Tonight was our fair entertainment department's official christmas party held at the Bellini Lounge at the Venetian Casino. Alcohol was provided - (neverending vodka bottles with various forms of accompaniment ranging from cranberry to orange juice).
Having a long day of work ahead of me this must be brief. But basically. Here I am. Tipsy or possibly just exhausted, and feeling the need to record something of how I perceive things at this very moment in time. Truth is readers, it has not been all sunshine and Portuguese food since I have been here. Perhaps that explains the sporadic nature of my posts (or maybe we should stick with laziness for that one?). But I have had my moments of depression here. It's partly the strangeness of the world which is Macau which in its modern context of gambling and debauchery does not appear to have any particular kind of overriding morality. Also, as is often one of the great challenges faced by people living overseas and constantly travelling, you are constantly having to develop new friendships and relationships. Don't get me wrong. This, to me, is one of the absolute joys and attractions of travelling - never knowing who you're going to meet and forming these incredible bonds with new and fascinating people who you might otherwise never have had the opportunity to connect with. But these connections do not always(generally) provide one with the same emotional comfort and support as those which have been forged over any large period ranging from years, to a lifetime. And so comes the hitch. You can be left feeling alone. No matter how many people are around you. Some people travel purely to partake in this particular sensation. Sometimes solitude is bliss. But sometimes it is not. And so the challenge is to learn how to be "self-sufficient". How to know yourself well enough and find enough joy in that that the new interactions do not have to challenge your sense of identity, purpose, or belonging.
Add to everything above the fact that, as the holiday season is wont to do, it can promote a feeling of all-pervading happiness and contenment. If you're with your loved ones it's the happiest time of year full of celebrations and festivity. BUT if you are removed? It's a time for all forms of nostalgia to attack you with a christmas carol softly singing "you're all aloooone this christmas" (in a Bing Crosby imitation), (or otherwise feel free to picture Bridget Jones gorging on a tub of ice cream and miming violently to "Alllll by mysellllllfff"). So what ensues when all this overwhelms the individual??? Crying and eating. And an approximately 10 kg weight gain. But with the breaking down comes a rebuilding. And so now. Day by day, and kilo by kilo, I am discovering resources and learning lessons which will serve me undoubtedly for the rest of my days.
So my tipsy blogster tips for leading a relatively happy life whether at home or as an expatriate in a world such as Macau?
1. Take time to find out who you are, and once you do, never apologise for it.
2. Take strength and joy from your family and friends. No matter where they are in the world. Love!
3. Learn ukulele.
Merry Christmas everybody. And a Happy belated Chanukah!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
xooxoxoxooxox
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Off Days Rock
Just a brief post to record my night so future Miriam does not forget. Today was my off day. Had a ridiculous day of bipolar-fuelled spending at Zhu Hai (which incoincindentally is pronounced, "Jew High"). Highlight of my purchases was a grey hoodie with a batman emblem (king of superheroes) and a gold ring which said "strive". After that I made my way to Macau Cultural Centre via (thankfully) free shuttle bus to watch Roby Lakatos & His Ensemble. The concert was absolutely wonderful and I was furiously writing notes at interval and after the show so I can review it for my new website www.miriamreviewsthings.blogspot.com . I ran into a friend and colleague of mine from the Venetian, a great musician called Oleg. Oleg introduced me to his friend Darryl who plays a traditional Chinese instrument called the Ehru. We waited around for another musician friend of Darryl's, an incredibly sweet girl called Ines who plays the Dulcimer. Ines had approached Roby's cimbalom player after the show to talk to him about the cimbalom and the dulcimer. He let her play his cimbalom and then he came with us and we went to Ines' house and she set up all three of her dulcimers and played for us. She is phenomenal. The cimbalom player had a little hit and even let her have a pair of his cimbalom mallets! Very nice guy. After we dropped him off we went and had delicious food, (I had the best Rose Iced Tea of my life) and we talked for hours. Darryl and Ines are wonderful people, Darryl is from Singapore, Ines is Macanese. They met at Beijing Conservatory of Music where they both studied. Now Darryl plays in the Chinese Traditional Orchestra (which is an orchestra of entirely traditional Chinese instruments playing Chinese music) in Macau. Ines teaches part time for Macau Conservatory (I think?) and also teaches privately. Such wonderful people and there was so much to talk about. I miss having an exchange with musicians. It felt nice not to feel over-the-top or out of place in my enthusiasm for discussing all things musical. That's my favourite part of travelling, those serendipitous moments where you are thrown in the path of wonderful and talented human beings who you can connect with.
Friday, November 19, 2010
"I'm a slave 4u" - A jukebox rants
The canals have been quiet these past few weeks. Quiet days always signal excitement in the form of nothing less than...
Empty Boats
Ahhh the bliss of being able to row your gondola knowing you don't have to sing "Santa Lucia" for the 50 000th time on a bum throat. I can daydream the ride away with occasional pauses to pose, wave and smile, all the while holding my fingers up in the Asian-appropriated "Peace" sign.
((**I am fascinated to discover just how this:
transmogrified into this:**))
Unfortunately, there is a drastic flaw to my idealised empty boad ride. And that is a certain breed of tourist I like to call the Chunga Chanter (pronounced Ch-uh-nga - definition: Cantonese for "sing" or possibly "sing song you stripey-shirted fool"). The Chunga Chanter stands to the side of the canal yelling "CHUNGA, CHUNGA" and usually proceeds to open their mouth and give their own decibel-fuelled rendition of "O Sole Mio", expecting you to then do the same. Usually, when confronted with one of these individuals, I smile sweetly, (for Sofia Lorenzo is not an aggressive soul), and utter the phrase "I no speaka Engleesh" before jamming my foot on the motor - (which propels the gondola forward at approximately the same rate as a motorised boat in a bathtub).
"What's the big deal?" I hear you asking. Surely, I am a singer. That is my job. It is what I am paid to do. You may think, "Miriam, these poor creatures have travelled miles by air and sea to reach the humble gates of The Venetian. They are just reaching out to be entertained and touched by you and your gift of song". And you would have a point.
BUT.
I have my limits reader. And being treated like a human jukebox does not, in my eyes, fall under the category of professional requirement, nor artistic expression. What did we think of the circusmaster yelling "Dance monkey! Dance!", or Pozzo yelling "Think Pig! Think!" ??
Not much I dare say..
Do I walk up to a plumber and say "Plumb! Plumb those pipes!" ?!
I do not.
Because plumbers - as do all professional beings - have their pride and deserve their peace. If I pay a plumber then I expect him to do his job. I give my passengieri (passengers -ie. paying customers) my all. And if someone on the side of the canal makes an effort at conversationalising - getting to know the REAL me (I mean, Sofia...) - and then ever-so-sweetly requests a little ditty? Well, I am not wholly without a heart. I will acquiesce with the utmost enthusiasm. But "Sing! Sing!" without so much as a smile or a please, will not induce me to any kind of melodic serenade, I don't care what language the request is uttered in.
Would it you?
Empty Boats
Ahhh the bliss of being able to row your gondola knowing you don't have to sing "Santa Lucia" for the 50 000th time on a bum throat. I can daydream the ride away with occasional pauses to pose, wave and smile, all the while holding my fingers up in the Asian-appropriated "Peace" sign.
((**I am fascinated to discover just how this:
transmogrified into this:**))
Unfortunately, there is a drastic flaw to my idealised empty boad ride. And that is a certain breed of tourist I like to call the Chunga Chanter (pronounced Ch-uh-nga - definition: Cantonese for "sing" or possibly "sing song you stripey-shirted fool"). The Chunga Chanter stands to the side of the canal yelling "CHUNGA, CHUNGA" and usually proceeds to open their mouth and give their own decibel-fuelled rendition of "O Sole Mio", expecting you to then do the same. Usually, when confronted with one of these individuals, I smile sweetly, (for Sofia Lorenzo is not an aggressive soul), and utter the phrase "I no speaka Engleesh" before jamming my foot on the motor - (which propels the gondola forward at approximately the same rate as a motorised boat in a bathtub).
"What's the big deal?" I hear you asking. Surely, I am a singer. That is my job. It is what I am paid to do. You may think, "Miriam, these poor creatures have travelled miles by air and sea to reach the humble gates of The Venetian. They are just reaching out to be entertained and touched by you and your gift of song". And you would have a point.
BUT.
I have my limits reader. And being treated like a human jukebox does not, in my eyes, fall under the category of professional requirement, nor artistic expression. What did we think of the circusmaster yelling "Dance monkey! Dance!", or Pozzo yelling "Think Pig! Think!" ??
Not much I dare say..
Do I walk up to a plumber and say "Plumb! Plumb those pipes!" ?!
I do not.
Because plumbers - as do all professional beings - have their pride and deserve their peace. If I pay a plumber then I expect him to do his job. I give my passengieri (passengers -ie. paying customers) my all. And if someone on the side of the canal makes an effort at conversationalising - getting to know the REAL me (I mean, Sofia...) - and then ever-so-sweetly requests a little ditty? Well, I am not wholly without a heart. I will acquiesce with the utmost enthusiasm. But "Sing! Sing!" without so much as a smile or a please, will not induce me to any kind of melodic serenade, I don't care what language the request is uttered in.
Would it you?
Saturday, November 6, 2010
A bachelorette's note.
I decided to abandon my conservative ways for a night and go out to do some recon re: what "fun" people do with their nights off here in Macau. Me and some friends went to MGM Hotel where I was determined to dance the night away. Apparently, dancing on an overly full stomach of Indian cuisine is not in the least bit ideal or comfortable, but nonetheless I managed to order enough sangria that not only was my curry discomfort forgotten, but my soft-core feminist tendencies diminished. I did remain aware of the fact that the band playing at Lion's Bar is INCREDIBLE. All I wanted to do was dance like a lunatic, and dance I did. Though it left me remarkably aware of one of Macau's major flaws, which is somewhat akin to Sydney's - The lack of eligible bachelors. I wonder how many young, vibrant, 20-somethings enjoy the prospect of being chatted up by a sleazy, possibly married, 50-something. It's not that I'm being elitist. I'm just being realistic. Unfortunately, pickins are slim in Macau and, as I have observed, many a desirable lady of admirable qualities will find herself settling for what would be a less than appetising offer for romantic involvement in any other environment. What do we do? Macau is a bubble. I can offer no advice to the troubled bachelorette. Follow your instinct. If times get hard I can recommend professional help. Otherwise, I do suggest investing in positive distractions. Ukuleles are wonderful, as are 500-1000 pce jigsaw puzzles.
Stay strong my ladies of Macau (and subsequent ladies of the world),
your time draws near...
xoxo
Stay strong my ladies of Macau (and subsequent ladies of the world),
your time draws near...
xoxo
Monday, October 25, 2010
Namaste, and shukriya for shopping!
For the many of you who expressed your concern as to whether September 11 proved to be a fatal day for me I can now assure you I am alive and well. I can only plead tiredness on behalf of myself and Sofia Lorenzo - who have felt the strain of rowing 7 hours a day, 6 days a week, replete with over-enthusiastic smiling and a culturally questionable Italian accent - for my lack of blogging. But after a series of spiritual awakenings I have resolved to turn over a new leaf, and create a consistency of artistic output in the hope that my readers shall reciprocate in the form of reading it as such and even occasionally responding. I shall start with once a week and see how we all cope. Before I proceed you are probably wondering if my 3rd "strike" of disaster ever befell me. The answer is yes. My camera containing all my photos from my time in Macau - save the first month's worth - was stolen. And no, I had not yet backed them up. So all tales to follow will require imaginative images from yourself. Get creative! Now, read on.
First things first, India. Ahh India - Land of such diverse peoples, colours, sights, and smells as to leave you feeling constantly confused, concussed, and exhilarated. We (the travelling party from The Venetian) arrived in Calcutta late at night, and from the moment we stepped out of the airport every memory I had of India came rushing back to me. The pungent smell that filled the air, combined with the heat and unsupervised street children flocking towards us for money and food at 2am was a shock to the senses for the first 15 seconds. I am convinced that it is in these first 15 seconds you decide whether you are going to love or hate this country. Having lived in Delhi for 4 1/2 months in 2008 my culture shock was shortlived. We boarded the bus and made our way to the Oberoi Hotel which is a stunning old building located right next to "New Market" (the hub of shopping and, as I was to find out, fleecing). Exhausted as I was after our day of travel I couldn't help but indulge in a little ritual I have developed whenever I step into a 5-star hotel room I will be staying in. This basically involves dropping my luggage in the doorway, taking a few awe-struck steps forward as I take in the cleanliness of it all, performing a choreography that looks something like this, before taking a swan-dive onto my perfectly made bed. I was lucky enough to have a balcony which I used (ie. sat on) as often as possible.
The following morning I found myself with the only free day of the week. This was my one chance to purchase presents and requested items for friends and restock on Indian goods lost in the Waks Fire of 2010. I had a mental list which consisted mainly of saris, jewellery, bindis, bangles, and anything else even slightly Indian. I was a woman on a mission. I was ready for whatever lay outside those hotel walls. I indulged in a buffet breakfast to line my stomach and my nerves. I recited my haggling mantra "Don't pay more than half what they ask" and rehearsed the necessary Hindi phrases for when in a marketplace:
"Kitna ka hai?" - How much is it?
and
"Nahi Chahiye" - I don't want it. (Particularly useful when you find yourself being hounded by at least 5 people all trying to sell you the same thing, which may be anything from a foldup laundry basket to a piece of string).
I set out, my pockets lined with cash, confident in my abilities to slot right back in as a street savvy "yes I'm white but don't think you can fool me" expat. It took about 10 minutes for me to realise what a boob I was for thinking such thoughts. There were people everywhere. A constant barrage of bodies moving in all directions at the same frenetic pace - yelling, spitting, hustling, calling out to me, trying to sell me their wares. My brain felt like it was going to explode. In my idealised memories of India I had forgotten this side of it. This was why I've always said India will either make you or break you. I stopped in my tracks and closed my eyes to find that inner "zen" India had bestowed upon me 2 years earlier. I felt a stirring of something and a voice sounding suspiciously like Stephen Fry's told me to breathe and that I was a lily floating on a peaceful pond (or something like that).
Miriam was back on track - (thanks Stephen!). After a few purchases I started to get cocky, convinced my powers of haggling were surely not of this world. It was time to look at saris. One man led me into a shop. I looked at some nice scarfs ("Yes madam, all silk!") of which I purchased several for what was probably quadruple their worth, before sighting a sari that I knew I had to have. After managing to shave 700 rupees of the price it was a cool 3000. Seeing the price tag I was convinced this was a great deal, so without hesitation I added it to my pile. I left the sari shop feeling very satisfied with myself. Until I saw the exact same sari for 800 rupees around the corner. Now this may not sound like much reader. But in my heart of hearts I am still a cultural Jew, and it is just not in my blood to abide this kind of a swindling. But there was nothing to be done. My hoaxman made it very clear no refund or exchange was to be had so I left angry and waving my finger as such as I exclaimed, "Fine, but that's NO way to do business!"
Needless to say the scarfs were not silk....
Ashamed of letting my mother - (the master bargainer) - down, I returned to the hotel and consoled myself by sitting on my lovely balcony for several hours playing my new best friend, Caillie the Ukulele, who I had purchased two weeks earlier in Hong Kong.
The night before we were due to leave Calcutta I returned to New Market for a few last minute purchases and was befriended by a beautiful street kid called Poojah. Poojah was the kind of girl that just emanates charisma and confidence. Despite being 10 years old I could just as easily have imagined her in a business suit heading the meeting of a multinational corporation as there with her ragged clothes, bare feet, and basket of trinkets which she rested comfortably on her hips or head.
Ever since the first street kid I befriended in Delhi, Sahill, I have had immense empathy for these children who are forced to grow up so fast, yet bear their load with such optimism and resilience as would melt Voldemort himself's heart. Knowing that encouraging begging isn't ideal I always offer to buy them food or items they might need, like clothes, school bags etc.
Poojah didn't seem interested in selling me anything and walked along with me at ease, happy for the chance to practice her English. Eventually I enquired as to whether she was hungry. She replied in the negative but intimated that her clothes were very old and were all she had. I then said I would be happy to buy her some new ones. She agreed and firmly took hold of my hand. Basket on hip she led me head-on through oncoming traffic while I closed my eyes and hoped beyond hope I was not about to meet my end at the mercy of a 10-yr old girl who didn't understand what traffic lights are for. Once I felt we were on safe ground I opened my eyes and continued to be led blindly onwards. Eventually we reached our destination. Here I was thinking Poojah with her single pair of pants and t-shirt was after some practical wear for her days and nights of hard work travelling between home, school, and selling in the marketplace. Clearly I misinterpreted. We were standing at a line of stalls which all seemed to stock children's eveningwear. "For festival" was all Poojah said, and started to point at different outfits to be brought down for her appraisal. After having at least half of the stall's contents brought before her she frowned, said "no good", and dragged me along to the next store. This process was repeated several times before she decided there was nothing adequate to be had here. One tricky customer. Next stop was a very large Western style store with Indian and Western clothes. She made a beeline for the Western clothes section and pulled out several pairs of bedazzled jeans and tops. Eventually she decided on a tight, hot-pink, top with diamontes, and some tight-fitting flare jeans. Despite wanting to question the practicality of this outfit I held my tongue as it was her decision. After paying I realised my funds were heavily depleted from my Calcutta spree. I had just resolved to make my way back to the hotel when Poojah said "Ok. Now shoes". "Oh Poojah I actually don't have much money left and have to get back for a meeting..." "It's ok. Won't take long" "Well ok then but I really must be quick, and I don't have much money left..."
We went to a different arcade where she went through the same routine with the shoes. After trying on half of the store Poojah still wasn't satisfied. I was getting restless now with the meeting time drawing near to discuss our schedule for the following day. "Poojah I really need to go". "Ok aunty one more shop". It was crunch time. Apparently the fact that she was not wearing shoes did not hinder Poojah's intrinsic sense of style. She tried on a very swanky pair of black velvet heels and said "Ok aunty these good for me". After enquiring how much I had to embarrassingly say "Poojah I don't have that much, and now I need to go".
She looked disappointed but there was nothing to be done. She walked back with me towards the hotel, looking despondent, and I found myself apologising to her, in spite of my best intentions. I left her feeling slightly depressed that I ended the night saying sorry to a girl I had tried to help, but I realised you can't hold it against someone for wanting more when they can get it. Especially when life is such a struggle. But you can only give what you have and feeling guilty for not being able to give more is not productive.
The rest of the week passed without much event. We visited Hyderabad and Chennai. Our shows went well, and my role as an Indian audience member who turns into a gondolier was a big hit. The food at every destination was mouth-wateringly good and I met far too often with my archnemesis - The Buffet.
The End.
First things first, India. Ahh India - Land of such diverse peoples, colours, sights, and smells as to leave you feeling constantly confused, concussed, and exhilarated. We (the travelling party from The Venetian) arrived in Calcutta late at night, and from the moment we stepped out of the airport every memory I had of India came rushing back to me. The pungent smell that filled the air, combined with the heat and unsupervised street children flocking towards us for money and food at 2am was a shock to the senses for the first 15 seconds. I am convinced that it is in these first 15 seconds you decide whether you are going to love or hate this country. Having lived in Delhi for 4 1/2 months in 2008 my culture shock was shortlived. We boarded the bus and made our way to the Oberoi Hotel which is a stunning old building located right next to "New Market" (the hub of shopping and, as I was to find out, fleecing). Exhausted as I was after our day of travel I couldn't help but indulge in a little ritual I have developed whenever I step into a 5-star hotel room I will be staying in. This basically involves dropping my luggage in the doorway, taking a few awe-struck steps forward as I take in the cleanliness of it all, performing a choreography that looks something like this, before taking a swan-dive onto my perfectly made bed. I was lucky enough to have a balcony which I used (ie. sat on) as often as possible.
The following morning I found myself with the only free day of the week. This was my one chance to purchase presents and requested items for friends and restock on Indian goods lost in the Waks Fire of 2010. I had a mental list which consisted mainly of saris, jewellery, bindis, bangles, and anything else even slightly Indian. I was a woman on a mission. I was ready for whatever lay outside those hotel walls. I indulged in a buffet breakfast to line my stomach and my nerves. I recited my haggling mantra "Don't pay more than half what they ask" and rehearsed the necessary Hindi phrases for when in a marketplace:
"Kitna ka hai?" - How much is it?
and
"Nahi Chahiye" - I don't want it. (Particularly useful when you find yourself being hounded by at least 5 people all trying to sell you the same thing, which may be anything from a foldup laundry basket to a piece of string).
I set out, my pockets lined with cash, confident in my abilities to slot right back in as a street savvy "yes I'm white but don't think you can fool me" expat. It took about 10 minutes for me to realise what a boob I was for thinking such thoughts. There were people everywhere. A constant barrage of bodies moving in all directions at the same frenetic pace - yelling, spitting, hustling, calling out to me, trying to sell me their wares. My brain felt like it was going to explode. In my idealised memories of India I had forgotten this side of it. This was why I've always said India will either make you or break you. I stopped in my tracks and closed my eyes to find that inner "zen" India had bestowed upon me 2 years earlier. I felt a stirring of something and a voice sounding suspiciously like Stephen Fry's told me to breathe and that I was a lily floating on a peaceful pond (or something like that).
Miriam was back on track - (thanks Stephen!). After a few purchases I started to get cocky, convinced my powers of haggling were surely not of this world. It was time to look at saris. One man led me into a shop. I looked at some nice scarfs ("Yes madam, all silk!") of which I purchased several for what was probably quadruple their worth, before sighting a sari that I knew I had to have. After managing to shave 700 rupees of the price it was a cool 3000. Seeing the price tag I was convinced this was a great deal, so without hesitation I added it to my pile. I left the sari shop feeling very satisfied with myself. Until I saw the exact same sari for 800 rupees around the corner. Now this may not sound like much reader. But in my heart of hearts I am still a cultural Jew, and it is just not in my blood to abide this kind of a swindling. But there was nothing to be done. My hoaxman made it very clear no refund or exchange was to be had so I left angry and waving my finger as such as I exclaimed, "Fine, but that's NO way to do business!"
Needless to say the scarfs were not silk....
Ashamed of letting my mother - (the master bargainer) - down, I returned to the hotel and consoled myself by sitting on my lovely balcony for several hours playing my new best friend, Caillie the Ukulele, who I had purchased two weeks earlier in Hong Kong.
The night before we were due to leave Calcutta I returned to New Market for a few last minute purchases and was befriended by a beautiful street kid called Poojah. Poojah was the kind of girl that just emanates charisma and confidence. Despite being 10 years old I could just as easily have imagined her in a business suit heading the meeting of a multinational corporation as there with her ragged clothes, bare feet, and basket of trinkets which she rested comfortably on her hips or head.
Ever since the first street kid I befriended in Delhi, Sahill, I have had immense empathy for these children who are forced to grow up so fast, yet bear their load with such optimism and resilience as would melt Voldemort himself's heart. Knowing that encouraging begging isn't ideal I always offer to buy them food or items they might need, like clothes, school bags etc.
Poojah didn't seem interested in selling me anything and walked along with me at ease, happy for the chance to practice her English. Eventually I enquired as to whether she was hungry. She replied in the negative but intimated that her clothes were very old and were all she had. I then said I would be happy to buy her some new ones. She agreed and firmly took hold of my hand. Basket on hip she led me head-on through oncoming traffic while I closed my eyes and hoped beyond hope I was not about to meet my end at the mercy of a 10-yr old girl who didn't understand what traffic lights are for. Once I felt we were on safe ground I opened my eyes and continued to be led blindly onwards. Eventually we reached our destination. Here I was thinking Poojah with her single pair of pants and t-shirt was after some practical wear for her days and nights of hard work travelling between home, school, and selling in the marketplace. Clearly I misinterpreted. We were standing at a line of stalls which all seemed to stock children's eveningwear. "For festival" was all Poojah said, and started to point at different outfits to be brought down for her appraisal. After having at least half of the stall's contents brought before her she frowned, said "no good", and dragged me along to the next store. This process was repeated several times before she decided there was nothing adequate to be had here. One tricky customer. Next stop was a very large Western style store with Indian and Western clothes. She made a beeline for the Western clothes section and pulled out several pairs of bedazzled jeans and tops. Eventually she decided on a tight, hot-pink, top with diamontes, and some tight-fitting flare jeans. Despite wanting to question the practicality of this outfit I held my tongue as it was her decision. After paying I realised my funds were heavily depleted from my Calcutta spree. I had just resolved to make my way back to the hotel when Poojah said "Ok. Now shoes". "Oh Poojah I actually don't have much money left and have to get back for a meeting..." "It's ok. Won't take long" "Well ok then but I really must be quick, and I don't have much money left..."
We went to a different arcade where she went through the same routine with the shoes. After trying on half of the store Poojah still wasn't satisfied. I was getting restless now with the meeting time drawing near to discuss our schedule for the following day. "Poojah I really need to go". "Ok aunty one more shop". It was crunch time. Apparently the fact that she was not wearing shoes did not hinder Poojah's intrinsic sense of style. She tried on a very swanky pair of black velvet heels and said "Ok aunty these good for me". After enquiring how much I had to embarrassingly say "Poojah I don't have that much, and now I need to go".
She looked disappointed but there was nothing to be done. She walked back with me towards the hotel, looking despondent, and I found myself apologising to her, in spite of my best intentions. I left her feeling slightly depressed that I ended the night saying sorry to a girl I had tried to help, but I realised you can't hold it against someone for wanting more when they can get it. Especially when life is such a struggle. But you can only give what you have and feeling guilty for not being able to give more is not productive.
The rest of the week passed without much event. We visited Hyderabad and Chennai. Our shows went well, and my role as an Indian audience member who turns into a gondolier was a big hit. The food at every destination was mouth-wateringly good and I met far too often with my archnemesis - The Buffet.
The End.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Crash and buuuuurn: Part Two
In the aftermath of the fire I was slightly on edge - mostly due to the fact that people's consistent response to my tale of woe was, "Watch out, you know these things come in 3's".
Thankful to have such brutal honesty from my loved ones I opted to protect myself from the "Rule of 3" by any means possible. This required a change of attire...
(This would be funnier if my face was photoshopped in but I lack the resources and ability to make this a reality).
Armored and ready to roll I went about living my life as per usual, determined that no more bad luck would befall me or my loved ones. Exactly one week had gone by and I was positive the worst was behind me. Until I received 3 terrible omens that promised more was yet to come....
Missed calls from Shifra.
Beads of sweat formed on my brow and my hands shook as I dialled her number. She answered promptly and this was what followed:
"Shifra?? I have missed calls from you. What's happened now?"
"Dad crashed your car."
"Hahahahahahahaha, GOOD ONE! But seriously, what happened?"
"Dad crashed your car. It's a write-off. Look Miriam he was really stressed ok so don't be a bitch" (or something like that).
Bless my sister for her unrivalled powers of sensitivity in the face of disaster after disaster.
But perhaps due to her frank and unsympathetic delivery (or perhaps in spite of it) I hung up the phone feeling strangely numb. It was happening.
Two down, one to go.
(I should add that my family were in the car at the time of accident and thankfully no-one was badly injured).
My mother also had the temerity to inform me that a whole box of my books had been salvaged from the charred remains of my possessions. And what book do you think was top of the pile? Fire with Fire - by Naomi Wolf.
If I believed in god I'd say he is most definitely laughing at me.
I do not want to alarm you dear readers, when I confess that this Saturday I am departing for India for a one-week roadshow representing the Entertainment Department of the Venetian. (Bless my linguistical ability to say "Hi! How are you? Where are you from?" in Hindi).
This Saturday which commemorates the 2-week anniversary of the Waks Fire and the one-week anniversary of losing my beloved car, I board a plane for a foreign country.
This Saturday.
September 11.
Omen much?
Let us take a moment, to commemorate the loss of my dear, green, giant, guzzling, reliable, Mitsubish Magna, that my even dearer brother bestowed upon me, along with my silver bubble scoop backed space suit that even Lady Gaga would have had to call "cool" that never got to see the light of day.
I know not when I will write again. But let us hope that the rule of 3 does not exist and that I am not about to be smote down for my blasmephous bloggings.
Arrivederci, namaste, and guten nacht!
Thankful to have such brutal honesty from my loved ones I opted to protect myself from the "Rule of 3" by any means possible. This required a change of attire...
(This would be funnier if my face was photoshopped in but I lack the resources and ability to make this a reality).
Armored and ready to roll I went about living my life as per usual, determined that no more bad luck would befall me or my loved ones. Exactly one week had gone by and I was positive the worst was behind me. Until I received 3 terrible omens that promised more was yet to come....
Missed calls from Shifra.
Beads of sweat formed on my brow and my hands shook as I dialled her number. She answered promptly and this was what followed:
"Shifra?? I have missed calls from you. What's happened now?"
"Dad crashed your car."
"Hahahahahahahaha, GOOD ONE! But seriously, what happened?"
"Dad crashed your car. It's a write-off. Look Miriam he was really stressed ok so don't be a bitch" (or something like that).
Bless my sister for her unrivalled powers of sensitivity in the face of disaster after disaster.
But perhaps due to her frank and unsympathetic delivery (or perhaps in spite of it) I hung up the phone feeling strangely numb. It was happening.
Two down, one to go.
(I should add that my family were in the car at the time of accident and thankfully no-one was badly injured).
My mother also had the temerity to inform me that a whole box of my books had been salvaged from the charred remains of my possessions. And what book do you think was top of the pile? Fire with Fire - by Naomi Wolf.
If I believed in god I'd say he is most definitely laughing at me.
I do not want to alarm you dear readers, when I confess that this Saturday I am departing for India for a one-week roadshow representing the Entertainment Department of the Venetian. (Bless my linguistical ability to say "Hi! How are you? Where are you from?" in Hindi).
This Saturday which commemorates the 2-week anniversary of the Waks Fire and the one-week anniversary of losing my beloved car, I board a plane for a foreign country.
This Saturday.
September 11.
Omen much?
Let us take a moment, to commemorate the loss of my dear, green, giant, guzzling, reliable, Mitsubish Magna, that my even dearer brother bestowed upon me, along with my silver bubble scoop backed space suit that even Lady Gaga would have had to call "cool" that never got to see the light of day.
I know not when I will write again. But let us hope that the rule of 3 does not exist and that I am not about to be smote down for my blasmephous bloggings.
Arrivederci, namaste, and guten nacht!
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Burnt out.
I know. I know. It has been so long since I last wrote here that the 6 of you have no doubt discovered blogs that are not only more eloquently written, but are updated more frequently than an annual report. And so it is with great regret that this rare occasion has to be tarnished by the fact I am writing my first sad entry. Don't worry, I'm not about to dye my hair green and recite greenday lyrics. But rest unassured the following memoirs contain nothing less than deep-seated tragedy.
It all began yesterday morning when I awoke to discover 4 missed calls from my beloved sister. This in itself was quite a shock as she is a tightass and rarely spends her credit on anyone. In addition, I had a concerned text message from a close friend inquiring after the safety of my family. Alarm bells sounded and so I rang every number I had for my immediate relatives.
Eventually I was greeted by the sound of my sweet father who proceeded to deliver one of the top 5 least favourite sentences you ever want to hear....
"There's been a fire"
(The other 4 in no particular order are:)
- There's been an accident.
- I'm so sorry but your entire family has been killed by a psychotic, axe-weilding neo-nazi.
- Hey, how come when I google you all that comes up is "Erotic home video"??
- We need to talk.
After assuring me everyone was ok I braced myself to ask the question I didn't want to ask.
"What about my stuff?"
See, when I came to Macau I knew it would not be ideal to bring all my worldly possessions with me. Mainly because I had a vast deal of worldly possessions. Lots and lots of stuff. And so it was all packed away and shoved onto the already bulging mounds in my mother's store room which also contained - among other things - crap, junk, approximately 10,000 boxes of tea, and a harp. Unfortunate then that the blaze which took 70 firefighters, 14 fire engines, and 8 hours to extinguish was to originate in the very same room.
Mum decided to start with the positives.
"Well, your sheet music is ok. And all your performance dresses are alright. Because they were all upstairs..."
"And what about everything else? What about my cds mum? WHAT ABOUT MY CDS?!??!?!?"
"Ummm, well I don't really know if any of them survived. I think cds melt in fire, so, most likely they've all melted..."
For those of you who don't know me, a little personal history. My mother is a chronic hoarder. Her cousin stated she has "poor girl syndrome" except for the fact she isn't poor. When I had nightmares as a child they usually culminated with Ray Martin from A Current Affair knocking on our door to take my mother away after exposing her and her little "problem". Assuming this illness is genetic I would say I inherited a weaker strain. I prefer to call it "collecting". I collect things. And over my 22 years I have "collected" many different things. CDs being my biggest passion I had at least 1000 (spanning a wonderful array of genres and styles and all in alphabetical order according to male/female vocalists, styles/countries/compilations). There were also - books (the most precious of which was a leather-bound, gold-gilted edition of Mary Wollstonecraft's "A Vindication on the Rights of Women"); clothes; SHOES; jewellery (costume and some of my grandmother's); and dvds.
So back to the conversation.
"So aside from the cds, what else?"
"Well the store room's been destroyed along with everything in it"
"So what your saying is that it's all gone?"
"Yes. If it's any consolation I lost all my tea..."
I didn't really react. After all, it's only material possessions. Instead I put my itunes on shuffle and sat quite still. Itunes sensed something was up and played the following - whether to taunt me or to add some lightness to the situation, only itunes can answer that...
1. Disco inferno 10:22 The Tramps Disco Inferno Disco
2. Fire 2:45 The Jimi Hendrix Experience Are You Experienced? Rock
3. Serpentine Fire 3:52 Earth Wind & Fire The Great Earth, Wind & Fire R&B
4. Firestarter 4:42 The Prodigy The Fat Of The Land Electronica/Dance
5. Ring of Fire 3:59 Grace Jones Private Life - The Compass Point Sessions
6. Fire Island 3:28 The Village People The Best Of Village People Pop
7. Slow Dancing In A Burning Room 4:02 John Mayer Continuum Rock
8. Burn For You 3:32 John Farnham Anthology: Greatest Hits 1986-1997 Pop
I have decided, after serious consideration, that I am ok with this major loss. Or that I have to be. It may be a blessing in disguise. A chance to purge myself of my external and thus internal clutter. Who knows what the future holds for me? After Macau I may pack my swag and hold out my thumb and take the quickest route to Mexico. Or alternately I may decide to adopt a camel, name him 'Lance' (very close to being an anagram of "camel"), and join a caravan of nomads making their way across the Sahara. I only wonder what that would do for my blogging prolificacy...
Me :
My new home:
It all began yesterday morning when I awoke to discover 4 missed calls from my beloved sister. This in itself was quite a shock as she is a tightass and rarely spends her credit on anyone. In addition, I had a concerned text message from a close friend inquiring after the safety of my family. Alarm bells sounded and so I rang every number I had for my immediate relatives.
Eventually I was greeted by the sound of my sweet father who proceeded to deliver one of the top 5 least favourite sentences you ever want to hear....
"There's been a fire"
(The other 4 in no particular order are:)
- There's been an accident.
- I'm so sorry but your entire family has been killed by a psychotic, axe-weilding neo-nazi.
- Hey, how come when I google you all that comes up is "Erotic home video"??
- We need to talk.
After assuring me everyone was ok I braced myself to ask the question I didn't want to ask.
"What about my stuff?"
See, when I came to Macau I knew it would not be ideal to bring all my worldly possessions with me. Mainly because I had a vast deal of worldly possessions. Lots and lots of stuff. And so it was all packed away and shoved onto the already bulging mounds in my mother's store room which also contained - among other things - crap, junk, approximately 10,000 boxes of tea, and a harp. Unfortunate then that the blaze which took 70 firefighters, 14 fire engines, and 8 hours to extinguish was to originate in the very same room.
Mum decided to start with the positives.
"Well, your sheet music is ok. And all your performance dresses are alright. Because they were all upstairs..."
"And what about everything else? What about my cds mum? WHAT ABOUT MY CDS?!??!?!?"
"Ummm, well I don't really know if any of them survived. I think cds melt in fire, so, most likely they've all melted..."
For those of you who don't know me, a little personal history. My mother is a chronic hoarder. Her cousin stated she has "poor girl syndrome" except for the fact she isn't poor. When I had nightmares as a child they usually culminated with Ray Martin from A Current Affair knocking on our door to take my mother away after exposing her and her little "problem". Assuming this illness is genetic I would say I inherited a weaker strain. I prefer to call it "collecting". I collect things. And over my 22 years I have "collected" many different things. CDs being my biggest passion I had at least 1000 (spanning a wonderful array of genres and styles and all in alphabetical order according to male/female vocalists, styles/countries/compilations). There were also - books (the most precious of which was a leather-bound, gold-gilted edition of Mary Wollstonecraft's "A Vindication on the Rights of Women"); clothes; SHOES; jewellery (costume and some of my grandmother's); and dvds.
So back to the conversation.
"So aside from the cds, what else?"
"Well the store room's been destroyed along with everything in it"
"So what your saying is that it's all gone?"
"Yes. If it's any consolation I lost all my tea..."
I didn't really react. After all, it's only material possessions. Instead I put my itunes on shuffle and sat quite still. Itunes sensed something was up and played the following - whether to taunt me or to add some lightness to the situation, only itunes can answer that...
1. Disco inferno 10:22 The Tramps Disco Inferno Disco
2. Fire 2:45 The Jimi Hendrix Experience Are You Experienced? Rock
3. Serpentine Fire 3:52 Earth Wind & Fire The Great Earth, Wind & Fire R&B
4. Firestarter 4:42 The Prodigy The Fat Of The Land Electronica/Dance
5. Ring of Fire 3:59 Grace Jones Private Life - The Compass Point Sessions
6. Fire Island 3:28 The Village People The Best Of Village People Pop
7. Slow Dancing In A Burning Room 4:02 John Mayer Continuum Rock
8. Burn For You 3:32 John Farnham Anthology: Greatest Hits 1986-1997 Pop
I have decided, after serious consideration, that I am ok with this major loss. Or that I have to be. It may be a blessing in disguise. A chance to purge myself of my external and thus internal clutter. Who knows what the future holds for me? After Macau I may pack my swag and hold out my thumb and take the quickest route to Mexico. Or alternately I may decide to adopt a camel, name him 'Lance' (very close to being an anagram of "camel"), and join a caravan of nomads making their way across the Sahara. I only wonder what that would do for my blogging prolificacy...
Me :
My new home:
Monday, July 19, 2010
Miriam Goes On A Date - A Food Review
My beloved readers.
The pages below have contained tales of madness, international intrigue, horror, and feats of physical strength. But there is one subject on which I have yet to relate any such narratives - namely because none had yet to occur.
Until now.
I speak of no other than the ubiquitous, universally celebrated, Shakespearean-venerated, Mills & Boon-decimated:
Romance.
Those who are familiar with my romantic history will know that it is about as extensive as a blind man's book collection**. This being the case, I had not fathomed the possiblity of meeting anyone who could even momentarily distract me from my heart's first and truest love:
Food.
This made it all the more surprising when one evening after completing my final jazz set at The View I became acquainted with a lovely gentleman. A conversation was begun with the sir in question and his good friend, and once I deemed neither of them to be Australian I decided I would be happy to know them further. Phone numbers were exchanged, and before I knew it arrangements had been made for me to dine with the former at a well-reputed Portuguese restaurant I was not just a little eager to sup at.
Being a proud mix of Serbo-Judeo-Australian heritage I consider it a duty to carry on the proud multicultural legacy bequeathed to me by my ancestors. And what better way to forge cross-cultural ties which may promote an inspirational and positive message of international peace then by dating an American??
And so, the following evening, with a heart full of national pride, and a stomach full of longing, I met with my newfound confederate, Steve. After my theory 'if you stand in any one spot in Macau for at least 5 minutes a taxi will appear' was disproved we eventually hailed a cab and requested to be taken to "Fernando's" (yes, like the ABBA song), Hac San Beach, Coloane. 15 minutes later we had arrived and as we made our way inside, received some startling news.
"Um, the kitchen is closing in 5 minutes... If you hurry you can order".
It was time for Steve to see a hungry, soft-core feminist, take control. Acquiring a menu via osmosis I forcefully turned the large laminated pages, pointing randomly to anything that looked appetising.
"We'll have that, that, that, aaaaand, that".
The waitress looked quizzically at Steve who was sitting meekly behind the red and white checkered tablecloth.
"Oh", I said, "is that ok with you?"
Steve managed a soft "Fine by me" before ordering a coke.
The dishes soon after arrived and woe! but had I the words to describe what wondrous delights were to be sampled on that small wooden table. Is there a sonnet which would do justice to the garlic butter clams? or a KFC which could compete with the Portuguese chicken?? Or an Eastern-European (aside from my father) who could stew such pork and beans???
Yes, I was in a heaven of sorts, buoyed up in rapturous culinary delight (and the conversation was quite nice too). How much time passed I know not but I began to feel a certain uneasiness which I couldn't quite put my sauce-covered finger on until I realised Steve had ceased mastication some time ago.
"Why have you stopped eating??? (!)"
"I'm kinda full"
"...................
full?"
"Yeah. You know? When you eat enough food and you don't want anymore??"
(Apprehension dawned on my face) "Ohhhhhh, full."
"Sorry is it bothering you?"
I couldn't say it was, but at this point I did notice that in my urgency to get us fed I had ordered approximately enough food to feed ten starving children - or my father before he began dieting.
Fernandos was closing and I had to think fast. There was only one option.
"Excuse me? Do you doggy-bag??"
In my eagerness to salvage the remaining leftovers I forgot our plan to take a romantic stroll along Hac San Beach after dinner. Armed with sandals in one hand and
giant plastic bag in the other, our late-night sojourn began. Smells of the salt water wafted towards us, but were soon overpowered by the powerful aroma of garlic which emanated from my leftovers. This discomfort was nothing compared to the funny feeling I was getting that Hac San "Beach" was not so much a beach as a strip of dirt by the sea, and that I was walking not on soft, delicate sand, but rough, brown dirt and possibly a little sewerage. After a few close encounters with some small but terrifying crabs - "You didn't grow up around the outdoors did you?" - we deemed it wisest to return to the comfort of an ever-elusive Macanese taxi.
I know what you're all thinking - "Miriam why don't you change your name to Casa Novice and start your own dating and relationship advice blog?" No no friends, the gift of seduction is something inherent. A gift from nature. I wish I knew how to pass it on to you all but it appears to be something each must find within him or herself.
I leave you with some food for thought - musings from those wise philoso-poppers and experts on romance...
Björn Ulvaeus and Benny Andersson.
"Can you hear the drums Fernando?? In my dreams I have a plan, If I got me a wealthy man... Gimme gimme gimme!"
**braille and audio-books excluded
The pages below have contained tales of madness, international intrigue, horror, and feats of physical strength. But there is one subject on which I have yet to relate any such narratives - namely because none had yet to occur.
Until now.
I speak of no other than the ubiquitous, universally celebrated, Shakespearean-venerated, Mills & Boon-decimated:
Romance.
Those who are familiar with my romantic history will know that it is about as extensive as a blind man's book collection**. This being the case, I had not fathomed the possiblity of meeting anyone who could even momentarily distract me from my heart's first and truest love:
Food.
This made it all the more surprising when one evening after completing my final jazz set at The View I became acquainted with a lovely gentleman. A conversation was begun with the sir in question and his good friend, and once I deemed neither of them to be Australian I decided I would be happy to know them further. Phone numbers were exchanged, and before I knew it arrangements had been made for me to dine with the former at a well-reputed Portuguese restaurant I was not just a little eager to sup at.
Being a proud mix of Serbo-Judeo-Australian heritage I consider it a duty to carry on the proud multicultural legacy bequeathed to me by my ancestors. And what better way to forge cross-cultural ties which may promote an inspirational and positive message of international peace then by dating an American??
And so, the following evening, with a heart full of national pride, and a stomach full of longing, I met with my newfound confederate, Steve. After my theory 'if you stand in any one spot in Macau for at least 5 minutes a taxi will appear' was disproved we eventually hailed a cab and requested to be taken to "Fernando's" (yes, like the ABBA song), Hac San Beach, Coloane. 15 minutes later we had arrived and as we made our way inside, received some startling news.
"Um, the kitchen is closing in 5 minutes... If you hurry you can order".
It was time for Steve to see a hungry, soft-core feminist, take control. Acquiring a menu via osmosis I forcefully turned the large laminated pages, pointing randomly to anything that looked appetising.
"We'll have that, that, that, aaaaand, that".
The waitress looked quizzically at Steve who was sitting meekly behind the red and white checkered tablecloth.
"Oh", I said, "is that ok with you?"
Steve managed a soft "Fine by me" before ordering a coke.
The dishes soon after arrived and woe! but had I the words to describe what wondrous delights were to be sampled on that small wooden table. Is there a sonnet which would do justice to the garlic butter clams? or a KFC which could compete with the Portuguese chicken?? Or an Eastern-European (aside from my father) who could stew such pork and beans???
Yes, I was in a heaven of sorts, buoyed up in rapturous culinary delight (and the conversation was quite nice too). How much time passed I know not but I began to feel a certain uneasiness which I couldn't quite put my sauce-covered finger on until I realised Steve had ceased mastication some time ago.
"Why have you stopped eating??? (!)"
"I'm kinda full"
"...................
full?"
"Yeah. You know? When you eat enough food and you don't want anymore??"
(Apprehension dawned on my face) "Ohhhhhh, full."
"Sorry is it bothering you?"
I couldn't say it was, but at this point I did notice that in my urgency to get us fed I had ordered approximately enough food to feed ten starving children - or my father before he began dieting.
Fernandos was closing and I had to think fast. There was only one option.
"Excuse me? Do you doggy-bag??"
In my eagerness to salvage the remaining leftovers I forgot our plan to take a romantic stroll along Hac San Beach after dinner. Armed with sandals in one hand and
giant plastic bag in the other, our late-night sojourn began. Smells of the salt water wafted towards us, but were soon overpowered by the powerful aroma of garlic which emanated from my leftovers. This discomfort was nothing compared to the funny feeling I was getting that Hac San "Beach" was not so much a beach as a strip of dirt by the sea, and that I was walking not on soft, delicate sand, but rough, brown dirt and possibly a little sewerage. After a few close encounters with some small but terrifying crabs - "You didn't grow up around the outdoors did you?" - we deemed it wisest to return to the comfort of an ever-elusive Macanese taxi.
I know what you're all thinking - "Miriam why don't you change your name to Casa Novice and start your own dating and relationship advice blog?" No no friends, the gift of seduction is something inherent. A gift from nature. I wish I knew how to pass it on to you all but it appears to be something each must find within him or herself.
I leave you with some food for thought - musings from those wise philoso-poppers and experts on romance...
Björn Ulvaeus and Benny Andersson.
"Can you hear the drums Fernando?? In my dreams I have a plan, If I got me a wealthy man... Gimme gimme gimme!"
**braille and audio-books excluded
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Waks gets Waxed - A horror story
It had been some number of weeks since I had arrived in Macau. I noticed that in the frenzied period leading up to my flight I had managed to neglect the maintenance of my ever sacred leg hair. Being a soft-core feminist this would not usually phase me. But, seeing as the temperature ranges from "Hot" to "Hotter" to "Humid & Hot" to "I can't even sit in my non-airconditioned bathroom without breaking out in a heavy sweat" and the fact that my new co-workers and friends might not be comfortable with me as evolution made me, I decided it would not be in my best interests to deprive myself of the opportunity to wear short-shorts, skirts, and dresses on every possible occasion on-and-off the stage. There was only one solution.
Get a leg wax.
Armed with an hour and a half before I was due to start work I determined to venture through the foreign streets of Taipa in search of a beautician who could assist me in my task. I plodded along with my furry friends - left, right, left, right - and unsuccesfully tried at least 3 places that only offered laser removal. I was not particularly in the mood for being repeatedly zapped in my follicles and was nearing a point of desperation when I happened upon a quaint beauty salon next to a San Miu (chain) supermarket. "This looks professional", I thought, and so I walked up to the counter and asked if they did leg waxes. After several attempts at trying to communicate to them the act of ripping off my leg hair they seemed to understand my request. After several further moments spent deliberating among themselves with doubtful looks on their faces they started nodding their heads enthusiastically and beckoned me into one of their rooms. I lay upon the massage table looking calmly up at the ceiling which had fake green leaves thoughtfully placed across it. There was music playing softly in the background which, thanks to my discerning musical ear, I recognised to be Enya.
Looking back, the warning signs were all there...
The sweet Chinese beautician entered the room armed with what looked like a jar of honey. "Mmmm honey.." I thought. It wasn't until she unscrewed the lid and started dipping the wax applicator in the jar that anything seemed amiss.
(Before I continue, for anyone who does not have previous leg wax experience/knowledge a leg wax procedure usually requires some basic things.
Ingredients for Successful Leg Wax:
- Hot wax
- Strips of material to apply to hot wax
Hot wax is applied to a specific hairea and then a strip is applied on top and consequently ripped off, removing said hair. It is all rather simple and when done by a professional person, a full leg and bikini wax need take no more time than 30-45minutes.)
So there I was, watching with a sense of bemusement mixed with anxiety as my sweet waxer struggled to dig the cold wax out of the jar with her applicator (which I could now see was a butter knife). My instincts screamed "RUN" but my politeness and whorish commitment to seeing through any experience in the hope of a story kept me there.
After successfully retrieving enough cold wax for one leg application she proceeded to spend the next 5 minutes inspecting my legs, presumably looking for hair. I tried to point out that it was everywhere but the language barrier meant my words fell like a tree in a Confuscist forest. Eventually she selected an appropriate area of leg and proceeded to spend an additional 5 minutes delicately basting a rectangular area no bigger than a matchbox. With the wax being cold this action alone was both painful for me, and arduous for her. I tried to tell her that with her upper body strength she should think about a career in gondoliering but once again my recommendations fell on deaf ears. After being submitted to several gruelling sessions of this unique brand of beauty therapy my patience was starting to waver. I realised if I let her continue, not only might I lose the feeling in both my legs, but I may also be late to work. Being a consummate professional this was not an option. So I made it very clear I had to leave in a matter of minutes. It had been a full hour and when I looked down all I could see was from the knees onwards, patches of hair and baldness. Sensing my disappointment, the "beautician" made one last effort to satisfy her customer by evening out the patchiness on my right leg. Being out of strips she resorted to using a sheet of A4 paper, which in retrospect is probably what all the strips were.
My anger was palpable but there was nothing to be done. So I paid my money and satisfied myself with not saying thank you as I exited the place.
THE END
Get a leg wax.
Armed with an hour and a half before I was due to start work I determined to venture through the foreign streets of Taipa in search of a beautician who could assist me in my task. I plodded along with my furry friends - left, right, left, right - and unsuccesfully tried at least 3 places that only offered laser removal. I was not particularly in the mood for being repeatedly zapped in my follicles and was nearing a point of desperation when I happened upon a quaint beauty salon next to a San Miu (chain) supermarket. "This looks professional", I thought, and so I walked up to the counter and asked if they did leg waxes. After several attempts at trying to communicate to them the act of ripping off my leg hair they seemed to understand my request. After several further moments spent deliberating among themselves with doubtful looks on their faces they started nodding their heads enthusiastically and beckoned me into one of their rooms. I lay upon the massage table looking calmly up at the ceiling which had fake green leaves thoughtfully placed across it. There was music playing softly in the background which, thanks to my discerning musical ear, I recognised to be Enya.
Looking back, the warning signs were all there...
The sweet Chinese beautician entered the room armed with what looked like a jar of honey. "Mmmm honey.." I thought. It wasn't until she unscrewed the lid and started dipping the wax applicator in the jar that anything seemed amiss.
(Before I continue, for anyone who does not have previous leg wax experience/knowledge a leg wax procedure usually requires some basic things.
Ingredients for Successful Leg Wax:
- Hot wax
- Strips of material to apply to hot wax
Hot wax is applied to a specific hairea and then a strip is applied on top and consequently ripped off, removing said hair. It is all rather simple and when done by a professional person, a full leg and bikini wax need take no more time than 30-45minutes.)
So there I was, watching with a sense of bemusement mixed with anxiety as my sweet waxer struggled to dig the cold wax out of the jar with her applicator (which I could now see was a butter knife). My instincts screamed "RUN" but my politeness and whorish commitment to seeing through any experience in the hope of a story kept me there.
After successfully retrieving enough cold wax for one leg application she proceeded to spend the next 5 minutes inspecting my legs, presumably looking for hair. I tried to point out that it was everywhere but the language barrier meant my words fell like a tree in a Confuscist forest. Eventually she selected an appropriate area of leg and proceeded to spend an additional 5 minutes delicately basting a rectangular area no bigger than a matchbox. With the wax being cold this action alone was both painful for me, and arduous for her. I tried to tell her that with her upper body strength she should think about a career in gondoliering but once again my recommendations fell on deaf ears. After being submitted to several gruelling sessions of this unique brand of beauty therapy my patience was starting to waver. I realised if I let her continue, not only might I lose the feeling in both my legs, but I may also be late to work. Being a consummate professional this was not an option. So I made it very clear I had to leave in a matter of minutes. It had been a full hour and when I looked down all I could see was from the knees onwards, patches of hair and baldness. Sensing my disappointment, the "beautician" made one last effort to satisfy her customer by evening out the patchiness on my right leg. Being out of strips she resorted to using a sheet of A4 paper, which in retrospect is probably what all the strips were.
My anger was palpable but there was nothing to be done. So I paid my money and satisfied myself with not saying thank you as I exited the place.
THE END
Monday, July 5, 2010
Macau: A geography lesson**
**DISCLAIMER - Information provided is likely to be full of factual inaccuracies. Not to be used by any type of student in lieu of Board of Studies approved texts**
Dear secret public online journal,
I would like to take an opportunity to describe the characteristics of my new home. Macau consists of 3 islands - Macau, Taipa, and Coloane (See diagram below).
Macau was colonised by the Portuguese in the 16th Century and a stroll through the old parts of Taipa and Macau reveal lovely cobbled streets with twists and turns and every type of cuisine on offer ("every" being so far as I can find, Portuguese, Taiwanese, Macanese, Chinese, Italian, Indian). These cobbled streets have also led me to discover a newfound passion for lampposts, which are consistently placed along the roads. (See below for further visual aids).
Macau as a whole is extremely clean and it is not unusual to sight any number of council workers suffering the heat as they sweep away the litter of capitalism and dead leaves. The air is heavy with heat and humidity, even when it torrents rain. There are a number of lovely parks to discover and they all have heavy duty outdoor gym equipment (see below).
A number of parks also contain pebbled paths reminiscent of 'the yellow brick road' in The Wizard Of Oz (sb). It appears to be customary for extremely elderly Chinese people to walk very very slowly down this path armed with nothing but socks and a concentration matched only by computer game nerds and professional poker players.
Dear secret public online journal,
I would like to take an opportunity to describe the characteristics of my new home. Macau consists of 3 islands - Macau, Taipa, and Coloane (See diagram below).
Macau was colonised by the Portuguese in the 16th Century and a stroll through the old parts of Taipa and Macau reveal lovely cobbled streets with twists and turns and every type of cuisine on offer ("every" being so far as I can find, Portuguese, Taiwanese, Macanese, Chinese, Italian, Indian). These cobbled streets have also led me to discover a newfound passion for lampposts, which are consistently placed along the roads. (See below for further visual aids).
Macau as a whole is extremely clean and it is not unusual to sight any number of council workers suffering the heat as they sweep away the litter of capitalism and dead leaves. The air is heavy with heat and humidity, even when it torrents rain. There are a number of lovely parks to discover and they all have heavy duty outdoor gym equipment (see below).
A number of parks also contain pebbled paths reminiscent of 'the yellow brick road' in The Wizard Of Oz (sb). It appears to be customary for extremely elderly Chinese people to walk very very slowly down this path armed with nothing but socks and a concentration matched only by computer game nerds and professional poker players.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
A picture paints a thousand words
I am extremely happy to finally be able to satisfy the numerous requests for images to accompany the memoirs of my wondrous adventures (thanks to my techno-savvy flatmate). Enjoy!
The despondent parents
Keeping it cool in my 5-star hotel room.
Welcome to the City of Dreams...
"I'm bored of seeing things at eye level. Oh, hello roof!"
Brian - my trainer. I challenge anyone to get pissed off with anyone who smiles so sweetly, even when being submitted to a gruelling gondolier training regime.
My first blister.
Marga, my housemate, dancing for joy after we find our new home.
Brian and Sofia. Here I be very happy for finish training with handsome man!
The despondent parents
Keeping it cool in my 5-star hotel room.
Welcome to the City of Dreams...
"I'm bored of seeing things at eye level. Oh, hello roof!"
Brian - my trainer. I challenge anyone to get pissed off with anyone who smiles so sweetly, even when being submitted to a gruelling gondolier training regime.
My first blister.
Marga, my housemate, dancing for joy after we find our new home.
Brian and Sofia. Here I be very happy for finish training with handsome man!
Monday, June 28, 2010
Hello. My name is Miriam and I am a professional liar.
My dear, faithful readers. Firstly, may I say how thrilled I am that in the past month my internet following has risen a whopping 400%. I didn't know I knew 4 such literary connoisseurs. Let it be known I am now technologically active and my posts shall flow forth like a stream of delicious, cheap Portuguese wine (which coincidentally there is an abundance of here). There is much to acquaint you with, so much in fact that I know not where to begin. But I shall start with an overview as to what my job here entails.
6 days a week I assume the persona of a sweet, working-class Italian girl. From the moment I step onto the dock I am no longer Miriam Waks, the slightly ebullient and certainly unbalanced Jewish pork-eater from Sydney, Australia. Thanks to a wardrobe of striped shirt, black pants, red sash, and straw hat, I am transformed. At all times I am in character with Italian English-speaking accent, transporting every possible variety of tourist through the winding canals, engaging them in conversation (in the case of non-esl Chinese tourists this conversation is limited to "Ni Hao!" and "Xie Xie") and on the return journey crooning Italian songs and English songs with an Italian flava. It can get slightly confusing singing any English song with an Italian accent (particularly when Beyonce was requested) but I'm adjusting. What I didn't expect was that I would be singing nearly as many Hindi songs on my gondola as Italian. Thanks to the large Indian tourist presence, at least 50% of my 'passengieri' require me to sing every Hindi song I know. Needless to say, after 2 weeks on the water those 2 ½ songs are starting to wear a bit thin.
It may sound like all fun and games but there are some major occupational hazards which come with the responsibility of being a Gondolier. I have taken the liberty of compiling a short list.
Occupational Hazards of being a Gondolier:
1. A immense sense of guilt that you are conning people into believing you are really from Italy.
2. Being mobbed on your way to the bathroom/in the bathroom camera-holding tourists who MUST have their picture with you.
3. Hand cramps from rowing.
4. Falling into the water when you are attempting your funkiest Bollywood move.
5. Losing your voice singing on the noisy canals.
6. Vocabulary depletion due to speaking in broken English all day.
7. Hat hair.
On top of my gondoliering duties I also perform 3 nights (10pm-2am) at a beautiful lounge called "The View". I don't know why it is called that, but it is on the top floor of a major hotel in Macau and has an amazing view which overlooks the many impressive casinos and hotels. On these nights I am lucky enough to play with an incredible jazz band (Piano, Double Bass, Drums, and on the weekends, Saxophone). The only shock has been to my system which prior to this job was barely accustomed to 9 hours work a week let alone 9-11 hours a day. But I am slowly adjusting.
I have moved into my apartment, 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom (I call it a bathroom because we actually have a bath. Outrageous!!!). I live with a most wonderful opera singer called Marga. In fact I should mention that practically everyone is extremely talented. Many very strong vocalists which, as a fellow gondolier commented, can be a shock to the ego that is generally accustomed to being cushioned with a false sense of security and superiority regarding one's own talent. But I have embraced the immense talent surrounding me and am excited at the prospect of learning and developing here.
*Holds up cup* "Here's to prospering and growing!". (Grow I most certainly shall - stay tuned for a segment on Macau cuisine)
6 days a week I assume the persona of a sweet, working-class Italian girl. From the moment I step onto the dock I am no longer Miriam Waks, the slightly ebullient and certainly unbalanced Jewish pork-eater from Sydney, Australia. Thanks to a wardrobe of striped shirt, black pants, red sash, and straw hat, I am transformed. At all times I am in character with Italian English-speaking accent, transporting every possible variety of tourist through the winding canals, engaging them in conversation (in the case of non-esl Chinese tourists this conversation is limited to "Ni Hao!" and "Xie Xie") and on the return journey crooning Italian songs and English songs with an Italian flava. It can get slightly confusing singing any English song with an Italian accent (particularly when Beyonce was requested) but I'm adjusting. What I didn't expect was that I would be singing nearly as many Hindi songs on my gondola as Italian. Thanks to the large Indian tourist presence, at least 50% of my 'passengieri' require me to sing every Hindi song I know. Needless to say, after 2 weeks on the water those 2 ½ songs are starting to wear a bit thin.
It may sound like all fun and games but there are some major occupational hazards which come with the responsibility of being a Gondolier. I have taken the liberty of compiling a short list.
Occupational Hazards of being a Gondolier:
1. A immense sense of guilt that you are conning people into believing you are really from Italy.
2. Being mobbed on your way to the bathroom/in the bathroom camera-holding tourists who MUST have their picture with you.
3. Hand cramps from rowing.
4. Falling into the water when you are attempting your funkiest Bollywood move.
5. Losing your voice singing on the noisy canals.
6. Vocabulary depletion due to speaking in broken English all day.
7. Hat hair.
On top of my gondoliering duties I also perform 3 nights (10pm-2am) at a beautiful lounge called "The View". I don't know why it is called that, but it is on the top floor of a major hotel in Macau and has an amazing view which overlooks the many impressive casinos and hotels. On these nights I am lucky enough to play with an incredible jazz band (Piano, Double Bass, Drums, and on the weekends, Saxophone). The only shock has been to my system which prior to this job was barely accustomed to 9 hours work a week let alone 9-11 hours a day. But I am slowly adjusting.
I have moved into my apartment, 2 bedroom, 1 bathroom (I call it a bathroom because we actually have a bath. Outrageous!!!). I live with a most wonderful opera singer called Marga. In fact I should mention that practically everyone is extremely talented. Many very strong vocalists which, as a fellow gondolier commented, can be a shock to the ego that is generally accustomed to being cushioned with a false sense of security and superiority regarding one's own talent. But I have embraced the immense talent surrounding me and am excited at the prospect of learning and developing here.
*Holds up cup* "Here's to prospering and growing!". (Grow I most certainly shall - stay tuned for a segment on Macau cuisine)
Sofia says...
Bongiorno!!! I am Sofia Lorenzo Al-Fresco Minnelli!!!! I come from small village in Italy call Portofino. It is small village for fishing and is beautiful place to come for visit. Or to be eating fish... Ever since I am small child I dream of one day to be rowing a gondola. But problem is being I am not having a gondola. I go to Venezia when I turn 18, leaving my family who beg me, "No Sofia, please don't go to Venezia to row gondola, we beg you!"!! They say, "No person will give you gondola to row. Because you are being a woman". But I go anyway. My family is being right. No person will give me remo (oar). No person gives me opportunity. So I go back to Portofino and go to University. I disover "feminEEsum". Some people in course say femineesum is finito, it has done job. I stand up. I say "NO. Femineesum NO finish its job or else I be a gondolier!" I write to Germaine Greer to ask her for help with my problem but she no reply yet. Maybe her degrees no be prepare her for this difficult problem I have. But it is ok. I find a new hero now. Giorgia Boscolo is my hero now. Last year she become first woman gondolier. I say "Ok, she can do this thing. So will I". So I come Venezia in Macau, China, to row and sing to passengieri and then after I go to real Venezia and say "Bongiorno! I sing and row in Venezia already you no going to discriminatoria for me!"
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Officially a working girl!
12/6/10
Today I took my first real passengers! I was nervous but they tipped me which was nice. A pity tip suits me just fine. I forgot to mention that we are all required to work under a pseudonynm of our Italian counterparts, accent and all. Sofia will write separately entries from myself but for the meantime she says hello ("HELLO! It is nice to be meeting of with you!!!!!")
I found an apartment to live in and will be moving on Tuesday. I like to think of it more as a spa bath that comes with an apartment. Welcome to Bubble Town. Population one. Me.
Today I took my first real passengers! I was nervous but they tipped me which was nice. A pity tip suits me just fine. I forgot to mention that we are all required to work under a pseudonynm of our Italian counterparts, accent and all. Sofia will write separately entries from myself but for the meantime she says hello ("HELLO! It is nice to be meeting of with you!!!!!")
I found an apartment to live in and will be moving on Tuesday. I like to think of it more as a spa bath that comes with an apartment. Welcome to Bubble Town. Population one. Me.
As the waves settle the callouses form..
11/6/10
Training Day Take Two saw Brian really amp things up. We not only focused on moving the gondola forward and backwards but we did donuts (rotations - and yes, that's what they actually call them) and back-steering. All I can say is, lucky we were in an open space. Attempt after attempt at trying and failing I was close to giving up. But Brian wouldn't let me. I searched within myself for any remaining vestiges of energy and motivation and as a result the rest of our training session was almost exactly like a Hollywood movie
I even had my first blister. A landmark day indeed.
Training Day Take Two saw Brian really amp things up. We not only focused on moving the gondola forward and backwards but we did donuts (rotations - and yes, that's what they actually call them) and back-steering. All I can say is, lucky we were in an open space. Attempt after attempt at trying and failing I was close to giving up. But Brian wouldn't let me. I searched within myself for any remaining vestiges of energy and motivation and as a result the rest of our training session was almost exactly like a Hollywood movie
I even had my first blister. A landmark day indeed.
Training Day: Take One
10/6/10
"Hello my name is Brian and will be teaching you to row"
"Hi Brian. Look, I have to be honest, the whole 'being physical' thing isn't really my bag"
Don't let their sleek finishes fool you. Gondolas are hard work. I spent the day trying to familiarise myself with the very complicated machinations of pushing an oar back and forth (and I mean that with not a trace of facetiousness). I discovered during the process of Training Day: Take One that I have approximately the same levels of co-ordination as George W. Bush
"Hello my name is Brian and will be teaching you to row"
"Hi Brian. Look, I have to be honest, the whole 'being physical' thing isn't really my bag"
Don't let their sleek finishes fool you. Gondolas are hard work. I spent the day trying to familiarise myself with the very complicated machinations of pushing an oar back and forth (and I mean that with not a trace of facetiousness). I discovered during the process of Training Day: Take One that I have approximately the same levels of co-ordination as George W. Bush
Welcome to the City of Dreams.
9/6/10 9:30pm
After receiving my first literal wake-up call I made my way bleary-eyed to appreciate my view from the 11th floor. I was greeted by a sky of rainclouds and general greyness while the nearest casino feebly flashed the words "City of Dreams". I had arrived.
The day consisted mainly of signing contracts and trying to vaguely familiarise with the architecture of the second largest building IN THE WORLD. I may need another day....
After receiving my first literal wake-up call I made my way bleary-eyed to appreciate my view from the 11th floor. I was greeted by a sky of rainclouds and general greyness while the nearest casino feebly flashed the words "City of Dreams". I had arrived.
The day consisted mainly of signing contracts and trying to vaguely familiarise with the architecture of the second largest building IN THE WORLD. I may need another day....
Arrival
9/6/10
1:01am
The ferry from Hong Kong is currently pulling into Macau. Judging by the glimpses I've had of the neon signs dominating the coastline I can only surmise that the world I am about to enter is most bizarre...
1:45am
The taxi-ride has provided welcome relief after the harrowing experience of transporting my heavy baggage from airport to train to taxi to ferry to ferry stop to taxi. There is a Cantonese song playing on the radio and it is raining outside.
2:00am
We have pulled up to the Venetian. My jaw has dropped. It actually just fell open at the sight of the place. Inside the lobby there is classical music going full blast and if you crane your neck upwards you can behold the legacy Michelangelo has left to this earth - to be forever emulated with cookie-cutter images of naked dudes on clouds.
3:00am
So tired. 8:30am start tomorrow. Am spread out on a King.
.....................
(sized-bed)
1:01am
The ferry from Hong Kong is currently pulling into Macau. Judging by the glimpses I've had of the neon signs dominating the coastline I can only surmise that the world I am about to enter is most bizarre...
1:45am
The taxi-ride has provided welcome relief after the harrowing experience of transporting my heavy baggage from airport to train to taxi to ferry to ferry stop to taxi. There is a Cantonese song playing on the radio and it is raining outside.
2:00am
We have pulled up to the Venetian. My jaw has dropped. It actually just fell open at the sight of the place. Inside the lobby there is classical music going full blast and if you crane your neck upwards you can behold the legacy Michelangelo has left to this earth - to be forever emulated with cookie-cutter images of naked dudes on clouds.
3:00am
So tired. 8:30am start tomorrow. Am spread out on a King.
.....................
(sized-bed)
Monday, June 7, 2010
"She's got her ticket, I think she gonna use it." - Tracy Chapman
Yes, that's right Tracy! The time has come for me to leave my humble windowless studio for the mysterious adventures that await me in a casino of painted skies and winding canals. I leave in approximately 12 hours and so thought I should create a list of aims and rules for myself.
The Ten Commandments:
1. Thou shalt maketh friends-eth.
2. Thou shalt have adventures.
3. Thou shalt write one new song per fortnight.
4. Thou shalt learn one new song per fortnight. (Cannot be song that thou hast writteneth).
5. Thou shalt not get drunk. (Unless it happens over the course of a particularly intense game of Articulate).
6. Thou shalt join the circus. (Cirque Du Soleil of course).
7. Thou shalt find the best dumplings and portuguese tarts in Macau.
8. Thou shalt eat said dumplings and tarts.
9. Thou shalt NOT have a repeat of India contract. (This means not indulging in so much food that your evening gowns cease to fit or adopting the sleeping patterns of an owl).
10. Thou shalt uphold the dignity of the gondoleering profession at all times by maintaining the highest levels of rowing and crooning within thou's power.
So without further ado I shall bid thee - my faithful readers, (thank you both of you!) - a hearty farewell. I will most likely be as the Italian say "incommunicado" for some matter of days but look forward to regaling you shortly with tales of pirates, intrigues, seductions, and camera-happy tourists.
The Ten Commandments:
1. Thou shalt maketh friends-eth.
2. Thou shalt have adventures.
3. Thou shalt write one new song per fortnight.
4. Thou shalt learn one new song per fortnight. (Cannot be song that thou hast writteneth).
5. Thou shalt not get drunk. (Unless it happens over the course of a particularly intense game of Articulate).
6. Thou shalt join the circus. (Cirque Du Soleil of course).
7. Thou shalt find the best dumplings and portuguese tarts in Macau.
8. Thou shalt eat said dumplings and tarts.
9. Thou shalt NOT have a repeat of India contract. (This means not indulging in so much food that your evening gowns cease to fit or adopting the sleeping patterns of an owl).
10. Thou shalt uphold the dignity of the gondoleering profession at all times by maintaining the highest levels of rowing and crooning within thou's power.
So without further ado I shall bid thee - my faithful readers, (thank you both of you!) - a hearty farewell. I will most likely be as the Italian say "incommunicado" for some matter of days but look forward to regaling you shortly with tales of pirates, intrigues, seductions, and camera-happy tourists.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Progress takes time.
My lovely aunt msged me to say her and my uncle are currently in Macau seeing my future workplace. I'm disappointed I can't be there to row her around and have him stand by looking horrified at the kitchiness of it all but there you go. Macau has been in contact and I look set to depart hopefully within a week. This is welcome news indeed as my financial activity has been primarily confined to spending and buying which is essentially the same thing. In addition to this my lifestyle is in need of an overhaul with it currently consisting of me eating, playing piano, eating, internetting, eating, watching masterchef which of course then only leads to me eating again.
Come to think of it maybe I don't want to disrupt all that...
Come to think of it maybe I don't want to disrupt all that...
Friday, May 28, 2010
The hiiiiills are aliiiiive!!!!!
I watched The Sound of Music tonight with Michelle. She made me delicious chocolate fondant and lamb. I've discovered that there is no need to acquire any kind of culinary skills as long as you have talented, nice friends. Somewhere in between "How do you solve a problem like Maria?" and the Reverend Mother singing "Climb ev'ry mountain" something resonated. Reverend Mother recognised Maria wasn't cut out to be a nun and that there are many paths to choose. She encouraged Maria to at least try to find her right one. So brave Maria goes back to face Captain Von Trapp. I wouldn't have done it. He looks too much like Timothy Dalton and I would have gotten nervous and forgotten the words to "Doe, a deer a female feer" and forsaken his love forever. I see going to Macau as a path. Sure, it will be more of a winding canal, but even in a city of casinos I am curious as to the adventures which one can have. Hopefully more than an existence of rowing and having to explain to people that while prostitution is legal there I am not a provider of that service.
Time shall tell, but I do hope I can tackle the future with as much pizazz and humour as Julie Andrews who, along with Babs and Bette and Paul Capsis, is as close as I can come to believing in deities.
Time shall tell, but I do hope I can tackle the future with as much pizazz and humour as Julie Andrews who, along with Babs and Bette and Paul Capsis, is as close as I can come to believing in deities.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Post 2 ?
It torrented all day. I put the word out I would not be getting out of bed for less than $10 000. No-one seemed interested which was great as it meant I got to sleep all day.
I considered writing a song about my day. But I discovered the wonderfully articulate Rihanna beat me to it.
I considered writing a song about my day. But I discovered the wonderfully articulate Rihanna beat me to it.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
And so I wait...
The title of this blog may insinuate that this writer is currently residing in China. This is incorrect reader. I am in Sydney. Hunched over my laptop amidst the wreckage of the half-filled boxes and suitcases strewn across my studio floor. I hear voices and I am sure that it is them, taunting me to the point of madness.
"Hahaaa you're never going to get to Macau. You're gunna have to stay here for the long cold Sydney winter with no home and you'll be forced to move back in with your parents and eke out a miserly living as a club singer performing 'Hot Stuff' in between the exotic, pole-driven talents of the likes of Cruella de Foo-Foo and Amber Starr". So far these voices seem to be talking sense.
"No, you're wrong!", I yell back. "I WILL get to Macau and follow my dream of rowing tourists around in a gondola through the man-made canals of a giant casino all the while serenading them with a selection of the finest melodies of the Italian songbook, from Quando Quando Quando, to When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie That's Amore!!!"
I receive no reply, other than my landlord peering in through my sliding door and enquiring after my mental health.
Never fear. I have resolved to soldier on and continue packing despite the uncertainty of my starting date. I will even make a blog ABOUT my trip. If that doesn't give fate a kick up the behind I will fly off to India and make a pilgrimage to every major julebi street-store I can find.
"Hahaaa you're never going to get to Macau. You're gunna have to stay here for the long cold Sydney winter with no home and you'll be forced to move back in with your parents and eke out a miserly living as a club singer performing 'Hot Stuff' in between the exotic, pole-driven talents of the likes of Cruella de Foo-Foo and Amber Starr". So far these voices seem to be talking sense.
"No, you're wrong!", I yell back. "I WILL get to Macau and follow my dream of rowing tourists around in a gondola through the man-made canals of a giant casino all the while serenading them with a selection of the finest melodies of the Italian songbook, from Quando Quando Quando, to When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie That's Amore!!!"
I receive no reply, other than my landlord peering in through my sliding door and enquiring after my mental health.
Never fear. I have resolved to soldier on and continue packing despite the uncertainty of my starting date. I will even make a blog ABOUT my trip. If that doesn't give fate a kick up the behind I will fly off to India and make a pilgrimage to every major julebi street-store I can find.
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