he cried, “stay right where you are! I do not have limoncello, but have a glass of wine with me and my friend John, he is just coming! Stay!”

So I stayed. Paul knew everyone who walked by in the street; he greeted them by name and shouted out comments about their families, little inside jokes. John, an Australian, showed up presently and we all had a glass of sauvignon blanc, leaning on the counter in the open air and the last orange rays of the winter sun, and jovially redirecting the inquisitive customers who poked in around the “closed” sign. Paul is a character. He told long, long stories about how he got his restaurant, how he liked Australia, the type of wine we were drinking; John and I discussed freedom of religion. Paul eventually shooed us on our way, he had a date tonight, he said; as I was leaving, he pushed a bag into my hands which turned out to be my supper—a delicious homemade muffin, a little fruit salad, and a ham sandwich on that fabulous fresh-baked bread that is a staple here. What kindness! I walked back to my apartment in the gathering dark, a little sleepy from the wine. What a great Saturday night.