Nonstop to Tokyo or What I did on my summer (and winter) vacation (by Patrick Liddell)
I suppose the best place to start is leaving O’Hare on the plane, since most of you couldn’t care less of what I was doing while still in the States. (I am making the brash assumption that you care about what I've been doing while out of the States, I know...) Susan was sweet enough to take me to the airport on Thursday (the 27th) morning, and although she dropped me off at the wrong terminal (the first of several terminal problems) I got to my plane just fine. American Airlines had just one issue with my luggage: the computer monitor box was a bit overweight, so I had to pay a fee of about 170 dollars. I assumed this was worth it as it was a lot cheaper than sending the monitor through the mail (besides the fact that I hadn’t an address to send it to.) I don’t sleep well on planes, mostly because of the cramped quarters, so I spent most of the flight reading the newest Harry Potter book (which is fantastic, by the way) and finished maybe two hours before landing in Tokyo. When landing, it was about 2 pm on Friday (after crossing the International Date Line), but about 10 pm back in Chicago… I wasn’t even tired yet. I was to meet Christine in Tokyo for a night on the town, so I took the 2-hour train in from the airport and after some slight confusion on my part I met her about 6. She and a friend of hers showed me around the Shinjuku area, a very trendy part of town… and FULL OF PEOPLE. I had never seen so many people clogging the street as I did in the first intersection outside the station. The lights turned red to all motor vehicle traffic and the crosswalk turned green—the corners suddenly burst forth with thousands and thousands of people, from every direction heading every direction. Once in the middle of the street it was impossible to see any sidewalk either way; there were simply too many bodies blocking the view. I noticed immediately that people would take a moment to glance our direction; they were all Japanese and we were Gaijin (Japanese for ‘foreigner’, and personally I find it a slightly derogatory way of thinking, but since we did seem, well, out of place I guess I can see where they were coming from.)

Christine and Beth took me shopping and showed me around some of their favorite side streets, the entire time pushing through the crowds of people. They took me to a place to eat and get some drinks (at this point I had been up about 26 hours and was starting to feel it. The 3 beers I had kicked in immediately) where they translated the menu and Christine explained what I was capable of eating and what I was to avoid (being vegetarian.) Afterward we hit an arcade to find the “Print Club” machines: photo booths in which, after you take your pictures, you add written in text and clip art and different backgrounds. That was so much fun… I wish they would instigate them in the US (or Australia.) We took a bunch of pictures, drew in devil horns and added ice cream cones to our empty hands, and then a bunch of stickers of our pics popped out of the machine. Fantastic! After that was the moment I had been waiting for: karaoke! It’s a bit different in Tokyo than back home… you rent out a booth and get a TV and book and karaoke machine to your group alone! They’ll deliver beer and umbrellas and what not to your booth, but you don’t have to wait all night to sing one song… in the hour we sang we each got probably 5 or 6 sings in! There was much less crowd appreciation after each song (we weren’t drunk enough, perhaps), but it was still too much fun.

At this point it was getting to be about midnight or 1 o’clock and even though I was still in high spirits I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Fortunately, Beth had managed to bring a list of capsule hotels for me to sleep at. We found one not far from the station I had met them. We had entered the lobby when a police officer hollered and ran over, pointing at a sign in front of the elevators; patrons weren’t allowed to show tattoos! (This is because, in Japanese culture, the only people with tattoos are the Yakuza, or the Japanese mafia.) I changed into a long-sleeve shirt and we took the elevator to the appropriate floor. However, when we arrived Christine and Beth couldn’t stay, as they were women, so we said goodnight and I managed to book myself in. I was given a ‘room’, which was exactly what a capsule hotel claims to be: a small cubbyhole just long enough to fit a bed. There are about 2 dozen capsules on each wall of a corridor (each floor had maybe 5 hallways) and you shared everything else (bathroom, lounge, etc.) I didn’t try to join the onsen (hot bath) because of the mean looks the police officer had given me downstairs. The cubbyhole, though, was pretty comfortable. Maybe it was the jet lag, but I slept like a rock (Assuming, of course, that rocks sleep well.) The next morning I ‘showered’ in a sink, long-sleeved, and checked out without much issue. [check out the photo]

After the entire capsule hotel fun, I was ready to tackle just about anything. This was fortunate considering the next event on my itinerary: I was to meet a group of JETs (Japanese-English Teachers, like Christine) who were planning to climb Mt. Fuji. I had packed for the event by cramming my hoodie, a scarf, and long-undies into my week bag with all my other clothes. I don’t know how it all fit. I managed to find the bus from Shinjuku station (not far from my hotel the night before) and watched in wonder as the mountains got closer and closer. The bus drove up through forest until it reached as far as the road went, the fifth station, about halfway up the ancient volcano. It was not a particularly pleasant day—very, VERY windy. We couldn’t see the top of the mountain through the clouds whipping about at the summit. I bought a walking stick with a Japanese flag at the end and when the rest of the JETs arrived, we started up. I had been talking with a group of 3 girls before we left, and they were kind enough to let me climb with them (the rest of the group spread out as we started climbing), and their camaraderie and support really helped me get to the top. We climbed from about 6 pm till about 12, when we reached the eighth station, just before the top. At each station a hut had been built, and for an absorbitant amount you could sleep there. As we didn’t feel like sitting in the freezing cold for 3 hours upon reaching the top, we paid the fee and slept for a couple hours. Rather, I guess I slept a couple hours and the other laid there in the cold… they complained about the temperature keeping them up. Near the top it became more difficult to breathe; I began to get lightheaded and I fell over a lot from the altitude sickness. It wasn’t that it was difficult to breathe, actually, just that breathing didn’t seem to help any. There were a lot of pauses to catch breath, but we made it to the top around 4:15 am, about half an hour before the sun came up. And trust me, it was definitely worth it. The entire world seemed to be covered with a thin veil of clouds which turned bright gold as the sun emerged from a thick cottony cloud on the horizon. We popped open our beers (supplied by the JET program!) and ‘kampai’ed (toasted to) the sunrise. I have never wanted to drink beer less in all my life. The altitude made me feel drunk enough without it anyway. [check out some photos]

This Saturday and Sunday was the weekend before the official climbing season started, technically, so we didn’t stick around long… it was bitterly cold (fortunately the storm and wind had subsided, though) and we made the much easier trek back down the mountain. At the bottom (fifth station, rather) we had 5 hours to wait for the bus, so we passed out in the parking lot waiting. In our sleep, according to some other JETs, Japanese tourists took pictures of us sleeping on the pavement. One older lady woke me up by placing mikans (tangerines) on each of our tummies, laughing like a schoolgirl as she ran away. Eventually the bus came and took us back to Tokyo. I don’t remember much of the rest of the day. I found my hostel, which allowed me into the onsen, so after soaking there for an eternity (not long enough) I passed out. I think it was about 6:30 pm.

The next day I woke about 7 am and felt like a million bucks. Well, maybe 300,000 bucks. I talked with a few fellows from England in my hostel about what to do after dinner that night; they suggested Ueno Park in the northwest of the city. I dressed as well as I could with what I had brought, and traveled to Ginza to watch a Kabuki performance. Much to my chagrin after getting to the theatre, the company didn’t perform on Mondays! I had planned my entire morning and most of my afternoon for this, so suddenly I was at a loss of what to do with my day. Oh, also I had planned to go to Iron Chef Kobe’s restaurant for dinner, but when I arrived at the location my guide had given me as his place, it was just an apartment building. I had no plans for the day after all. I didn’t put it waste, though. I walked most of the length of the downtown city, visiting the Ginza Fish Market (amazing sights and smells), the Imperial Gardens [see photo], the Tokyo Tower [photo] (famous as the first thing to go when Godzilla attacks), outside the Imperial Castle [photo] (since it’s only open to the public twice a year), the Akibahana Electronic District, the International Business Forum (an incredible building designed by the quack who also drew up the Sydney Opera House), and by the time I got to Ueno Park it had grown past dusk and I people-watched at a noodle shop outside the major subway station there. I felt I had a fantastic day regardless. That night I popped my blisters and soaked in the onsen again (my tattoos receiving some stares from the Japanese children there) and slept like the night before.

The next day I took the Shinkansen (the Japanese Bullet Train) from Tokyo to Kyoto—the two cities, about 800 km apart (maybe 500 miles), took about 2 1/2 hours. I was eager to visit the city, but first I wanted to go somewhere even more removed, so I took a subway out of town to a small (if touristy) town of Nara. It was drizzling all day, so most of the places I visited were vacant. I prayed at several temples and shrines (The typical method being: you throw in some yen, clank a bell (or clap your hands), and bow a few times. Then you pray.) At the parks in this town they had tame deer, so I fed some of them on the way from one shrine to the next. Darlings. The first of two noteworthy shrines in the area: a Grand Shrine of which the pathway to get there was the interesting part for me—lining the road were hundreds and hundreds of stone lanterns. (I apologize for that extremely poorly worded sentence.) It was cool and lonely and mossy and I loved every moment of it. It could have been directly from a novel or movie… I was just waiting for a samurai to charge at me from between a few of the countless lanterns. [check out the photo] The second temple was a large Buddha in a substantially large house. It probably sits 3 stories tall, flanked on each side by 2 2 story bodhisattvas. On the left side was the gift shop. In the temple.

Eating in that town was tough… Tokyo doesn’t cater to vegetarianism, and so a small town in Japan is going to be even tougher. Eventually I found a shop that would serve me two orders of edemome (which I love) and some tofu cubes (even then I had to scrape off the fish shavings on top (thanks for the warning Christine!). Afterwards, actually, I stopped at a grocery store and bought some ice cream. Once getting back to Kyoto it took me way to long to find my hostel, but once there I had a great night.

The next morning I woke and walked into the common room and sure enough sitting there watching football (er, soccer) was the two British guys who had suggested I head to Ueno Park! I laughed out loud.

“That is so messed up.” I chortled.

“What does that mean?” one of them said.

That day was absolutely perfect. I rented a bike from the hostel and rode everywhere in Kyoto. [pretty good picture] I visited a shogun castle, the other Imperial Castle, the Gion district (a busy, metropolitan section of Kyoto), the Philosopher’s Path (a series of shrines along a river to the east of the city), both the silver and golden pavilions (the later, obviously being more impressive… it actually is layered in gold!), a Zen garden (in which I took part in a tea ceremony) [good photo], and most amazingly, the Fushimi Shrine to the south of the city. [It is, as my guidebook comments, a very photogenic place. I have a few pics from this shrine] I should point out that, even though it was a gorgeous day, all day long I was the only person (tourist or otherwise) at most of these shrines and temples. (Except Gion, which was packed with thousands of people on both sides of the street, like Shinjuku.)

After climbing Mt. Fuji, the Fushimi Shrine was definitely the highlight of my trip. It was simply a long pathway of 1000s of 1000s of red “Torii” gates creating a corridor up the side of a mountain. And I do mean millions. The path was easily 15 miles long, and the red gates rarely broke. I was so struck and inspired by the majesty of it all, and when I reached the top there was a shrine to the deity Inari, a fox that brings wealth… apparently each and every one of the gates had been bought by a different businessman who wanted to please the God in order to make him wealthy. I was so humbled by the massive gesture that I stopped at the top of the mountain there and watched the city as the day grew dark. Coming down through the gates in the night was a tricky business… there were several different paths, and more than once I came to a dead end, an unsettling event in a dark forest alone. But eventually I made it out and got back to the hostel. There the two blokes were settling in, but I talked them into going to an all-vegetarian diner back in Gion, which the hostel recommended. We all biked there and met a few others that we had seen at the hostel earlier. We ate together and one girl told me of an onsen in the area that would let me in even though I had tattoos… apparently it was known for its Yakuza population. So after dinner (and maybe one too many beers) I fared them goodnight and set off to this bath house. The owner didn’t ask any questions (not that I would have been to understand him anyway), but he took my money and I walked in. This place was incredible. Three floors of baths and naked men! In order to get from one floor to another you had to take an elevator, but there were only lockers on the first floor. Thus, ride the elevator naked. Crazy! The second floor was all cold baths, so I didn’t stick around there long, but the top floor was occupied by most of the ‘sketchy’ types: Japanese guys with giant dragon tattoos covering their backs (and a few missing fingers!). It was open air on this floor, which would have been cold, but the hot baths were so comfortable. There were two baths with acupuncture waterfalls (oh-my-God amazing) and two hot tubs. The regular population was okay with my Gaijin ass joining them, but the Yakuza wanted nothing to do with me—as soon as a started for one of the tubs they all cleared out. Anyway, I loved it…. even if it was weird it will be something I’ll never forget. When I got back to the hostel the others had stayed up and asked how it went. The next morning as I brushing my teeth I talked with an Australian girl who suggested I live in Elwood here in Melbourne. Apparently she was worth listening to… that’s the suburb I live in now.

That day I took the Shinkansen back to Tokyo, and then another out to the town nearest where Christine lives. After waiting in the train station for her to answer her phone, she took me to an Iranian eatery in which she performs monthly… the owner of the restaurant sung praises about her from the moment we entered until we left. But oh! to eat something other than tofu was so nice. I would say that I now enjoy Japanese cuisine, but it doesn't really satisfy. Maybe if I ate fish. Anyway, a great meal and then back to her apartment in the small town of Tomioka. The next morning she took me to school she taught at and I watched her move from class to class teaching color and direction in English to all these darling middle school kids. We ate lunch with all the ‘special ed’ kids, though I couldn’t find any reason for them to be in the special ed class. They were so cute. SO CUTE! In the afternoon a group of girls came into the teachers lounge and drew pictures for Christine and I, and had us sign pieces of paper for them. I can ask plenty of questions in Japanese, but I have a hard time with responses, and these little girl’s answers were so colloquial I couldn’t understand a thing they were saying. It was really eye opening, though, so see the environment that the Japanese grow up in… it explains a lot about their culture.

That night was pretty low key. It was July Fourth, so in celebration Christine tried to talk her friends to come into town to light some firecrackers on the roof, but they all declined. We happily sat in her living room and watched Discovery Channel (in English) tell us everything we would want to know about motorcycles. Early to bed. The next day was mostly in preparation for a party Christine was throwing that night… out to buy snacks and gin and all that. The party kicked in around 7 or so, and by about 9:30 I had finished my fifth gin & tonic and I don’t remember most of the remainder of the evening. I trust I didn’t make a total fool of myself, for no one gave me any dirty looks the next morning. (Since all her friends live so far away, most crash there so they don’t have to drive drunk.) The next morning we reminisced the previous night (which was good so I could remember some vague events) and then Christine and some of her friends and I went to a local shrine, the statue of a giant woman. [photo] This is where the hangover kicked in. I wish I could have enjoyed the shrine more… she had the most beautiful lips I have ever seen on a statue. The rest of the day went slowly, which really was okay with me. We got back to her place and rented some CDs from the video store across the street (since they didn’t have a copy of “Uncle Buck”! Can you believe that?!), which we immediately ripped and I am listening to currently. We watched “Swingers,” which I think was a pretty good movie, if odd to watch with her, and then another early evening.

The next morning was goodbyes and another trip on the bullet train back to Tokyo. In Tokyo I had a few hours before I needed to be at the airport, so I shopped for a while. This is where I found a reggae shop in a small apartment building on a side street. This place was small… probably the size of my room at 1312 W George. But I have never seen such a collection of reggae and ska. A small Japanese woman was in charge; she would play 1/2 a song then, depending on whether my head was bobbing or not, switch to something else. (I was the only one in the store.) She complimented me on my Japanese (ha!) and I thanked her for having a shop like such in Tokyo. She said she had been there for 14 years! For some reason I have a hard time imagining a little Japanese lady digging reggae so much to open a shop in downtown Tokyo devoted to the music. Japan never ceases to amaze.

The last events in Japan, however, were not my happiest. I arrived at the airport to find out that I had been storing all my baggage in the other terminal, so I had to take a shuttle over to the second terminal, pick up my massive collection of things, and shove it back on the shuttle to get it back to the first terminal. I couldn’t fit it in the elevator to get it up to the departures deck, so I had to carry it one at a time up the escalator. Finally I get to the right ticket counter, and this is where the fun starts. The ticket lady looks at all my baggage wide eyed, and then points at a small detail of my ticket… the stupid travel agency I had gone through had put a 20 kg limit on my baggage. After weighing all of it together, I had a little over 75 kg. My carry-on itself was 19 kg. Qantas, the airline that was taking me, claimed to charge 4500 yen for each kilogram over the weight limit. The ticket lady smiled politely and calculated the total I would have to pay to get my entire luggage on the plane: 284000 YEN, A LITTLE OVER 2000 DOLLARS!

I laughed out loud. “You have to be joking me.” I said.

She called her supervisor.

He came over and I politely explained that I had about (the equivalent of) 150 dollars to my name.

“You have to be joking me.” he said.

He called his supervisor.

I was quite nervous at this point. I sat and watched with wrinkled brow the expressions on his face as he rattled off the information in quick Japanese to some boss far away. I seriously had no options as to what I could do with my luggage. Eventually he came over and said that they agreed to take the money I had and accept a voucher for the remaining 250 dollars I owed. “But I thought I owed…” I started.

He put his finger to his pursed lips. And half an hour I was on the plane. I ate dinner alongside a Japanese fellow who unquestioningly was the loudest eater I had ever had the displeasure of being within earshot of, much less practically in his lap. But after dinner (a roll and Jello for me, since I didn’t order a vegetarian meal), I took 8 sleeping pills and managed to get a light sleep. The flight, to my surprise, was 2 hours longer than the flight from Chicago to Tokyo.

Here I will mention that from the point after giving my luggage to the awesome supervisor in Tokyo, I haven’t heard about the 250 dollars I owe. I didn’t bring it up when I arrived, but they didn’t ask. I got all my luggage perfectly intact (the large monitor box was actually carried to me personally, rather than coming up the conveyor belt.) They haven’t come knocking yet. I suppose it’s slightly dishonest of me, but I did give them 150 bucks, and personally I think it’s stupid to put a 20 kg limit on baggage. Besides, I don’t really have 250 dollars to give them anyway.

Arriving in Melbourne, though, was just about without incident. There, a bloke who looked strikingly like John Cleese chauffeured me and one other girl from Columbia, MO from the airport to our respective hotels… the advert at her hotel claimed rooms for dollars a night, yet as I was to get out and unload my computer boxes onto the pavement, the driver stopped me and, after seeing her off, drove me another 15 minute walk further from the school to a hotel-motel that didn’t have rooms cheaper than dollars a night. The school had already booked a room in my name for two nights. Sighing, I signed the reservation book. I should mention that, along with a small restaurant and a bar, the hotel had a gambling center, chock full of about 50 poker machines. Classy.

After showering (I must have offended the girl by the way my clothes had smelled after wearing and sleeping and wearing them again) I walked 25 minutes to the school, where I opened an account at a bank in the student center. I was relieved that they didn’t require any more ID than a passport. However, to cash the check I wanted to deposit, they said it would take about 28 days! Considering, because I had given all my money to Qantas the night before to get my luggage out of Japan, I had literally 11 yen on me, I was terrified. How was I going to (1) rent a place to live, (2) afford the outrageous hotel costs, (3) pay for books, furniture, and toiletries, and (4) eat? I couldn’t call my folks for help, as they were sleeping for another 6 hours… I had to just wait it out. Fortunately, my hotel had that restaurant that could be charged to my room, so I was able to eat at the least. Around 11 pm I could call my folks and they agreed to forward some money to put in the bank for the time being—I’ll be sending that check of mine back to them.

I found a place to live without too much trouble… the only worry I encountered was that the real estate agency hadn’t accepted my application by the time I was kicked out of my hotel room two days later. I packed my computer into an unhappy taxi driver’s cab and drove to the agency, unloaded my luggage onto the sidewalk and sat there until the landlord walked out and said yes. 20 minutes I signed the papers and called another cab to take me the rest of the way to my flat. It’s a pretty nice place… one room with a separate kitchen (though without fridge right now) and a bathroom that is certainly the coldest inhabited place in the Universe. Yeah, it’s the middle of winter here, and although in never drops much below 45 degrees, the buildings are severely lacking when it comes to heating—not unlike Italy (and Japan, apparently.) The first night I stayed at my flat here had to be the unhappiest experience of my life. I didn’t have a bed, much less sheets, so I had to take the curtains (direct from 1987) off the wall and put one on the (fortunately carpeted) floor and use the other as a sheet. (!) I slept right underneath the lackluster space heater in the corner of my apartment… my legs stretched out in front of my door, where the draft was strong enough to feel through the polyester. I have never been so relieved to hear my alarm go off at 6 am. That day I went and bought a bed and a 2000W space heater. Things, in general, have been falling into place, though the fridge I bought didn’t work when I plugged it in. I know what you’re thinking, “Just take it back.” Well, I plan on it, but I’m sure not carrying it there. Everything substantial that comes and goes has to be delivered or taxied in, and I don’t like paying taxis. They are great conversationalists, but they purposely drive 10 km under the speed limit to drive up the fare. I can’t say I blame them… you don’t tip here unless your server was “freakin’ incredible” says one bus driver.

Australia is a surreal mix of Europe and America. For instance, typical Australian fashion would be almost laughed at in America, but in Germany they might be considered American by sight. Upon analysis on the tram one morning this last week, I came to this conclusion: in Europe generally speaking they couldn’t care less about what people are wearing, in America we are all too obsessed with fashion; in Australia, however, they care as Americans do but are stuck with European fashion sense. Most of the people I see are wearing what I would have seen Americans wearing 10 years ago. You might think that this would mean that the secondhand stores (called ‘Opportunity Shops’ (or ‘Op Shops’) here) are full of good 60s and 70s retro stuff, but no, they are full of what people have on their backs. Maybe all the stuff we wore in the early 90s was shipped here after we donated it and the people are wearing them now.

Most of the time, though, I feel like I’m in America rather than Europe. There’s the nasty problem of them driving on the wrong side of the road (notice that I say ‘wrong’ and not ‘left’.) I foresee myself having a great deal of trouble with this… not so much driving myself, but no matter what, when I get to an intersection I look the wrong way before walking into traffic. As John Cleese said to me, “Yeah, we’ve lost a few tourists that way, mate.” I look mostly Australian to them, I suppose, because I can tell they’re surprised when I open my mouth and American comes out. Almost inevitably, if they continue talking to me at all, they ask if Australians are nicer than Americans (especially if it is known that I’m from Chicago.) At first I said “Absolutely!” because my school picked me up from the international terminal when I arrived, and frankly that’s a nice thing to do. But now that I’ve been here on my own for a while (and I really mean on my own) I can’t say that I’ve noticed people are particularly ‘nicer’ here than back home. People don’t go through any trouble to make eye contact when walking past me on the street, and most often than not when I stop them to ask where I am or where I’m going, they are as annoyed as Chicagoans. As a matter of fact, because Australians are in general more laid back than Americans, I would say that they are actually a lot meaner than we are: at least we know when to keep our mouths shut. I have been searching for a retro dance club on weekends, wearing by best dance outfit, and usually pairs of guys walking the other way on the sidewalk will stop, point, and shout (I mean shout), “What the*%#@?!” I admit that it has been discouraging.

The next question Australians ask after the niceness factor usually is, “So what do you think of Australian women?”

I’ve been tempted to answer, “You have women here?” but I hold my tongue. I’m joking of course. I think I saw one on Wednesday.

Speaking of things that I haven’t seen but once so far; I have run into just one person of Aboriginal descent, and he was a homeless fellow that hit me up for a 2-dollar coin while I was shopping for a mattress the other day. I read that they don’t really mix with European-based society, and I guess that’s true. This guy seemed nice, though. That’s what I should be telling them when they ask.

My next rant is about what I haven’t seen at all. I suppose I don’t have the right to bitch, considering what I saw Christine had to live without for a year now, but I really saw Australia last night when I went shopping for groceries. Almost everything in the grocery store has giant labels claiming, “Australia Proud!” or “Manufactured By Australians, for Australians.” I figured this sophomoric incarnation of patriotism was reserved for the yokels of Central Illinois, but apparently I was wrong.

Australia produces the best sharp cheddar I have ever tasted (and the worst feta), and they have 12 varieties of vegetarian hamburgers, from just one of about 7 companies making them!! (My campus, actually, has an entirely vegetarian café. Being vegetarian has never been easier.) They have about 20 varieties of relish… I just wanted some pickle relish for my garden hot dogs, but it took some time to find it among the corn relish and the tomato & garlic relish. For crissakes, what would you use corn relish for? The grocery store I was shopping in had a manned wine department (at 10:30 pm, I should add) and, Christine, 4 varieties of limes. There is the largest organic-food-store-to-population ratio in the world here, undoubtedly. I have about 6 or 7 companies hummus to chose from, not mentioning the varieties of each… even better, though, is I have a selection of pita bread to make now, unlike anywhere in the US.

However, what was missing was shocking. For starters, the checkout clerk stared at me blankly when I mentioned the word “Cheerios.” They don’t sell ketchup, but a weird variation called “tomato sauce.”

“No, tomato sauce is what you have in your Spaghetti-O’s.” I say.

“Your what?” the lunch lady at Monash replied, smearing the bizarre concoction on my fries with a putty knife.

They don’t sell “Boil-in-a-Bag” rice here, which is the only way I dare try to cook it. Cadburry has cornered the confectionary market-- there are about a dozen candy bars I’ve never heard of… only Snickers and M&Ms are still around. I take that back, it seems that KitKats are everywhere in the world. In Tokyo I saw, get this, strawberry and lemon KitKats. LEMON. Here, they sell the normal kind as well as white chocolate and carmel. I want to visit New Delhi and Moscow now just to see what strange things they do to their KitKats.

Worst of all: I spent 20 minutes in the jam and jelly isle. They sell a shelf of varieties of apricot jams, as well as 6 types of “Fruit of the Forest”, whatever the hell that is. But nowhere in the entire damn place did they sell grape jelly. GRAPE JELLY. I even checked the relish isle to see if they made grape relish. Artichoke relish apparently has a market in Melbourne. Grape anything does not. I couldn’t even find grapes in the produce section. What have I gotten myself into?!

My final gripe is that which I discovered today; I’m not sure of the logic behind it, but every shop in the city closes, or “Ends Trading Hours,” at 4 pm on weekdays, 2 pm on Saturdays, and doesn’t open at all on Sundays. Go straight to hell if you work or are doing something at school 45 minutes away by bus till then. Some diners are open until 6 or so, but diners don’t sell duct tape. This is a big difference between Australia and America… in America we have a little something called convenience. I have to relearn social patience.

Orientation started today [today last week, when I wrote this letter], which I found to be a big joke. I suppose they might have helped if I was either starting school for the first time or didn’t speak English very well (which I guess was the case of some of the international students also in my seminar today.) I didn’t get to register for my classes like everyone else… I am the only music graduate starting classes in the second semester here, and the music faculty, rather than sitting around in town waiting to help my sorry ass, went on a retreat today. (!) The head of international student affairs tried to look through the course book with me, but after a moment of futilely searching, we both laughed and gave up. I went out to look for some furniture this afternoon instead. I didn’t find anything (as everything was closed, dammit), but I did find a 70’s clothing shop. Now I just need to get a job so I can afford some of it.

FINIS... for now!