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

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

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.

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!