The flavor of pink

As luck would have it, the bad Australian stereotype guy was on my flight!  I went over to touch his head for good luck.  He grinned and flicked me with a few drops of Fosters. 

At the airport, I sat by some Australians (they were all Australians on a flight to Australia, so it wasn’t like I could head over and convince the Finns to skinny dip) and asked them about Perth.  “So, what do you recommend I do in Perth?  It is my first time there.”

They looked at each other incredulously and stared blankly back at me.  “Perth?” they said together.  Yeah, Perth.  We are waiting to get onto a plane to Perth, everyone here is obviously just coming back from holiday, you are going to Perth, you must know something about it.  They stuttered and stumbled for a while.  Crap. 

That is what happens when I pick some place to go off the interwebs because they had a cheap flight and good advertising.  Don’t ever travel with me – you will wind up in the middle of a blizzard in sunny Arizona wearing nothing against the elements other than a cheap plastic poncho you picked up at the drug store.  Or, you could be really unfortunate and I could drag you almost to Patagonia on a marathon drive only to insist we jump in a boat with a bunch of drunk fishermen to look at penguins because it was cheaper than going on the official tour. 

I jokingly asked them if they worked for the Ministry of Tourism and they cracked up, and started to throw some ideas out.  “Umm, yeah, there is a park or something that is nice.”  Basically they said it was OK but anything really interesting was a few hours or days south.  Well, I am going to Australia, and I am going to like it whether I like it or not.  When the plane started to fly over the continent,  I got all excited and exclaimed, “Look!  Australia!” and everyone looked at me like I had just let my pet wallaby start hopping through the aisle of the plane.  For the record, I always keep my wallaby stowed under the seat in front of me unless I am entering or exiting the aircraft.  My kookaburra, however, is free to roam about the plane unless the fasten seat belt sign is on.

The country by air is really beautiful.  There is a blood red river running in the middle of these crazy fractal looking gorges and tributaries.   It looks kind of like the Badlands in South Dakota, but red.  There is a lot of Australia in Australia – we have been flying over it for a good 45 minutes and haven’t seen much is the way of civilization.  Don’t they do Survivor here?  It looks like a good place for it.  Anyway, I am excited.  I was excited until the woman next to me announced it was 35C today.  35!  Yikes, so 35 times 2 plus 30 equals 100F.   Yet, I am huddled in this snuggie blanket thing because it is so freaking cold on the plane, I am about to ask the woman next to me if I can put my feet under her legs. 

If you are going to Indonesia, please fly Garuda.  It is absolutely sweet!  They give you a little juice when you board, a comfort kit of a neck pillow, black out eye mask, headphones, a blanket and a pillow and the food is pretty good.  They do traditional Indonesian food, but since I am a veggie, they made me a special one.  It came with a fluffy hot pink mousse for desert.  I still don’t know what flavor it was.  You know that red means cherry and blue equals some berry flavor and yellow equals banana, but I don’t know what flavor pink is.   Wait, I am in Australia now – let’s do that again.  I don’t know what FLAVOUR pink is, mate.  Plus, the stewardesses are really beautiful and they get to wear cool outfits and are even nice.  I want them to adopt me and teach me how to do my hair and always maintain grace under pressure. 

We just flew over a really big rock, I am going to pretend it is Ayers rock and that I have now visited it.  It is just like visiting Iran and Afghanistan when I flew over them on the way to India.  Although I do want to go to both for real one day.  Afghanistan looks like Nevada from the air. 

I can’t wait to see what story will lead with the inevitable title, “Dingos Ate My Baby”, but I know there will be one.

Australia, fair warning – you are in for it.  It isn’t just that you decided to unpack all of my bags, touch my underwear, question me about my use of drugs (“not since the 90s”, I said helpfully), swab my wallet for drugs, charge me $30 to store my kitty coffee because I don’t have an import license and take up an hour of my time with your dickish (almost as dickish as Americans!) immigration folks, but your people dress funny.  Really really funny. 

Everyone is wearing Cros, which is a criminal offense.  Those that aren’t dressed like they jumped off the beach at Kuta are overdressed.  They look like chunky store mannequins.  Everything is matchey matchey.  What the hell? Just because the sales person tells you to buy it, doesn’t mean you have to.  Get that damn fake flower out of your hair, lady.  It does not draw attention upward away from your ass any more than my big hair draws attention away from my thighs.  Try wearing mainly black and skip the bedazzles on your jeans.  That isn’t a good look for anyone, especially a larger girl.  All the guys are dressed like this scientist I used to work with, except they are wearing Crocs.  With socks.  Did I mention that is punishable by life imprisonment in Jenlandia? 

I am giving you three chances, Australia.  If you don’t obey me, I will turn you into little bunny foo foo, hopping through the forest, taking all the field mice and making them wear Crocs.  You have been warned.