‘My leg has fallen off,’ I told a colleague yesterday when she asked about my activities in the foyer at work. I was seated “reattaching” my prosthetic leg which had come loose.
The connection between my actual leg and my prosthetic relies on a latex sleeve and a bolt. Somehow, the bolt had come loose. Initially puzzled by the difficulty I had in fitting my leg into the prosthetic, it only became clear after I detached my leg and reattached the bolt. Should I call it minor surgery?
Yesterday marked a significant day in my rehabilitation as I embarked on my first ‘training session’ for participating in this year’s ‘Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras’ with the ABC float. While I’ve marched several times previously, this will be my first year with a prosthetic limb.
Is the distance too daunting? How will I tackle the hills? Is it too soon after the amputation to undertake such a physically demanding endeavor? These concerns surfaced when discussing it with my physiotherapist, who, encouragingly, deemed it a realistic goal with some extra gym work to enhance strength and a couple of trial runs.
Waking up yesterday, I wasn’t confident about our initial test run from Hyde Park to the Captain Cook Hotel. The route spans 1.7 km, featuring hills and uneven sections of roadside and footpath. Doubts crept in, but I decided to stick to the plan we had devised. There’s nothing to lose, I concluded.
To my surprise, I completed the parade route in about 30 minutes, maintaining a pace sufficient to keep up with the group and feeling remarkably un-fatigued. It was only when we returned to Taylor Square to catch the bus home that I started to slow down a bit.
Practice march (and waving) for Mardi Gras.
We have a few more test runs scheduled before Mardi Gras, but at the moment, I’m feeling confident in my ability to meet the challenge. The only lingering concern for the night revolves around the possibility of it being too hot and humid on the night.
“I have this feeling we’ve met each other before”, the young woman said to me tonight at Sydney’s 4A Gallery. We had been introduced by my friend Kate at the annual Members Exhibition of the Sydney gallery which specialises in Asian-Australian Art. It’s a gallery which I like very much, and which I support through their Edition Series, and through generous bar “donations” at their regular opening nights. In what was less than six degrees of separation, the young woman and I quickly established we had been to the same “group dinner” in Beijing just over two years ago. She’s an Australian born woman with Chinese parents who had spent the last four years living in Beijing, and who had recently returned to live in Australia, and who actually knows some people I work with. What are the odds?
4a Members Exhibition
I was there visiting Kate who lives and works on-and-off in Beijing. On my final night in town, however, she needed to make a visit to Hong Kong to renew her Visa. Thus, I spent the night with a friend of hers who has lived in China for over twenty years and who works in the arts and a former colleague (and friend) of mine who had previously lived in Beijing, and who just happened to be back in town at the time. What are the odds?
The night started off with a very lovely dinner at a restaurant. Don’t ask me where it was as I don’t remember, not because I was drunk or anything, but because I simply didn’t know my way around Beijing to remember. “There were two tables of people, weren’t there?”, the woman tonight asked, adding “Didn’t you guys end up going to Destination?”, she asked, a reference to one of the better known gay bars or “exotic bars” as they’re known locally in Beijing. “Yes”, I told her, adding we had also ended up in a rather nameless, seedy bar in the middle of nowhere where a group of young women didn’t seem to mind we were gay, showed incredible interest in dancing with us, and generally hanging out. “Blame it on the baijiu“, I told her.
Baijiu? As I wrote at the time…
And so when it was suggested that we purchase a bottle of the Chinese high spirit alcohol, I was a little nervous. “What does the smell and flavour remind you of?’, a friend asked me. “Amyl nitrate”, I replied.
What are the odds, though, of being at the same table as someone two years ago at a restaurant in Beijing, and meeting them again tonight at an art gallery in Sydney? Would that be 23-million-to-one?
I had a lovely surprise at work today, being presented with this autographed copy of the new book by Edmund White, an autobiography.
White had been in to work a few days ago and I’d mentioned to a colleague how much I’d enjoyed A Boy’s Own Story (and after that “The Beautiful Room Is Empty”) as a teenager living in a small country town in Northern NSW.
As the book deals with growing up gay, it was a crucial book to read at the age of sixteen or seventeen. I told my colleague who was about to interview White how important the book was for me, and how I’d read half the book in the local “Angus & Robertson” before I’d summoned up the courage to actually purchase it. I also remember in hindsight, the young man behind the counter telling me how much he’d enjoyed reading the book, and how much I’d also enjoy it, without realising what he was “really saying”.
“He’s outside, tell him”, my colleague urged me. “No, he’s heard this before, he wouldn’t care”. After a little urging, my colleague convinced me to go with him to meet White and to tell him the story of how important his book had been in my life, which, nervously, I did.
And that was it, or so I thought. Until today, when my colleague brought in this signed copy of his latest work.
Receiving this touched me in a number of ways: first, that White (who I admired immensely because of these books) could be bothered to do this. Second, that my colleague thought enough or me to either ask for this, or organise this. Nice stuff.
“Have you ever seen the cover of the Shine album by Frida?”, I said to my friend Andrew this afternoon. As soon as I’d finished asking the question, I instantly recognised the obscurity of the popular cultural reference I’d just asked him to consider. Of course, he replied no, but still laughed when I observed one of the women using a hula-hoop in the dance space at today’s Surry Hills Festival looked just like Frida on the front cover of her 1984 English language solo Cd.
“The one in fluoro pink and green with the funny red hair”, I re-assuringly told him, referring to the cover of one of my favourite Frida CD’s, though regrettably an international chart failure as the follow up to “Something’s Going On”. Even at the time of its release, I remember looking at the cover and thinking she looked a little dated in her choice of fashion, though I never said it out loud amongst other ABBA fans. Well, not so much dated, more just, well… you know… just trying… “too hard”.
Surry Hills Festival
Actually, I thought the girl using the hula-hoop was kind of cool, really standing out in the otherwise large crowd of people who all looked remarkably similar in their slim-hipped jeans, big sun-glasses, and emu-haircuts (yes, I know they’re emos, not emus, but it makes me laugh to call them emus). Those participating in the festival today hardly represented the great level of diversity that I know and love about those who live in Surry Hills.
Nah, it’s a young person’s festival, we realised mid-afternoon as we walked around the park and, aged in our early forties, recognised we were amongst the oldest people there. It’s really the “Surry Hills Festival” in name only. Even thinking back to when the festival was on Crown Street (oh, I am a long-term local), it was ever thus, despite representation from local groups including the Surry Hills Neighbourhood Centre. That said, we had a lot of fun wandering around for a couple of hours, enjoying the sights, and enjoying the sunshine on an otherwise perfect Sydney spring day.
Afterwards we headed over to the Chinatown for an early evening meal, an excellent $15 special at one of my favourite outdoor eating areas, Hingara. Over dinner we continued to watch the world go by, picking out the tourists, the visitors, and the locals. “I think they’re from New Zealand and mum wants to buy an opal”, Andrew observed as we watched a mum, a son, and a step-dad walk into the souvenir shop across the road. We smiled with recognition at the two young gay guys who sat down at the table next to us on their “first date” (or so it seemed), as one asked the other if he would like to “share a fried rice”. We also smiled in recognition was we noticed the two lead actors from Holding The Man walking around looking for something to eat. For just a brief second we both noticed how “in character” they appeared off-stage also. There’s nothing like a few people watching with a good mate on a Saturday afternoon, eh?
I hadn’t planned on going home for Christmas this year. I’d already taken six weeks annual leave this year, and figured it was “my time” to work through, while my colleagues took a break.
But then I got a text message from Michelle, with a photograph of her son Sam, receiving his end of year class certificates, and I started to feel emotional about it all. And then, there was an email from Jetstar with cheap ticket options.
And so, thanks to a combination of cheap tickets, and points from Qantas and Virgin, I booked tickets. I’m flying to Lismore on Christmas Day, and returning to Sydney a few days later. My Christmas Day plans are: wake up, pop in for a church service somewhere, and then head to the Qantas Lounge at Sydney airport for a few hours where, hopefully, there’ll be some lovely treats, ahead of a flight to Ballina/Byron.
In the meantime, here’s a few photographs from the last few days, which have included a lovely catch-up last night with three out of four of those of us involved in Surry Hills & Valleys, a farewell for a work colleague (where we presented him with the book, “The Beautiful Poetry Of Donald Trump”), and the aforementioned nephew’s end of year class certificates. Oh, and my lame-arse attempt at Christmas lights this year.
I’ve just returned home from a terrific week’s holiday on the Mornington Peninsula, south of Melbourne. I feel fully rested, have had some terrific experiences and have almost completely forgotten about work for a while (a major goal),In some respects it was a little like going home to Lismore, starting from the flight down. Not being entirely au fait with the geography of Melbourne, I booked a flight through Jetstar which flies into Avalon Airport. When my friend, Sue, told me “Avalon airport is half way to Geelong”, I thought she was just being dramatic. But no, she’s correct. And arriving there was just like arriving at Lismore airport in many ways.
We stayed at the house of a couple of Sue’s friends, Sue and Richard who were away. The house was at Frankston, overlooking Port Phillip Bay, and it was literally a 10 or 15 second walk from the back door to the beach, as this sunset photograph taken from the backstairs shows. In stark contrast to my life in inner-city Sydney, the house Sue and I were staying in was on a really quiet street, with the only noises we heard being that of the ocean and birdlife.
Consequently, we slept in most days until about 10am (or thereabouts), starting off the day with a bit of mid-morning television and breakfast ahead of some daytime wandering, shopping, eating, touring and visiting galleries.
Mornington Peninsula Sunset. We stayed at the house of a couple of Sue’s friends, Sue and Richard who were away.
The first gallery we visited was that of Marion Rozestky, an artist who specialises in painted pottery. Curiousity got the better of me, and I asked her if she was related to David Rozestky, to which she replied “I’m the mother of the artist”. I thought this was interesting, as the art group I’m part of, Hawkesbury One owns one of David Rozestky’s works. We spoke for a while about her talented children and about her own late interest in developing her artistic skills. “I still can’t draw”, she told us, “and so I guess that’s why I do dots”.
The local regional gallery, the Mornington Peninsula Regional Gallery had a very good exhibition called, Moist, featuring watercolours from the National Gallery. The exhibition featured an eclectic range of works, including Sue’s favourite, a piece called, “Curtis Dancing On E”. There was also an exhibition by Melbourne print-makers, including one called Lesbia Thorpe? “Do you reckon many children are called Lesbia, Sue?” I asked wyrly. “I’ll suggest it to Karen as she’s looking for interesting baby names at the moment”, she replied.
We also visited the McLelland Gallery, which is mostly focussed on sculpture. The garden featured a range of interesting works including some astroturf topiary, what appeared to be a toothbrush/windmill, some large glass mirrored cubes as well as some more traditional sculpture. We both really enjoyed the gallery and believe it would be worth a visit when the weather was better.
Visiting the gallery was the first sign of the local sponsorship of Dame Elisabeth Murdoch who lives closeby. Dame Elisabeth has also contributed to the new Royal Botanic Gardens (Cranbourne) which specialises in Australian plants. Our guide, Sue Galbally, told us the gardens had only recently been planted and that it would probably be two or three years before it comes into its own, since most Australian plants are reasonably fast growers (with the exception of the eucalypts).
Royal Botanic Gardens, Cranbourne
With an emphasis on the importance of water on the Australian continent, the gardens recognise the many different biospheres, and in a very practical sense for gardens provides recommendations about various plants depending on water availability. An especially interesting aspect of the design was the use of computer modelling to help mimic the sound of flowing water in the bush, and the use of rusted steel to create the nearby escarpment. Overall, a very worthwhile experience and we would both recommend a visit.
When we weren’t out and about, we spent a fair bit of time just relaxing, eating, and watching DVDs. We watched loads of DVD’s including “My Fair Lady”, “Prick Up Your Ears”, “Ride On Stranger”, “Primary Colours”, “Frontline”, “To The Manner Born” and “Six Feet Under”. I’m not sure if the final episode of “Six Feet Under” has screened on free to air television here yet, but I have a preview DVD which we watched. It’s interesting. “A bit surreal”, as just about everyone who appears on television seems to say these days.
Mostly, we ate at home. But when we did wander out, we visited a couple of nice places including the “Flinders Bakery” (for lunch), where we enjoyed some yummy pies, as well as “The Baths” (for afternoon tea) at Sorrento, where the coffee and biscuits were good.
I haven’t written much about food on this trip. At the risk of sounding parochial, it’s mostly because most of what I’ve eaten so far has been pretty bloody awful. Put simply, it hasn’t been anywhere near the quality for anywhere near the price of what I can get at home.
Food-wise, I don’t expect much from the Netherlands, Germany, or the UK, and so I’m pinning all of my good food hopes on France. David, are you reading this?
But today, at a fairly ordinary pub here in Prague, I had a fairly decent meal at a fairly decent price. Put simply, it’s pork with a kinda gravy sauce with dumplings. Accompanying the dish was some sour cream and cranberries. A bit like the Swedish meatball sensation of mixing the sweetness of cranberries with the savoury flavour, they were excellent.
For about 125 check crowns ($8 or so Australian) I had a classic Czech dish, Knedliky.
Also today, I spent some time exploring Jewish Prague. There’s a long history of Jewish inhabitancy in Prague, and for a long time they were confined to just one small part of the town. The other remarkable thing you can see inside one of the synaogues is a “war memorial-like” roll of names of people from Prague who died in the holocaust. Thousands and thousands of names. It’s very moving.
One of the consequences of this is an overcrowded graveyard that actually goes a couple of metres in to the air, as graves were piled one upon the other.
The only other thing I’ve done today, aside from a bit of sightseeing, is go for a swim. And that’s where I got an insight into the real Prague. It was strictly as a “no tourist zone” as I negotiated my way for a swim late this afternoon through a group of old women on the counter who spoke absolutely no English at all. As you enter, the baths are divided between male and female, with males directed to the left. Inside, it was all a bit “nude” for a moment (frighteningly so by Australian standards), as I made my way through the change room to the pool. But ah… what a relaxing place. Down by the river. Very nice, and just the way to finish up a fine day.
On the outside, the architecture of the swimming baths had a decidedly “Soviet” feel about it.
Meanwhile back at the hostel there’s a trivia night underway. I’m sitting outside, enjoying the early evening, and listening to a couple of Australians talking to a couple of Swedes.
“Come on and get your fucking shit together”, said the Australian girl just a moment ago, trying to convince the Swedes to come with them on the three-hour organised pub crawl they’ve booked themselves on. Yeah, you guessed it, the Aussies are already pissed BEFORE the pub crawl. Amusingly, the Swedes are telling the Australians a complete load of bullshit about Sweden. Finally, I know… “this is what it’s like to be a fly on the wall…”
PS – Going bush for a couple of days so blog might not be updated until I get to Amsterdam. Will see how I go.
