Tasting Number Yellow - A Novella

Taking Flight

I have been guilty of partaking in a torrid love affair with the west coast of America ever since the tender age of eight, when my parents took my sister and me to Disneyland. But it wasn’t the teacups of the Magic Kingdom that captured my heart with such vivid strains of brush-stroked imagination. It was the saltwater air and the side wind coastline car ride up Highway 101 to L.A. between I-State 5 and Dana Point that enraptured me with its outstretched arms of enticing appeal. These patches of tar and tarmac would serve as vital segues; introductions into the metamorphosis that would turn me into a junkie of the road before pubescence. That Sunday afternoon drive up Pacific Coast Highway in June 1985 would become the single most important event of my life. From that moment on, I saw the world as an open landscape, an opportunity to engage in any one of the life-altering adventures capable of making a man content upon his deathbed. To a young boy these highways were exposed concrete catacombs offering a chance to experience great personal manifestations of growth within the vast encumbrance of the imagination’s fight to flourish amidst the hardships of brainwave complacency.

The roots of my humble beginnings grew in the rich soil of the Midwest underbelly. Sprawling pastures under blue skies filled with billowy white, cotton clouds hosted childhood fantasies and fueled adolescent imagination. Yet the Midwest had a darker reputation of being able to undermine the dreams and ambitions of many well-intentioned young men and women hoping to take advantage of the abundant American dream. Beyond the front of cotton clouds loomed an almost Grim Reaper-like landscape - harvesting droning, monotonous souls stereotyped with the conservative stamp of disillusionment across the brow of its distinct sprawling farm spreads. As I grew older, I sensed that it was definitely time for a change. I could see that the ambiance Frisco had to offer stood as a metaphoric gateway into a life of uncertainty and excitement that had attracted artists, wanderers, drifters, poets, musicians, druggies, dreamers, derelicts, and asylum seekers for generations.

Now, as the plane touches down in San Francisco, the renewal of our acquaintance is somewhat surreal. And as my feet make contact with the loam under California’s setting sun it becomes obvious to me that there is a new chapter beginning in my life, an opportunity to write a new episode that so desperately needs to be written. Not only to document the sanctimonious hope for a fortuitous future, but to turn the pages on a wayward past the has plagued my autobiography for the last ten years. The layover lasts a lifetime.

I finally board Flight 1077 with non-stop service to Sydney at 10:30p.m. "This plane is my winged salvation," I think to myself as I feel the rubber of the tires leave the confines of SFO behind. "Embrace your own destiny." In the words of the late great Hunter S. Thompson: By the ticket. Take the ride. I carefully place my laptop in the overhead compartment and hunker down into seat 37C. Just as I begin reading the first lines of Chapter IV in a Bill Bryson book I notice, out of the corner of my eye, the rather peculiar man sitting next to me. He’s young, presumably in his early twenties and of diminutive stature - a lean and wiry frame. His nose is thin and he awkwardly brushes his shaggy brown hair out of his sleepy eyes as it falls over his Buddy Holly glasses. I study the odd fellow’s habits further; after all, we’ll be “row mates” for the next fourteen hours.

“How’s it going?” I inquire trying my best to sound nonchalant. He tells me his name is Franz, and that he’s heading to Brisbane to study at the University of Queensland for a year. He is originally from Oregon, but moved cross-country after graduating high school and is attending Brown University on a dance scholarship. I’m relieved to have a travel companion of his disposition, considering he could have turned out to be the fatigued, middle-aged woman three seats back who is trying in vain to manage her unruly three-year-old daughter, who is reveling in the notion that she can run at break neck speed up and down the aisle of this DC10 completely unscathed from parental admonishing. If I time it just right I can send this snot-nosed kid flying into the stewardess cart a couple of rows ahead. Better not chance it; these soccer moms can be pretty temperamental.

Two trays holding globules of what could be mistaken for meals, a movie that may just as well be used at Guantanamo Bay for extracting information via torture and fourteen cramped leg hours later the pilot announces that we’ve arrived in Australian airspace as the plane begins to descend through the Sydney dawn skyline. I'd made the flight with minor complications, but the journey was just beginning.

Officially Down Under

I disembark Flight 1077 and have an hour to go through customs, grab my bags, find Terminal 2, and get on a connecting flight that will take me from Sydney to Hobart, Tasmania. If the descent into Sydney was one of the finest aerial views I have ever witnessed - a mirage of miraculous architecture built amidst seemingly uninhabitable elements that testify to man’s persistence - the city is even more picturesque at ground level. A paradise sprawled along a coastline of pristine beachfront that stretches as far as the eye can see. The famous Sydney Opera House stands as a beacon of art with carefully crafted white sails protruding from the bustling landscape of this magnificent metropolis. The structure itself sits on Bennelong Point overlooking the Sydney Harbor. (Coincidentally, the structure’s primary caregiver - Danish architect Jørn Utzon - was not invited to the opera house’s opening in 1973. A room that bears witness to this beautiful view of the harbor has since been dedicated in his name). The edifice glistens in the winter sunlight with such modern placidity that it almost contrasts the fast-paced mobility of the über urban life hiding behind its eloquent band shells. It is an amazing sight to behold. Customs is a breeze and finding my bags poses no problem (two fifty-pound forest green suitcases that have enough clothes in them to dress the entire country of San Marino). Locating Terminal 2 is like trying to taste the number yellow. After following a trail of dead end arrows for fifteen minutes, I decide to break down and forsake the obligatory oath I took upon entering manhood to never do what I'm about to do - ask directions. Ironically, this proves even more of a red herring as it becomes virtually impossible for my tired brain to comprehend the vague instructions I receive from various airport staff members. I check my watch and realize I have a minimal amount of time to grab my connecting flight. Yet I cannot, for the life of me, find this mythical terminal that I swear I can hear snickering at me somewhere down an untraceable hallway. I dodge and weave through hundreds of travelers and well-wishers who are perhaps waiting to see friends and family off to fulfill their own undetermined destinies. God speed fellow travelers, god speed.

“Shit!!! This terminal doesn’t exist,” I muttered under my breath as I find myself standing amidst a sea of nameless faces that don’t seem at all concerned that I am never going to make it to Tasmania and will probably end up dying here in Kingsford Smith International Airport, my body having to be burned due to the toxic odor emanating off the clothes I have now donned for almost thirty sweat-drenched hours.

“Lost, mate?” The question is like cool drops of moisture on my parched and frazzled neurons. He is in his mid-to-late thirties and is wearing a security badge I’m sure he’s lifted out of a cereal box.

“A bit,” I respond sheepishly. “I’m trying to find Terminal 2.”

“Ah, the elusive Terminal 2,” he laughs. “No worries, mate. You see that bus out there beyond those glass doors,” he says in a thick Aussie drawl pointing to a set of sliders about thirty yards away. “That bus’ll take you to T2 all right.”

“Really? That easy?” I ask somewhat bewildered. “Thanks,” I manage, the relief exuding from my tenor. I hastily dart toward the idle bus pushing one suitcase in front of me while pulling the other like an unruly child staging a futile protest.

“No worries, mate. And good luck,” he calls after me. For a brief moment I think I denote a hint of sarcasm in his voice. A twenty minute bus ride across town soon confirms my suspicions.

Cultural difference #18: the difference between Aussies and Americans commuting in bigger cities is that Aussies seem to have time. This isn’t to insinuate that Aussies are slower or lazier or have less important agendas than Americans. Nor is it to say that all Aussies subscribe to this stereotype. Some inhabitants of the island continent I’m quite certain are in an enormous hurry to get nowhere. But that doesn’t seem the case in most instances, in fact quite the contrary. Australians realize that there is no sense majoring in the minor things. They have created within their busy network an almost utopian approach to organizing their schedules. When you know where you’re going, it’s never a race. It’s brilliant. The Aussies have mastered the fine art of patience, for the most part. “No worries” is truly the country’s motto. When they say it they seriously mean it. My hat is off to you, Australia.

"COME ON, MOVE IT PEOPLE!!! I HAVE A MEETING IN 15 MINUTES!” Ah, the pungent stench of white trash, American arrogance. You can smell it a hundred miles away. It rears its ugly head and spits dead in the face of the rest of humanity for even thinking its existence is on par. What makes this situation truly ironic, however, is the fact that this asshole shoving people from behind as we exit the bus in front of T2 is a fat, festering pile of absolute maggot dung - disheveled, unshaven, unkempt. What kind of meeting is this joker attending anyway? I didn’t smell corn dogs on the bus, so I'm fairly certain the circus isn’t in town. I am so angry that this waste of human space is in a position to represent the well-behaved and beautiful Americans I am proud to call my fellow countrymen that I have all I can do to prevent myself from slapping the back of his pumpkin-shaped head. Jerk. The lady who backs into me as he bitterly disengages with the rest of the commuters looks back at me with empathy.

“No worries,” she smiles.

I am sitting in the C3 waiting lounge engaged in my first viewing of Australian television. There is a morning talk show on. The host is interviewing some Australian Football star from Port Adelaide who has just been traded to Geelong. Two laid back blokes having a conversation as if they were lifelong mates. The sun, which has broken over the eastern horizon, jockeys for position in the clear blue morning sky. Nature’s beauty doesn’t end at the borders of your country. Get out there and see the world. Before you die, get out there and witness the many wonders this planet has laid at your feet.

She fumbled with her carry-on as she sat down two seats over. “Excuse me?” I inquire. “Can you tell me why my ticket is a different color than everyone else's?” For those of you who travel extensively, it’s a stupid question. I know. I’m already well aware of the answer, but I can’t think of another way to break the ice. She’s gorgeous and this is the first conversation I have had with a human being since chatting with Franz on the plane. I haven’t showered in days and must look as if a freight train has run over me. To top it off, I haven’t had time to even slap a couple swipes of deodorant under my arms and here I am talking to this amazing woman - absolute stunner - big brown, doe eyes that twinkle when she smiles. Tossing her long, dark hair over her shoulders she moves a seat closer. I feel the back of my neck start to sweat. Great, just what I need.

“It just means that you and I have to board last,” she responds showing me the same colored ticket. I can smell the scent of her hair. She must have had an apple orchard growing from her scalp. The scent is intoxicating, yet I turn my head slightly when I speak to her for fear the smell of my breath will drive her to madness.

“Bugger,” I stammer (a phrase I had, oddly enough, picked up pen-paling an English girl when I was in the fourth grade).

“Bugger indeed,” she quips with a smirk. Her name is Nikko, and as we sit together on the hour and fifty minute flight to Tasmania she tells me all sorts of interesting things about her life - skiing with her family in “The Snowies” of New South Wales, parasailing on Bondi Beach, crying for two straight days when she hit her first wallaby with her mother’s car. She’s a registered nurse who works in Sydney on holiday to visit a friend in Hobart for five days.

“What brings you to Tassie?” she asks.

“I'm studying at the university for a semester.”

“How amazing!” she squeals grabbing my arm. The blood instantly rushes to my head.

“My friend is the student body president. I’ll have to introduce you to her.”

Another fact you can’t escape about Australians: they are conversationalists of the utmost rapport and very outgoing. It’s sad to think that the biggest culture shock I’ve endured thus far is the fact that Aussies are sincere people. But when you’re used to false reactions and self-gratifying implications the majority of your life, you tend to wonder what in the hell people who come off as genuine really want from you. It drives you crazy because you can’t quite figure out what their angle is. When you finally realize that they’re not after anything more than friendship, or to pass on a simple act of kindness, you feel like an absolute idiot. And yet, you don’t mind being wrong about your gut reaction to their generosity. Some people are just angels in a periled world, innocence in a race gone wrong. Before we go our separate ways in the Hobart International Airport we exchange e-mail addresses and I ask for her cell phone number.

“Do you mind if I call you while you’re here?”

“Not at all. In fact, I’m looking forward to it,” she flirts in a voice that could sing a lullaby and make me forget all the bullshit and shortcomings I have ever waded through in this short life of mine. Fair thee well my angel divine, until we meet again. She turns to wave and then is gone.

“Are you Colin?” a voice behind me asks as I stand motionless staring at the space where Nikko stood only moments before.

“I think so,” I answer still dazed by her absence.

“I’m Del. I’m here to drive you to your accommodations. Do you have your luggage?"

There is a Malaysian girl standing next to him who will be attending the university as well. She has one small carry-on and a suitcase - medium-sized - at her side. She will be studying in Tasmania for two years. I will be studying in Tasmania for six months. I grab my two over-sized suitcases off the conveyor belt and, together with my fully packed carry-on and personal item (laptop briefcase) strapped over my shoulder, I clumsily follow Del and the Malaysian girl to the car parked outside.

Del brings the compact Honda to a halt in front of a house around 11.30am. A large, drafty post-WWII style accommodation situated at the base of Mount Wellington on Dynnyrne Road - the residence overlooks the suburb of greater Sandy Bay. Del opens the front door and I set down my suitcases in the foyer and have a quick look around. It's spatial, slightly unkempt but clean. “You’re on your own from here, mate,” informs Del throwing me the house keys. He jumps back in the Honda and drives off down the narrow road leaving me standing in the open doorway.

I find room #1 and throw my bags on the match-boxed sized bed. “Looks like I’ll be camping for the next six months.” I close the door behind me and set off to find the bathroom. Cultural difference #279: toilets in Australia (and the majority of the world for that matter) have two buttons on the top that control how much water is dispensed into the basin when flushing has commenced. These serve as “half” and “full” flush buttons, you might say. A #1 and #2 button on every toilet. It is a very conscientious and conservative approach to relieving one’s self. No problem, easy enough. After flushing 37 times I decide to walk to the liquor store or as it’s called in this fair dinkum country, the “bottle shop” to inspect the island’s selection of beers. The twenty minute walk downhill into town makes little impact on my numb, sleepless body and I soon find a suitable establishment upon which to peruse such said alcoholic inventory. Cultural eye-opener #1: they don’t really drink Foster's in Australia. In fact, during my entire stay in Tasmania I never saw a single Foster's served. There are two main brewers on Tassie: Cascade and Boag’s. Boag’s Brewery is located in the northern part of the state, while Cascade Brewery is located south in the state capital of Hobart. Geographically, I am expected to be a Cascade supporter, swearing my allegiance to the brewery and ready to defend any outburst of off-colored remark about her at a moment’s notice. But after tasting both beers I find myself drawn to Boag’s. It has more body; a medium-hopped beer with an overall better looking caramel color and smoothness. Again, it’s my opinion; it’s a personal preference of course. I grab two cartons of Boag’s Draught and head back up the mountain toward Dynnyrne to invest in some much needed rest after being up for thirty-four straight stinking hours. After the forty minute walk up the hill, I pass out on the matchbox and fall fast asleep.

Home and Away (and Mexican Karma)

I wake up around 4pm to the sound of somebody cooking in the kitchen. Enter my first flatmate. Derek was born and bred in Tasmania and has been going to the University of Tasmania for close to three years. He has mastered the fine art of student living. All the necessities afforded to me during my comfortable stay can be accredited to this man. He’s been living in the Dynnyrne shared house his entire uni career and has established a base of operations that would make Bill Gates blush: digital cable, wireless Internet, PS3, and CD players strewn throughout the house so there is a soundtrack playing to the rhythm of your life whenever you walk into a room. His bedroom is his palace chambers - a commanding view of Sandy Bay and the Derwent River outside of his window, and a queen-sized bed that replaces the standard issued matchbox handed out by the university. A true survivor if ever there was one. We exchange pleasantries and begin to find common ground. He tells me he’s a tutor at the university and that he’ll be graduating soon with a degree in teaching. An avid footy fan he's a "staunch and adamant" supporter of Essendon FC. From the cut-out clippings of footy photos that grace the walls of the living room it’s clear he’s not exaggerating. I tell him about Nikko and tell him I’m thinking about asking her out tonight. “Why don't you come along?” I offer as more of a plea than an extended gesture of generosity. “She says she’s got a friend she’d like me to meet so the numbers will be even, and anyway I don’t know my way around the city and I really don’t know anybody and I would feel a lot more comfortable if I had somebody with me that I knew and ...” He finally agrees and I call Nikko to set up a time and location where we can get together for a couple of drinks.

We meet Nikko and her friend at a club called Halo, located just down the road a bit near Salamanca Place in downtown Sandy Bay. We find Nikko, who introduces her friend to us, and I am immediately smitten by her personality and charm. Outgoing and vigorously attuned to everyone having a good time, Riley is much younger than her soul lets on. She has an air about her that says she has seen her fair share of highs and lows. She’s one of those people who has learned how the world works at a tender age yet won’t be deterred by the negative connotations this knowledge can sometimes impose - a glowing complexion that wears a weathered smile, a breath of fresh air in the midst of a mundanity. The night wears on - drinks and dancing - and Derek and I finally return home around 5.30am more than slightly inebriated, exhausted, and satisfied.

The next day I decide to embark upon an explorative walk around the city, window shopping at every storefront I come across and strolling down every side street I pass in order to hone my bearings. Hobart is a beautiful and sprawling city, the greater area encapsulating approximately 215,000 inhabitants, and boasts some of the best waterfront views in Tasmania. Growing up on the shores of Lake Michigan, I have played spectator to some of the best beachfront panorama the world has to offer and the beaches of Tassie are no exception.

When I return home another flatmate has arrived. Potter hails from a small town in England, about an hour’s drive north of London. He is every bit the regal ambassador one might expect from the Mother Country. Although he is noticeably younger than me (his rose-colored cheeks and lack of facial hair make him look like the poster child for a "We don't sell to minors" sign you'd see hung behind the cashier in a liquor store), I am immediately stricken with the sense that he is kindred spirit. He exerts a keen overview of world politics, a voracious appetite to devour all things printed, and can quite possibly drink me under the table. Not an easy feat to pull off, if I do say so myself. But you have to understand that "Poms" (a nickname the Aussies give to Brits that ironically stands for "Prisoner of Her Majesty") start honing their skills with ales, ciders, and spirits and at a very early age. By the time they reach their mid-20s they have acquired a heightened awareness in the genre of alcohol that blows their global counterparts off the map. Port, sherry, spirits, beer - you name it they have an opinion on it or a vital piece of information you need to know about it. Potter is studying environmental science and will be staying in Tassie for one year. He and I will get along just fine. Three of the five housemates are accounted for. The other two won’t arrive for another week. I decide to call it an early night. Potter and I have a university orientation/meet and greet the next day at 9am.

Hmmm, the ever looming, provincial and downright dreadful advent of an orientation meeting. To go or not to go, that is the question. These things usually take up the majority of the day and in the end amount to the equivalency of a papier-mâché shield deflecting an atom bomb. But Murphy’s Law states that if I skip it I’ll probably miss out on some vital piece of information that will ultimately lend itself to saving me from complete and total embarrassment somewhere down the road. I decide I'd better go and begin to dress. Potter and I take the ten minute walk down to the campus from our house. When we arrive we find the rest of the international students hanging outside Hayden Hall waiting for Diane, the international student coordinator, to appear. When she finally does, we are all filed into the building and filtered into one, large room resembling a bingo hall. We crowd around several elongated tables to await instruction. As I look around the room it occurs to me that I am stewing in a melting pot of culture. So many differing attributes, colors, features, accents, sizes, shapes, and aimless looks on foreign faces (yours truly included) that it reminds me of a human kaleidoscope. After an excruciatingly long speech that had me daydreaming of catching octopus off the Great Barrier Reef and turning them inside out in preparation for eating, Diane announces that it’s time for us to get up and mingle around a bit while prepared sandwiches accompanied by a dessert tray are served. As I carefully pick through the sandwiches in the hopes of finding an egg salad with tomato among the carnage, the Swedish fellow who sat across me during the lecture makes his way over. He is a tall, slender man with chiseled facial features that definitely reveal his Scandinavian descent. His eyes are puddle blue which encompass his unusually large, round pupils. He approaches me and taps me on the shoulder just as I am reaching for a coveted egg salad sandwich.

“So, what courses are you taking in journalism?”

“How did you know I was taking journalism?” I ask somewhat caught off-guard.

“It’s written on your name tag.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right. Let’s see, there’s Ethics, Media Studies, Digital Imaging - pretty basic stuff, except for the Digital Imaging to which I'm absolute shite at. And you?”

“Journalism, as well. Television Journalism.” It’s interesting to meet someone from another part of the world who shares the same passion for the subject.

“I’m Colin,” I say extending my hand.

“Sebastian,” he replies engulfing it with his over-sized bear claw in approval. We speak in length on a myriad of subjects - the obvious harvest of beautiful women in Sweden, the comparison and contrasting values of media sources in our respective countries, etc. At 23, Sebastian already possesses a keen and determined outlook on life. He is laid back but focused, intense yet casual. Qualities that immediately strike me as someone having the confidence in themselves that is essential if one is to be truly happy. We find that we have a great deal in common and immediately become inseparable. Both being vegetarian, we enjoy carousing through town discovering the best pizza joints we can find during the day and at night the debauched senselessness is almost overwhelming. It’s fantastic.

The Night I Realized I Didn't Need The Stars

Blistered fever the remnants of which I myself cannot account for. What the hell is wrong with me? Chemicals spilling thru my veins like the overflow of backwash into a reservoir used to house the wicked. God, am I talking to myself? I see millions of catastrophic anomalies mad dashing and groping each other in the overgrown thickets of Malegaon hopping madly twisting and contorting bearing fangs where teeth should flourish. Brazilian colors streak across the Tassie night sky in hues of satin purple bright beaming shades of red to golden coin in my pocket I keep holding on to like some sacred souvenir. I have never seen so many stars in the sky at one time. A hundred thousand pin pricks that expose light behind immense black cloth backdrop of night. The stars they move, orbit, swift potential of growth and the exponential ability to swallow me whole if I am not careful to fully respect the power of her majesty the moon. My thoughts askew, they drift back to a time when I was someone else … someone I can barely remember now … someone who once led a life encrusted in pain …

Billy was my best friend growing up. We had our music that bound us together. We were going to be in a band together until the day one, or both, of us died. Goddamn I miss playing music with him. It was all so innocent back then. I received a drum set for Christmas when I was nine. Our first band was a three-piece outfit: Billy on guitar, Alex on bass, and me on drums. Alex sang. He was a phenomenal guitarist himself. He now lives in North Hollywood. Did a stint with Pete Yorn and dated Dave Grohl’s personal assistant for awhile. He used to come back home every once and a while to visit, but I never saw him. I called him the night before I left to say goodbye but hung up the phone before he could answer. Sometimes friends come in and out of your life like people board and disembark a crowded train. They bring you a song to sing and leave you with shards of memories and remnants of something greater you left behind and will never find again. I hope he’s doing well. I know he is. He always knew how to land on his feet. Billy and I went on to play together in a few more bands before we finally "made it". A recording contract that promised to put us on the national musical map. We toured the Midwest for about a year promoting the release of our LP “Evil Nation.” One night after a show in Cleveland the axe just fell. Our lead singer informed us that he was moving to India to find "enlightenment" and our bass player quit on the spot. Personally, I was relieved; I didn’t have the strength to keep on going anymore anyway.

After the split I decided to go back to school and get my degree. Billy didn’t fair as well. After the break-up he put together various outfits that would stick together for about a month or two then disband. But he never stopped trying; he never stopped chasing the dream that one day he'd play in the greatest rock band the world had ever seen. The last time I spoke to him he hit me up for $40, then tried to sell me a shotgun. This had been my best friend my entire life, so lending him money wasn’t an issue. I would’ve given everything I had if I could just get the old Billy back. But that was never going to happen. I knew why he needed the money so badly. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do - refusing his request. He kept calling until I finally took the phone off the hook. The conversation we had on that hot July evening was the last time I'd ever hear his voice. Billy played his final gig as rock god two weeks later, when he succumbed to his heroin addiction, five days before his twenty-sixth birthday. God, I miss him so much sometimes: the music, the nights we stayed up late and talked about getting out of that god forsaken town. I miss his smile. I miss the way he would laugh at his own jokes so hard that tears would roll down his face. We flew so much higher than all the bullshit. Goddamn you, Billy. I don’t want to do this alone. I sit here waiting for you to come back and rescue me, rescue me from all the ugliness. Come back. Come home. Can you hear me? We can make this world work again just you and me. We can sit in the quiet of each other's company, laughing lost inside our pain. Come back. Come home. I never wanted it to end this way. I’m stronger than I was before. I won’t let the ugliness in. There's so much more to live for, so many people, so many places, countries, cities, highways to travel; so many moons above other towns that now beacon us to come howl in the twilight of our moonlit madness. We can find comfort in the fact that we won’t ever look back. We can stay here and be stoned and commence the world into oblivion. We can be happy here feeling safe and rested under the blanket of celestial sky wrapping us warm within her magical arms of deferment. We can let it all go - the past, the anguish of memories we thought we could never escape, the atrocities we've seen. I sometimes wonder how you found the strength to stand a mere shell of a man for so long and perform the lost art of mastering a fake smile long enough to force a voice of confidence? There are scars, so many scars …

The night unfolded slowly over the minutes of a lifetime that had no clock to keep track of my movements. Time did not exist. Space and the subsequent reality to which many of us relate to from day to day took on an unordered characteristic revealing the tender thread of existence we all hold on to so tightly. I derive this level of judiciousness from immeasurable pain, excruciating commitment to constantly consult my inner being and find just one last time the man I was meant to be.

***

My head was pounding from the night before. Did we really drink four cases of beer in six hours? There weren't that many of us and half of 'em were girls. The girls drank goon all night, of that I’m sure. Goon is boxed wine. Hobartians add a dash of lemonade to it to give it some fizz. The lemonade in Tassie is carbonated so it's comparable to a lemon/lime soft drink in the States. The combination's not too bad, actually. I mean how do you fuck up a box of wine, right? I stumble into the kitchen and turn on the kettle. Coffee. I need coffee.

“Will you pour me a cup as well?” She comes in from behind, arms wrapped around my waist, wearing only my Grand Valley Football t-shirt, which hangs just above her knees.

“Sure. Do you take cream and sugar?” She’s from Vienna, I think. I can't be certain but I think I remember her singing Austria’s national anthem last night. I can’t remember her name. I’m a horrible person. Christ, I can’t even remember if we did it. I wasn’t about to ask; I just hope I was good. Sometimes those kinds of nights can make even Don Juan look as though he just came out of a monastery and has no clue on how to perform with a lady.

“You guys were crazy last night. Do you remember Sebastian giving you a hickey on your stomach?” I pull up my shirt to reveal my torso and wince. Jesus, what the hell went on last night?

“I don’t even want to know what I did to him in return,” I mutter. “What time is it anyway?”

“Quarter to three,” she purrs moving her arms up around my neck and kissing me softly on the cheek. You know that feeling you get the moment you realize that you have quite possibly made the biggest mistake of your natural existence and that the mistake you now know you made seemed like a good idea only ten hours earlier? Yeah? Me too.

“I'm going to watch the game now,” I manage between inner sobs of claustrophobia. God, will she ever leave? I stagger into the living room where throngs of bodies are strewn everywhere. Who are all these people? I find a spot on the couch between a girl in a Wonder Woman costume and some guy who is passed out sitting upright. He's wrapped in a bed sheet, a sombrero sits dumbly on his head. The urge comes in stalwart waves. I can't resist. I go back into the kitchen and retrieve a black marker from on top of the fridge. I return to my hombre and draw the thickest flavor savor I can manage on his upper lip. It looks remarkably well. He reminds me of the uncle you only see at Christmas and aren’t quite sure if he’s even part of the family anymore … or ever was. Something's still missing. I pull down the bed sheet and write "I GO CUCKOO FOR COCK AND BALLS" across his bare chest. Perfect. Now I can watch the footy with the sound knowledge that everyone is cared for and secure.

Footy players are insane. I mean these guys don’t give a good goddamn about anything. They slap, kick, punch, elbow, and head-butt each other every five seconds. It’s a rule. They beat the living crap out of each other while the game just keeps on playing. There could be WWIII going on in the middle of the field and the clock would still keep running. It’s all part of the game. It's a phenomenal sport, really, fast-paced and exciting. Bounce, pass, or kick the ball for every fifteen meters ran. If your teammate receives your pass your team is allowed a mark, which means the other team can’t tackle you. The object is to kick the ball through the uprights located at either end of the field. The outermost uprights are worth one point and the uprights in the middle (which are about five meters apart) are worth six. Game scores often reach into the hundreds, and though some Aussies north of Melbourne would refer to it as a “bogan” (e.g., white trash) sport, it’s an amazing spectacle to behold. My team - Carlton - is playing the Melbourne Demons today. The Carlton Blues are on the bottom of the heap this season. Once a powerhouse among the other AFL teams, they’re now in a “rebuilding phase.”

She creeps into the room and curls up by my feet. “You wanna fool around some more?” she whispers seductively looking up at me with cat’s eyes as she reaches for my cock.

“Honey, I couldn’t get it up in a room full of model 10 dyke whores right now.” It was true. My body was completely spent from the previous night’s insanity. Her demeanor changes instantly.

“You just used me for a lay last night, didn't you? You never meant all those sweet things you said to me last night, did you?”

Awe shit. Here it comes. You could literally see the smoke billowing out of this girl’s ears. It’s then I realize what I am dealing with here. She’s a cling-on. One of those chicks who think a night’s worth of rooting is as good as a wedding vow. This is my opportunity to get her out of my hair once and for all. I gotta bring it hard and heavy.

“Listen,” I say looking her dead in her meow-mix pupils, “I don’t even know who the hell you are.” I tell her this without a shred of compassion in my voice, and even though I know it’s coming she takes advantage of my hung over reaction time and lands her palm firmly across my face. She stands abruptly and marches into my bedroom, gathers her clothes, and storms out of the house without saying a word. It's the perfect ending to a one-night stand. The assurance that I'll never again awake to her embrace is worth a stinging right cheek.

“Thanks for a helluva evening,” I yell after her when I’m certain she’s well out of earshot. I don’t want to piss her off too badly. She may have some hot friends. I know, I’m a horrible person.

The breathing piñata is beginning to show signs of life. He’s still asleep but starts to fidget and squirm every few seconds. His writhing doesn't bother me at first; I’m wrapped up in the game. But they start to become convulsion-like, nearly knocking me off the couch. His eyes suddenly open in a gaze of disoriented incoherence and fear and it all becomes quite clear what is about to happen next.

“Dude, you o.k.? If you're gonna puke do it...”

If karma in fact does exists, she sure had a good laugh on me that day. The whole mustache and cock and balls thing was definitely not worth wearing this bogan beaner’s digested enchiladas from the night before. I try in earnest to get out of the way. I think Wonder Woman caught a little on her star-studded tank top. I receive the brunt of the expulsion. Dammit. Carlton loses the match and I’m covered in vomit. I should have stayed in bed.

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” he manages to convey in a weak voice that bears testament to his gut wrenching condition. With chuck plastered to my shirt and shorts I can only verbalize the surrender of my disgraceful circumstance.

“Sí, Señor, sí.”

Indigenous Justice

There she is again with that come hither stare I can’t resist. I’ve tried a million times to rid my memory of her eternal mesmerizing. I can’t shake her silhouette from my mind, my heart, my soul. Breath of life enlightenment she crawls into my thoughts like a nimble spider cleverly convincing me to dance within her carefully spun web of seduction. This time I am strong. I am in control. She will not have the upper hand - the mystery girl, the one fans the flames of my desire.

I turn tail and run from her insinuating assault in the hopes of diffusing my libido and adjourn down the road where I enter a building marked TASMANIA SUPREME COURT. Today the courtroom is filled with Aborigines: small, dark, large, indifferent, man, woman, child, heaps of them blank staring at an empty chair where, at some point in time, a judge will preside, I presume. The side door to the courtroom suddenly opens and a tall, muscular, grey-haired Aborigine is led toward the front of the room. He is sat down in a wooden chair. He is accompanied by a slender white man wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a brown uniform that sports a shiny silver badge. The Aborigine is donning an orange jumpsuit and shackles on his hands and feet. He is a prisoner of his own recognition. He is shackled to an iron hoop in the floor. He isn’t going anywhere.

The judge arrives later … much later: steely black accusing eyes that are passing judgment already, black cape, and a nose the color of alcoholic red. He’s been on the piss. A three martini lunch no doubt. The time is 1.30pm and my stomach lets me know that it's time to eat. In a minute old friend. Sustenance is right around the corner, but first I’ve got to see how this poor bugger comes out. A woman sitting next to me unexpectedly jumps from her seat in the back of the courtroom and rushes to the front of the room. She throws her arms around the prisoner's neck and begins to weep uncontrollably. She utters inaudible linguistics between sobs. She is speaking her native tongue and I cannot decipher a damn word. The deputy moves over, gently loosens her grip, and leads her out of the courtroom. Two more officers have accompanied the prisoner - one officer on either side of the incarcerated man.

The charge is double murder. The sentence carries the weight of life in Risdon Prison without the possibility of parole. Authorities received a break in the case three months ago via a phone call from a source that preferred to remain anonymous. The source revealed the name of the suspect stating that it was indeed the man in the jumpsuit who had committed the murders on that balmy December night in ‘04. The source tells police the information is correct because the suspect had confided in the source the day after the crimes were committed. Because the source would not reveal their identity, there was no witness to take the stand against the suspect. The judge is about to throw the case out due to a lack of evidence when a drunken bushman rushes into the courtroom with a bottle of scotch in one hand and a machete in the other.

“They were dirty sonsabitches and I loved ‘em!” he cries taking a slug of scotch. Then he thrusts the machete into his stomach. He drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes and bleeds cheap scotch whiskey for what seems like days as we sit in the courtroom wondering if this poor bastard will ever make it to the witness stand. Finally two bailiffs with latex gloves on come in carrying a body bag. They zip the poor drunk inside with the bottle of scotch still in his hand. The room is silent; the judge brings the gavel down.

“Case dismissed.”

I leave the building feeling renewed and revived, turn right on Salamanca, and enter Café Maldini.

Butterfingers, Blue Pills, Booze and Longhorn Lovin’

The US is saturated with its own brand of music, so it's no surprise that I'm immensely inept when it comes to knowing anything about Australian music. I am therefore pleasantly surprised to find that the University of Tasmania will be hosting a concert at the UniBar on Thursday. There will be three acts. The headliners will be a group called Butterfingers. My other two roommates have arrived only a few days prior to the concert, so I'm eager to find out if they know anything about this band. “You’ll like ‘em if you like hip-hop,” Benny informs me in his trademark matter-of-fact tone. At about 5’9”, Benny “The Fist” Salducci is no overbearing physical menace. He doesn’t have to be. His reputation for being one of the most vicious footy players to ever grace the oval grounds is proof enough that he has earned his nickname. The Fist, as he is referred to in footy realms that stretch far beyond Tassie, is one of the nicest guys I've ever met. Just don’t piss him off. Rumor has it he once bit a man’s finger off for giving his bird ... erm ... the bird. Ran the poor bugger down on his bicycle, jumped off and started beating the holy crap out of the guy. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he grabs the guy by the hand, bends his middle finger back until it snaps like a twig and proceeds to grind his incisors thru the bloke’s flesh like a starving piranha. He is definitely not one to be crossed on a bad day.

Dub is completely the opposite. Canadian by birth, he’s been in Hobart working on his PhD in environmental studies for the past year and a half. He's just returned from visiting some friends back home in Calgary and will be tutoring this semester at the university. He's a brilliant man with a quiet demeanor and a master with God’s greatest green. Dub can roll a joint faster than a priest can rub one out in a room full of alter boys. I’ve never seen anything like it in my entire life, and to say I’ve been around this situation once or twice before would be the understatement of the century. Dub is the real deal, a connoisseur of cannabis you might say. He is on board to go to the concert and together with Benny, Potter, Derek, and Sebastian we trek the ten-minute walk down to the campus grounds.

We arrive just as the second act is leaving the stage. I guess they were pretty good from what Riley tells us when we catch up with her at the bar a little after 9.30pm. “The Butterfingers are about to go on in ten minutes,” she says. “Better get a beer while you can; it’s gonna get packed in here.” She’s with a group of people she works with at the student union center. There's Krissy (who bears a striking resemblance to Chrissie Hyde), Joss who is Riley’s roommate and Big Gay Brian, who is dressed as though he's just stepped off the pages of GQ. He carries his cigarettes in a little tin holder that says “I Love Fags.” We all grab a beer and blend into the crowd, which is anxiously awaiting the emergence of the band.

Suddenly the lights are cut. It's pitch-black and I can't see my hand in front of my face. You can almost cut the anticipation with a knife. Screams perpetuate from sloppy school girls in the front row who have barely a shred of clothing on. They’re exuding sex in rhythms of orgasmic expectations hoping to catch a band member’s attention. Pretty little shag hags. The crowd begins to surge with meticulous, restless electricity. Suddenly a siren goes off and four silhouettes emerge from the black cloth hanging on the back of the stage. The singer grabs the mike and begins to chant, “Who did you come to see?!?” He does this in a hip-hop cadence that the crowd seems to relish. The audience replies back in unison:

“Butterfingers, Butter, Butterfingers!!!” The wild and rhythmic gesticulation is sensational to witness. The lights explode on in a bright spectrum of greens, reds, and blues. The band goes into an hour long set of grooves and beats that are only rivaled by the lyrical hilarity streaming with the melody like some sort of rare and authentic vocal silk weaving its way through the dulcet tapestry. The stands transfixed. People are bobbing up and down like immigrants on a steamship battling the urge to completely explode. You can feel the surge of positive energy fusing throughout the room in floods of uproarious deluge. It’s truly a phenomenal event to be sure.

After the show I stand outside with Krissy and Joss (who is preoccupied with some bird he met earlier) talking about the concert.

“What did you think?” Krissy inquires.

“Pretty amazing,” I reply. I'm antsy and full of leftover energy. I don't want the night to end. “Where to now?” I bubble. Just then I feel a tap on my shoulder. I spin around to meet the strangest guy I've ever seen. His eyes wander aimlessly around my face as if he's trying to focus on something that isn’t there.

“You American?” he grunts in a drunken voice that would make W.C. Fields proud.

“Yes,” I respond not knowing where this conversation is heading.

“Good on you,” he snorts slapping me on the back as if it were some sort of talent I had exerted. “Take this. You'll be a space cadet in twenty minutes,” he says handing me a little blue pill. I recognize it immediately. Ecstasy is pretty popular down here and I'm certainly no stranger to the pharmaceutical world. Running into some random guy who gives me a shot of E for free when the going price is $AUS35 is a cautionary tale. But I’m in high spirits tonight, so I take the bait.

“Thanks,” I say chasing it down with a slug of beer.

"There’s an after party at The Duke if you’re interested,” he mumbles pointing randomly to the people around us.

“Sure, why not?” I mean this guy just presented me with a wonderful night all wrapped up nice and neat in a little blue pill. The least I can do is amuse him with my company. We hail a couple of taxis and it isn’t long before we're careening through the streets of Hobart en route to our destination.

A big night out on the town is not something that should be taken lightly. It requires a studious amount of calculation and preparation, and challenges one to look internally and decide what measures need be adhered to in order to procure and solidify the maximum level of pleasure available. Climactically clamoring in a precession of three clickity clack clanking cabs cars, Riley and her friends, together with my flatmates and Sebastian and me, all make it to The Duke under break neck speeds. The place is a lively pub with outdoor seating and the periodical one-man band playing in the corner. It's not overtly elaborate - a see-through plastic doorway leading into the main pub and a rather unassuming layout of space consisting of two rooms and a patio. But there is something about it that's eerily representative of the charmed, Midwestern bars back home. We wait ten minutes outside for “Major Looney Tunes” with the space pills to show up but he never does. As we enter through the plastic threshold we are greeted by students from the international orientation. In all we represent a good chunk of the western planet. There is, of course, Sebastian from Sweden and Potter from England. Dub from Canada and myself from the States. There is also Micah from Denmark, the Icelandic “brothers” Vick and Toti, Andrea, who is also from Denmark, Denny from Germany, Karrin from Switzerland and the occasional Aussie strewn and sandwiched amidst the human kaleidoscope. As I look around the pub I am struck with the sense that most of us have come to the University of Tasmania not so much for the educational advantage, but for the chance to get the hell away from our familiar surroundings for a while and breathe in the climate of a different culture.

We start by ordering jugs. Not those kind of jugs. Not that kind of bar. Jugs are the equivalent to pitchers in the U.S. They are slightly smaller and run anywhere from $10-$15. Except for Potter, my flatmates have dispersed to various areas of the pub. Potter and I are left to fend for ourselves in this vast melting pot of cultural diversity and so we join the crew of international representatives. The group is being commandeered by Avery, a seasoned vet of educational affairs who has already procured two university degrees and feels no great sense of urgency to capitalize on either one of them for fear of being found qualified to carry out some sort of work detail that would present a legitimate career. He is currently training to be a manager at a Starbucks opening soon and he seems to be fairly optimistic about the whole endeavor. “Good ol’ fashioned capitalism. You’re either for it or against it; parish the bloke who embraces the latter,” he remarks with a certain piety. Capitalism in Australia seems to be a concept of necessity rather than a concept of Western duty. Aussies, I believe, understand that if they don’t embrace the Western philosophy the economic repercussions could be catastrophic such as was for their neighbors to the north. But there is a certain weariness they administer when confronted to convey their own opinion on the economic fail safe.

As the night continues inhibitions are being cast away like lingerie. Jugs are being poured at an alarming rate and I think to myself, “Jesus Christ, AUSSIES. CAN. DRINK!!!” It’s almost ridiculous. If you’re not consuming your fair share of booze (which is usually about the amount just below getting your stomach pumped for alcohol poisoning) they will let you know. Avery does just that to me, so I pick up the pace. And then I pick up the pace some more. And just when I think that I can’t possibly fit any more liquid into my system, I drink another jug. By now most of the students have gone back to their shared homes or dormitories leaving Avery, Sebastian, Potter, and me to explore our other options associated with pub crawling. We head crosstown to the Telegraph near the wharf. The Telegraph is a much larger pub than The Duke - a luminous patio outside and an inside dance floor that boasts enough room to encompass even the most spastically challenged of dancers. Sebastian and I are engaged in a conversation about the moral dilemma gay marriage poses within the confines of a homophobic nation and how his country has granted rights to same-sex partners, whereas the U.S. has yet to make this leap. Sebastian is beside himself with the fact that Americans feel this overwhelming urge to exert their rights in public by displaying an almost child-like attitude.

“We understand that democracy is a privilege and we respect it in Sweden. The U.S. treats their freedom as though they have just received a brand new toy for their birthday and want to show it off to all the neighborhood kids. It’s so immature.” I agree to a certain extent. We do have a bit of growing up to do when it comes to respecting our unalienable rights. Just because we CAN do something doesn’t necessarily mean we SHOULD do something. I begin to go into my diatribe on U.S. mismanagement of war effort in the Middle East and how I can understand how some would preceive Americans as those who tend to put too much president on some things and not enough on others, but how, then again, it's amazing to reflect on the accomplishments the nation has achieved in such a relatively short span of time, awe-inspiring once you think about it, actually, when I feel a tug on my arm. I turn around and meet the angelic faces of the Lady Longhorns - two beautiful Texans who are also students at the university for a semester.

“You guys having fun?” asks the taller of the two. At 5’7”, Tracy has long, blonde hair, a flawless complexion, and perfectly straight teeth (teeth say a lot about a person).

“Looks like it’s about to get a lot better,” Sebastian grins.

“You guys wanna dance?” inquires Tiffany. Tiffany is trouble. Good trouble. I can see it in her eyes. Ice-blue soul cutters that look deep inside you and let you know she’s not afraid of what she sees. She's an artist in every sense of the word. A furniture designer and welder, she's a nineteen-year-old bombshell. A bit shorter than Tracy, her body makes me internally thank the powers that be for an evolutionary example of her caliber. She knows what she’s got and how to use it and I love every inch of that sexy sway a woman can walk when backing up their talk. I grab her and Sebastian throws his arm around Tracy and we hit the dance floor.

You can definitely tell who the three Americans are in the group by the way we dance. Tiffany grinds on me so hard I almost feel obligated to slip her a twenty. She’s got rhythm and shakes her ass like a bartender does a dirty martini. An dirty martini - that’s exactly how I would describe Tiff: smooth and strong and easy going down. Sebastian is busy carefully calculating Tracy’s movements and keeping impressively timed head bobs with the music. He's more reserved is his dance style, but can still cut a rug with the best of us. I’m impressed. We dance a few songs and then belly up to the bar for a shot. Tiffany and I are tequila drinkers; Sebastian and Tracy order some apple pucker bullshit shot. Tiffany is definitely feeling the booze, and while the others are off in separate corners of the bar playing pool or dancing, she looks at me with devilish intent and we head back to her apartment.

Burn Your Sleeves and Sing for Your Liquor

I have made a remarkable discovery that has led to the acquirement of a valuable moral rule regarding life that I believe will benefit me for years to come. The lesson is this: Don’t wear your survival skills on your sleeve - always on guard, always weary of other people’s intentions. This can pose a problem when interacting with others because it plays antagonist when attempting to consecrate lasting relationships. I am more than just a trifle dispirited to report that this sort of behavior has plagued me for longer than I care to admit. Don't get me wrong, it’s not as though I don’t respect or find the need to socialize with other human beings. In fact, if asked what I believe helps maintain a healthy lifestyle, periodic association and interaction with others would be at the top of my list. It’s just that, for years now, I haven't put much stock in or value on certain relationships that have probably deserved a bit more attention than what I've conceded toward them. This is purely a result of my own devising and utterly my own fault. Somehow, somewhere I must've gotten burned by someone, something that contributed to my switching into survival mode. I have simply forgotten to switch back. I feel as though I’ve missed out on a lot of potentially solid, lasting relationships simply because I have worn my survival skills on my sleeve for far too long.

There's a reason I'm eluding to all of this. Living the past three months in Tassie and getting past the initial shock of people parading around in a genuine semblance of sincerity has literally enabled me to drop my guard in so many ways I never thought possible. If that is the only thing I take away from my stay here it will be enough. The Tasmanian community has reinstated my faith in humanity and for that I am eternally grateful.

***

The cars passing by are crammed with terrified eyes. Driving at speeds that red line toward insanity down roads no wider than a pencil, Cam accelerates to 60mph around blind turns hiding the assault of oncoming traffic. I can almost make out the faces of families in the picture windowed, white-walled homes we pass along the way: studious sons and daughters sitting at the dinner table doing homework or silently memorizing the Bible, father smokes his pipe in the den and mother is sewing a new scarf for a hospitalized friend. Their quiet world rocked by the sounds of unearthly squeals pulverizing past their front yards and piercing the night air with the ungodly clatter of motor madness shattering their perfectly packaged sanctuaries. They run to the window and stare into the street lit night with looks of complete and utter horror etched into their innocent faces.

Cam is crazy. He is a short and slender Hobartian with wire-rimmed glasses and a clean cut face that smiles below a head of hair that makes him look like Edison’s illegitimate son that's just discovered what sticking your finger in a light socket will do. He's a terrible driver and I tell him this several times as he compromises my life, steering headlong into the headlights of potential crash victims. We are trying to make it in time for karaoke night at a little pub in the “bustling metropolis” known as Mt. Nelson. The town’s tavern is directly located in a backwoods setting that boasts a grocery store, a tiny elementary school, and one post office. It's a town in itself, but is still considered part of Hobart proper. It’s location in proximity to my dwelling on Mt. Wellington is a bit further up the mountain. Mt. Nelson has one thing going for it that will bring even the most hardcore club raging rave waver to their knees: the allure of a ramshackle building in the middle of August pumping out the reverberations of Thursday karaoke all night long.

We pull into the parking lot and I'm immediately blinded (and sickened due to Cam’s driving) by the blitz of Christmas lights dancing and dazzling their yuletide homage around the rustic, old building that is Mt. Nelson Tavern. We walk into the pub and are immediately inundated with the sight of a gentleman who is quite possibly two days older than dirt. A large woman with puffy hair and heavy mascara looms behind the counter like a shot pouring Nazi ready to administer liquid loudmouth upon command. The sound of a wounded animal is coming from the stage. “Could somebody please just shoot that poor beast?” I say to Cam as he and I take our seats within the usual international click that has seemed to naturally coagulate over the months. There are some newcomers to our group this evening: Wisconsin Kirsten is studying pharmacy and Nellie is a native of Maryland whose shared house is located in Mt. Nelson; she is responsible for informing Sebastian and I about this opportunity of financial wealth. Tonight we have all come together for one thing and one thing only: $100 cash prize for the best in show on stage. That’s right. We were here tonight to rob, rape, pillage, plunder and steal the rent money from these toothless wonders without thinking twice. After all, we require strong drink in mass quantities and that kind of order doesn’t come cheap. We had broken almost every rule of etiquette when living abroad: disrupting the locals, disregarding their laws, and staking claim to their women. What’s one more indecent act of reckless self-indulgence?

We make a strategic arrangement of songs to be sung and submit them to the D.J. Andrea, Kirsten, and Nellie will perform “Like a Prayer”, while Sebastian will do his best to channel Meatloaf. Toti insists on slaughtering “Wild, Wild West”, and I, being the huge Neil Diamond fan that I am, will cast my lot on “Sweet Caroline”. Potter goes in for the kill with “Bohemian Rhapsody” and Micah says she prefers just to watch. The girls are up first and do their smashing rendition of Madonna’s Number #1 hit to everyone’s amazement and rapturous applause. This is going to be tough. You see, although this is a “team effort” there’s somewhat of a competition amongst us concerning who is going to win the money. Because winning the money means being in charge of the shots. If the girls win, it’s going to be those pussy pucker shots for sure. If Toti wins we’ll all be drinking SoCo until our asses bleed blended whiskey. If I win, it’s tequila all around. In the hands of Potter, it’s the dreaded Sambuca for sure. So you can see how everyone wants the money in their pocket to control the destiny of everybody else’s night. Toti is up next. We won’t be drinking SoCo shots tonight, that’s for sure.

There’s another group of patrons competing for the cash prize. It seems as though they too have come in the hopes of claiming the distribution of monetary funds and they're not going down without a fight. They sail a missile over in the form of Alanis Morrisette’s “Ironic” over our bow. The girl was good. Hit every note. We’re going to have to step up our game if we want to win this contest. I’m not leaving this pub with a cheap bottle of second place wine. Just as our team begins to spread rumors of possible defeat in mutinous whispers, our backup arrives. Tiffany and Traci have joined the festivities, but it soon becomes obvious that they are way too sober to be of any use. Tiffany could quite possibly bat her magnetic eyes at the D.J. and this whole fiasco would be wrapped up, bagged, and brought home in a matter of seconds. But she tends to hold back her supernatural ability to bring a man to his knees. I applaud her for that. Some women don’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of when it comes to looks. Due to this unfortunate circumstance they're usually colder than a well-digger’s ass and tend to think the whole world owes them some sort of fucking award. Tiffany has the goods and keeps it to herself. That’s hot. That says, “Come in and find me. I’m in here but you’re going to have to search a bit. I’m not on display. If you don’t have depth and patience you’re just wasting your time.”

Andrea and I have been sitting outside talking. We follow the Longhorns into the pub and are greeted by the site of Sebastian dancing on the bar with a waitress. She looks to be in her late 30s/early 40s with emerald eyes and a pretty solid body considering time has not been so kind to her face. She's got a “butter face”: rocking body with a face that looks like it forgot to RSVP to the party. Maybe her face’s invitation got lost in the mail when the pretty police notified the rest of her about the Beautiful Ball. I don’t know. That’s harsh, but that’s life.

Sebastian shows his dance moves by grinding his pelvis into her side. She in turn pretends to grab his package with perverted delight. You can definitely tell she wants to do more with him but the pub is full of onlookers waiting for just such a thing to happen. So she refrains from out and out fornication and settles on a healthy “meet me in the bathroom” stare shot toward the Swede. He isn’t biting; he’s having the time of his life watching this poor old hag who thought her best days were behind her get wet on a night that wasn’t supposed to exist. It’s all very amusing and when the music stops everyone applauds the borderline porn show. Sebastian and the barmaid take their respective bows.

“Next up is Colin doing Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline”,” the D.J. announces after the dancing escapade is over. Okay, here we go. Showtime.

“Hey man, I can't remember the fist line of this song?” The D.J. laughs and recites the lyrics: “Where it began …” The song plays on and I do a fair imitation if I do say so myself. The patrons applaud and I step down off the stage. Next up is one of the enemy combatants. They seem to be more interested in how they are going to thoroughly kick our asses than they are in ordering drinks. This lack of attention to detail works to our groups’ advantage. Think about it. If it’s up to the D.J. to pick a winner at the end of the night, and the pub is paying the D.J. for his services, then the D.J. is going to pick a winner on the basis of how much they spend at the bar; this, after all, ensures his job security with the proprietor. The guy from Camp Enemy does a lousy version of Terry Jacks’s “Seasons in the Sun.” I’m beginning to think we have a chance when the next performer is that damn chick who sang Alanis Morrisette a few songs back. She really puts the icing on the cake with a jaw-dropping performance of Cyndi Lauper’s “True Colors.” I swear to God I think I may have cried. We only have time for one more song before the winner is announced.

Just as our hopes look darker than the inside of a paper bag, our last chance walks into the pub. Devon is from Iowa and a very humble man by every respect until he hits the stage, then something happens that is hard to describe. He transforms, mutates if you will, into this demented Pavarotti that will go to any depth and measure in order to solidify the complete and utter annihilation of his adversary. Glad he’s on our side. There’s only one thing to do at a time like this: go deep, go strong, and go hard. Devon hits the stage to perform the most sacred karaoke song of all-time: Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive”. For the record I had an orgasm in my seat three times before the song was over - an authentic queen diva at the zenith of his career. My eyes rolled back in my head so many times I could describe every every nook and cranny on the inside of the back of my head. The man’s vocal chords must be layered in cashmere. Every woman in the place melted under their seats and it took every man that could be spared forever to mop up the puddles where their bodies once sat. It was all we needed. No one knew what to do when the song concluded. The customers just sat there with mouths agape and I thought for a moment that Devon might walk around the pub placing his Johnson in every suck hole. I know I would have. But as I said, once he leaves the stage he’s back to his humble self.

After a fifteen minute interval needed to revive the bartender, the D.J. makes the announcement that he will be awarding Devon this week and next week’s first place prize money for his stellar performance. He hands Devon two hundred bucks, which he promptly turns around and spends at the bar on shots for us all. “What are we having?” asks Traci with a Machiavellian look on her face.

“Bar's open,” says Devon.

"Thank god," I think to myself as I step up to the bar to order a shot of Silver Patron. “Here’s to Devon, and friends who know us well yet love us still,” I toast. Everyone raises their glasses then proceed to slam their shots. We all walk outside as the moon appears from behind the almost motionless clouds. Its fullness lights up the night like a sun eclipsed in midday roaming. We walk to our cars beneath the majestic gleam shining sufficiently with a sense of sweet victory and the assurance that we just gave the inhabitants of Mt. Nelson something to tell their children’s children for years to come.

Highway Run, Footy Fun, Irishisms and Circumcisions

Ah, a trip to Launceston. Just what the doctor ordered to cure the Hobart blues that I’ve been feeling lately. It’s springtime in Tassie, the middle of September; the rain has been coming down for three straight days. A weekend of footy, booze, women, and friends is definitely what I need to alleviate the battering of miserable weather we’ve endured lately. The Hawthorne Hawks are taking on the North Melbourne Kangaroos at Aurora Stadium on Saturday, which should prove to be a rousing rendition of Australian Rules football at its best. Vic, Toti, Micah, Andrea, Sebastian, Potter, and I will be joined by Launceston native Claire on a trip that will take about three and a half hours by van. Claire is eighteen and hails from the “Hobart of the North”, but left Launy to attend university. She lives with Andrea and is a very bubbly and personable minx with long brown hair, exciting blue eyes and a habit of putting the words “Can I just say ...” before every sentence. She’ll be our navigator for the trip this weekend. We rent an eight passenger van and since I’m about the only person with a valid English driver’s license, I’ll be at the helm. This is a chance for me to get in some much needed left side of the road driving before I return to the States.

Lurching around corners like Andretti on Adderall we head north toward Launceston up Midland Highway. We have the essentials: full tank of gas, family size bag of Doritos, beautiful women, and Vic’s insanely enormous telephoto lens camera so that we can take pictures of fleas on the moon if we wish. I’m thoroughly convinced he’s compensating for something. The radio channels suck. The only song that comes on with any remote flavor of familiarity is an Eric Clapton song that I can’t remember the words to. We stop in Campbell Town to stretch our legs and grab a bite to eat. After lunch we take photos of some massive log under the rooftop of a park pavilion before setting off again in the throws of the last leg of our journey. Next stop Launceston.

***

Having not been appropriately acclimated with Irish history my naivety of such said subject matter provides the perfect catalyst for a drunken discussion between two rather cantankerous paddys whom I meet in a pub outside Aurora Stadium after witnessing the Hawk’s victory over the Roos. Mac, from Belfast, and Mick, who hails from Dublin, also attended footy match. They’re both in their mid-thirties and their families are vacationing together. I sit next to Mac on a bar stool; Vic takes a seat next to me and we both order a pint of lager. As we wait for the bartender to pour our beers I casually overhear the two men engrossed in a rather trivial conversation. After a minute or two of eavesdropping, however, I hear the two begin to converse about an affair Mick had with his wife’s best friend three years ago. After all, it wasn’t his fault, he pleads, that she seduced him. He was in no position to refuse ... even though he can’t remember all the sordid details of that night. Mac believes himself to be a formidable authority on batched relationships, having experienced several firsthand, and begins offering Mick advice. It's reluctantly received. I'm careful to keep my distance, preferring instead to continue eavesdropping on the consultation safely situated behind my pint glass. Throughout varying intervals of the discussion Mick and Mac volley insults, commendations, rebukes, praises, chastisements, respects, admonishments, and acclaims to one another. This, I have come to realize, is befitting of a typical Irish confabulation. What I find most amazing about this form of dialogue is the fact that disputes actually seem to be resolved under such tumultuous discourse.

Now it’s common knowledge that there is a geographical fissure in Ireland that has been carved even deeper by the divide of religious allegiance. That being said, let’s lay it out on the table in layman’s terms: Belfast is predominately Protestant while Dublin is staunchly Catholic. As Irish luck (for all in attendance) would have it, both men share the same religious view. This makes for a more precocious atmosphere. When I finally build up the courage to lean over and ask Mick if Mac was of Protestant orientation would he be speaking to him, his answer is straightforward: he would not be sitting with him at a bar at all, let alone be on vacation with him, if he was anything less.

“I wouldn’t be caught dead in the company of a Protestant,” he assures me looking out through eyes that could be blindfolded with dental floss: onyx slits that can’t seem to focus on my face and wander aimlessly across the room when trying to recall certain occasions, names, titles, etc. Mac is also quite inebriated, but conducts himself with a certain sense of redefined urban elegance that gives him a slight advantage over Mick’s somewhat debilitated persona. The conversation stumblingly weaves its way between the three of us (I have now become a permanent fixture in the tête-à-tête; Vic having taken his cue, smartly, some time ago). We finally find ourselves at the front door of Ireland’s historical immersion and the subsequent divide of religious affiliations that have been at the crux of the island’s instability (in this case referring to homogeneous harmonic living among its constituents) for centuries.

“Do you know the meaning behind the colors of the Irish flag, Colin?” Mick asks lighting up his third cigarette in ten minutes.

“Hey, I’m just proud I can say I know WHAT colors are on the Irish flag,” I respond.

“Well then, you are in need of a history lesson courtesy of yours truly,” Mick insists.

“Oh great, here we go,” Mac protests. “You couldn’t recall your own name if it wasn’t written on the inside of your trousers!”

Mick waves him off with mild irritation and begins the arduous task of educating me on the color scheme of The Republic of Éire’s flag. He tells me that the orange stripe stands for Protestantism, the green stripe for Catholicism, and the white stripe in the middle stands for the unification or at the least the peaceful coalition between the denominations. The green represents the older Gaelic tradition, while the orange represents the loyalty to William of Orange.

“Do you know about William of Orange and the Orange Order, Colin?” Both men are anxiously awaiting my answer knowing full well that my knowledge of Irish history has been restricted to the Potato Famine and leprechaun sagas.

“Well I have a vague recollection that William of Orange fought a victorious Protestant war, but I’m afraid that’s the extent of my knowledge on the subject,” I admit. As if jockeying for the lead in a Kentucky Derby race, the two begin vying for my attention, explaining in heavily saturated Irish articulation the origins of the Orange Order and the rise of Protestantism in Ireland.

“The Orange Order was founded in Armagh in 1795, but the Orange tradition in Ireland dates back long before the Orange Order was established," Mac explains. "The movement gained power amidst sectarian and agrarian clashes in Armagh ... that's Northern Ireland," he continues to ameliorate while taking plugs off his pint of shandy. "The Order was influential in the suppressing the 1798 rebellion and inspired the opposition to establish a Catholic Association in 1823 that would eventually lead to the denomination’s emancipation. The Order disbanded around the 1830s, but experienced a revival in response to the perceived threat of Home Rule fifty years later. It remained active throughout the first part of the twentieth century … to put it simply,” he concludes as if it was all common knowledge and I was just in need of a refresher.

“That’s remarkable,” I comment plucking one of Mac’s Marlboros.“Gotta light?” The spark of the lighter illuminates Mac’s face: mischievous, eyes dancing in the darkness like a powder keg atop an active land mine.

“But wait,” Mick interjects, “there’s more …” Just as I am about to be subjected to another round of sobering, bar stool philosophy, Sebastian interrupts to inform me that it’s time to go. Night has fallen and the crew is tipsy; Sebastian and I decide to have some fun.

The clusters of people milling on the streets only an hour or two before have long since dispersed and the confines of Aurora Stadium now sit dark and lifeless. The gang stops outside the main entrance and awaits instruction.

“Sebastian and I will scale the wall of the stadium and streak across the field naked,” I announce after carefully inspecting the fence for a suitable place to ascend. “Anyone who wishes to join us may do so at his or her discretion.” The group falls silent and Sebastian and I take this as a hint to commence disrobing. We hand our clothes to Andrea and begin to climb the iron barrier, cautiously guarding our manhood so as not to snag our sacks on a fence prod. In the darkness we are two newborns who have been given rebirth. The air is cool against my naked body and I feel the calm exposure to windless freedom upon my bare skin. Sebastian starts to sprint toward the field and I follow instinctively immersed in the sensation of the crisp night air enveloping me. Suddenly a voice shouts out from under the spectator stands.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?!?” a large and looming security guard booms. He appears with another, equally mountainous guard from outta nowhere. Sebastian and I begin to sprint toward the other side of the field with furious strides of adrenaline induced panic.

“They’ll never catch us! Come and get us you fat bastards!” I scream behind me as the guards fumble awkwardly with the feet under their bloated bellies. When we reach midfield Sebastian and I give each other a nod of approval knowing that our accomplishment will ensure the full respect and admiration of the others. Suddenly Sebastian stops mid-stride. I slow to a trot and then a complete stop thinking he is suffering a cramp. I walk over to him with a worried look on my face.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” I ask anxiously.

I will never forget the look of bafflement on his face, his eyes slowly descending to meet the anatomy of my nether region. “Jeezus, mon!” he cries as if he's just been awakened by a loud bang aboard the USS Arizona. “I didn’t know you were circumcised. Are you Jewish?”

We are both tackled twenty meters from reaching the other side of the field and told never to return.

The Drunken Aussie Messiah

Back in Hobart the details of our activities spread like a mid-December bushfire. Students we have never met before pat us on our backs and tell us how we are now being referred to as “The Legends of Launy.” The campus fame is so great that Sebastian uses his status as leverage in convincing two young beauties from the Sociology department he needs of a little TLC after such a traumatic experience. Despite the new found fame and attention, however, I feel these days of debauchery and constant corruption beginning to wear. Taking my cue from the conversation I had with Mick and Mac, I decide to plunge headfirst into the true Aussie culture and procure a job at a local Irish pub (ok, maybe not “true Aussie culture”). I had two months left in Hobart and I just want to relax among the natives.

Working behind the mahogany of Irish Murphy’s is anything but subdued. Situated in the heart of Hobart the atmosphere of the large, drafty pub is loud and lively, and seems to be the premier destination for travelers worldwide. Located near St. David’s Park on Salamanca Place, the pub does a fair job of attracting locals too. Boasting two live bands on Friday and Saturday nights, folks dance on the tables until the wee hours of the morning, women are often topless by two o'clock, and my back is usually ready to break well before last call. I was no stranger to working in bars, yet could not have been more unprepared for the constant barrage of alcohol-fueled demands cast upon me every night.

Cultural obersvation #12: In a world where globalization is the predominate factor in societies of industrialized status, multicultural communities can be found in almost every corner of the globe. In Australia, it seems as though the tide is slowly changing from the individual riptide of separatist nationalism the isolated island nation has endured over the centuries to a more serene and placid integration of inclusivity throughout the continent. This example of a cultural melting pot is nowhere more evident than at Irish Murphy’s; the staff members are as nationally eclectic as a pair of plaid pants in a striped shirt shop. Many of them have come to Tasmania in the hope of starting over; many are tired and have lived hard lives. But their resilience and optimism is contagious. There's Paddy from Ireland (what a coincidence, huh?) and Glenn from Auckland; Franciscka from Germany and John from Canada. There's a Portuguese waitress named Carmen and the Dutch boys - Gijis and Koen - who work in the kitchen. Examples of integration are everywhere, examples of how the cultural borders of Australia are becoming more relaxed. The one thing that will never change is change.

There are some dominant features and characteristics of the physical, social, mental, and etymological manner that help accentuate a nation's perception to the rest of the world. These can be referred to as “cultural stereotypes”, if you wish. Stereotypes aren’t necessarily bad; they often help us make sense of our world. In Europe, for instance, the Swedes are defined in large by their consensus driven attitude, ardent acceptance of change, and annoyance toward the unorthodox. The Brits, on the other hand, cling to a regal sense of status bequeathed to them by a now near-defunct Empire and, in doing so, distance themselves from the rest of the continent by delivering an attitude of aristocracy that has earned them the honorary title of the "Reluctant Europeans". Australia is an amalgamation of not only Western culture, but of Eastern as well. Let me put it this way: I have been blessed (or cursed) with a face that can virtually go undetected in realms of Western society. It’s a worldly face, nothing remarkable; just an unassuming mug that can blend in with almost any culture with traces of Anglo-Saxon heritage in its history. I have passed for Scandinavian, French, German, Swiss, Irish, British, Canadian, Australian, Polish and even Slovakian. My assumption of what I like to call the “face façade” has only been reinforced by the fact that I am mistaken by inhabitants of every foreign country I have visited as being “one of them”. I am constantly approached by tribesmen who initiate conversations in their native tongue. Moreover, they are quite shocked when I tell them that I am indeed not part of their coterie by immediate association. The face façade has allowed me to take mental notes on societal habits from a very unique standpoint: birthday parties, weddings, confirmations, births, funerals, witch burnings, numerous holiday celebrations have all afforded me an up-close and panoramic view of the amazing and often downright bizarre culturally refined rituals that accentuate our ever-changing world.

My work performance at Irish Murphy’s has convinced me that I will make a lovely candidate for the Nobel Peace Prize someday. Reasons I deserve this prestigious honor: humanitarian efforts above and beyond the call of duty as exemplified by my complete and utter non-bias tolerance for drunken Tasmanians during the past two months. Although a humble and somewhat reserved society by nature and sobriety, the integration of alcohol into the bloodstream of Tasmanians somehow magically reveals an enormous “S” on their chests that enables them to leap from tall buildings in a single bound and become more obnoxious than Donald Trump at a fundraiser for homeless hippies. In general, Aussies pride themselves on being much, much more superior in the field of tolerance than that of their south eastern neighbors New Zealand. Jokes have been told in knee-slapping context to reaffirm the Australian mentality that, although they may consume alcohol on a consistent basis, it is by no means used to promote blatant drunkenness such as in the cultural realms of other southern hemispherical societies.

A drunk Kiwi is in a night club in Melbourne dancing with a beautiful Australian bird. He leans over and whispers in her ear “I love you” to which she whispers back ever so romantically “I love you, too.” Upon hearing this, the drunken Kiwi leans in again and whispers gently, “I love you three.”

In short, Aussies pride themselves on being responsible with their booze. And I believed this to be true during the first couple of months of my stay (see section entitled Butterfingers, Blue Pills, Booze and Longhorn Lovin’). But my tenure behind the bar has convinced me that nothing could be further from the truth. I have reaped the occasional pleasure and the persistent pain of dealing with disillusioned drunk Aussies on a daily basis now for the past two months and the outcome can be described as pejorative at best. I have been tested to the absolute limits of my patients and have bitten my tongue more times than I care to recall. I have begged, fought, pleaded and reasoned with, even bribed members of this sordid contortion in an attempt to keep the peace among the natives. My pleas have usually fallen on deaf ears, but still I plunge forward ever ready to reconcile that which has been needlessly misconstrued by liquid courage. The task has not been easy. I think about throwing in the towel and giving up on any notion of salvaging any chance of getting through to this hard-headed entourage of inebriated imbeciles. But I feel as if I was sent here to carry out a mission behind this bar - a task of enormous proportions, to heal the sick, restore sight to the blind, give nourishment to the hungry, enable the lame to walk again. Yes, my friends, I believe I deserve to be nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize for my humanitarian efforts among Tasmanians, for I am the Drunken Aussie Messiah come to cure my congregation of their horrible disease. My kingdom is an Irish pub in the heart of the city and the sick come to see me every evening. The number of the infected triples on weekends and the sea of helpless faces I gaze out upon awaiting my healing elixirs is a tribute to how severe the “ale”ment has spread. They engulf me like a bad zombie movie, tearing at my shirt, ripping my chest open with their serrated fangs of fermented fury. They devour my insides like a pack of wild jackals. These creatures are not human. They do not take in air like you or me. They are unearthly beings cast upon me by Beelzebub himself in order to divert that which I have come to accomplish. “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.” I fight fire with fire and in doing so promote their drunken behavior by feeding them copious amounts of alcohol. The aim is to sedate the beast within and pulverize the adrenaline rush by drowning it in a sea of booze until these hellish monsters are eventually dethroned from their reign of terror. It is a method that requires a great amount of patience and preservation. I must hold out for the conclusion, which could take the entire night to unfold, depending on the size and stamina of the beast. It is not a job for the timid; those with a delicacy toward tenacity need not apply. But the benefits I feel after a victorious night in the trenches, combined with the knowledge that I have interceded on behalf of my small corner of the world in an attempt to free them from the bevvied bombardment of bulbous-nosed baboons rampaging through their fair towns and cities for perhaps another 12 hours, is almost worth the countless hours of fighting this battle of Armageddon-like proportions. But the war is never over, and again the time will come when this peaceful, law-abiding society of beautiful Australians will transform beneath the lamentations of the moonlight to take on the mentality of that which is unholy. And so, as the sun descends into the faint horizon and the first streaks of dusk are revealed in the distant skyline over Hobart, the chants of these malicious immortals can be heard singing their anthems of deplorable defilement. The malevolent youth in their Chuck Taylors and bad haircuts come bounding over the hillsides riding with Satan on the backs of their conspicuous Trojan horses in search of Snakebites and vodka mixed energy drinks; they sniff the sultry air for flesh; they come to retch and squeal and poop and pee. And I will be there. I will be ready.

The Journey Ends … And Begins

After two months of working at the pub I could take no more. Maybe I still had unresolved issues of nonconformity, or perhaps it was just a simple case of me not wanting to lose my mind. I realized that I could not save those poor souls after all. Thy were too far gone for any sort of redemption. Working behind the bar opened my eyes to the fact that I could find that sort of lunacy on any street corner in the world. It was depressing to learn that the tentacles of the obtuse stretch far and wide, and they are not as easy to elude as I had imagined. The semester was now coming to a close and in fact many of the students had already finished or were preparing to finish their last examinations. It would all be over within a week. We sat in the Metz on a Tuesday afternoon, just the four of us, wondering what to do next.

Tracy had been quiet for most of the afternoon. When she finally spoke her words reverberated with the chime of what was on everybody's mind. “I don’t want to go back yet,” she whispered distantly. Nobody said a word, but we all agreed. It was true, we weren’t ready to go home. Problem was, we couldn’t stay either.

“I have plenty of time to travel the mainland if you guys are up for it,” Sebastian said finally breaking the silence. “I don’t have to be home any time soon."

“You know, that’s not a bad idea,” I agreed. “We don’t have to go home straight away. Let’s do it. Let’s travel the mainland. I can give Nikko a call and see if we can stay with her for a few days until we figure out what to do next.” The enthusiasm was beginning to swell; the thought of traveling again was exhilarating. Tiffany also agreed it sounded better than going back to her family’s cattle ranch in East Texas. Tassie had grown bitter to us and the spring rains arrested our attempts to pacify ourselves with the upbeat advent of summer being on the way. We made a pact that afternoon to leave the following week.

***

Kingsford Smith International is moderately buzzing with travelers as Sebastian, Tracy, Tiffany, and I step through the sliding glass doors and locate the first bar we can find. Muffins and chardonnay in the morning, is there a better breakfast? I was now a stripped down version of my former self. No longer did I travel with a wardrobe that weighed me down. I had become a veteran of the road. I sent most of my belongings back home, armed only with a backpack and notebook to write down experiences. Nikko was picking us up at the airport after her work let out in a couple of hours.

We decide to keep ourselves occupied by playing a game called “Where are they going?” It’s a simple game really: pick out any traveler in the airport and try to guess what their destination might be. The game itself is simple in principle, but it’s harder than you think to accurately assess a person's travel plans. The lady in the short sleeve shirt and sandals, for example, could be on her way to Latvia for Peace Corp. training. The clean cut guy in the long sleeve jumper and denim jeans may soon be trading it all in for a lei and a flowered shirt in Hawaii. The destinations of suits are impossible to decipher but it's still fun to try. I sip my fourth glass of chardonnay feeling quite rosy at this point. Tiffany and I are chatting idly to each other while lounging on a leather sofa just outside Bar Coluzzi.

“Where in the hell did Sebastian and Tracy go?” I ask suddenly.

“Don’t you remember? Sebastian said he had to show Tracy something in the men’s bathroom.”

Ah yes, naughty airport adventures. Good on you, ol' boy, good on you. The two of them return 15 minutes later with one wearing a smile and the other limping slightly. You can figure that one out for yourself, though the answer may surprise you.

“Colin, I was thinking. What do you think about Fiji this time of year?”

“Fiji is probably great any time of the year. What’s your point, Seb?”

“No point, really. Well, maybe a small point. Look, the lady on the speaker keeps boarding flights to Nadi. I can’t help thinking that all of us could use some sun-soaked Pacific tan lines.”

The suggestion struck a nerve. I guess I'd always pictured visiting a place like Fiji in my forties, when I had worked long and hard and had finally earned two weeks of vacation from an employer who underpays me. I'd pack up the missus and young'uns and we'd all head off to some tropical paradise to enjoy the fruits of my hard labor.

“You know something. For once you have a very valid point. Why don’t we go to Fiji?”

“Ah, hello? Because we’re meeting Nikko here in like a half an hour. We can’t just change our plans and hop on a plane to Fiji. What the hell is wrong with you guys?” Tracy’s voice was one of reason, but reason had no business worming its way into our ranks today.

“Why not?” I snort back. “You’re always complaining about not being spontaneous enough. Remember all those nights when you were bored out of your mind because we frequented the same venues over and over?”

“Yeah, come on,” baits Sebastian. “This is our chance to enjoy each others' company for perhaps the last time. We may never see each other after this.” The four of us were silent for what seemed like a lifetime. Finally, Tiffany speaks.

“I’m in.”

“Me, too,” I exclaim without hesitation. “How ‘bout it, Sebastian?”

“Shitcha, mon!”

“Come on, Trac. We’re not going to do this without you. Whadyasay?”

“Fine, I’ll do it, but I think it’s crazy. What about Nikko?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll give her a call. I’m sure she’ll understand. Right now we need to see if we can get on one of these flights to Nadi.”

One frantic phone call and a half an hour later we board Pacific Blue Flight 278 with non-stop service to Nadi.

***

It has been three years since that fateful morning in Kingsford Smith, when the four of us decided to leave the modern world behind and set sail for ports unknown. Over time we met new people on our travels and eventually went our separate ways. There was no farewell party, no goodbye speeches. There was only the mutual agreement of departure to which we all subscribed. No ill words were spoken and no feelings were compromised in the parting process. In the end we simply felt the pull to move in other directions.

The last I’d heard Tiffany was back in the States where she runs her own furniture store just outside of Austin. Tracy, I’ve heard, fell in love with a Fijian native while traveling on the island of Naviti. Rumor has it she lives in the small village of Kese where she and her husband are raising their beautiful baby boy Ratu.

Sebastian decided to stay on the islands as well, receiving a year-long visa he secured by finding work in the Vatukoula Gold Mine on the island of Viti Levu. He left the mine after a month and found employment as a deckhand with a Japanese firm called the Pacific Fishing Company out of Port Levuka on the island of Ovalauh in the Lomaiviti Province. On a routine voyage to deliver canned tuna to the Port of Napier in Hawk’s Bay on the eastern coast of New Zealand’s northern island, the ship was caught in a major squall. Waves as high as 20 feet pounded the deck of the barge and all hands were ordered below deck. After the storm subsided, a head count of the crew was taken and all but one was accounted for. A thorough search and rescue operation was mounted, but the results proved fruitless. The Swede was presumed lost at sea, swept overboard by the torrential rains. Further investigation of the ship’s damage revealed a lifeboat missing off the port side stern. The ship’s log confirmed that the incident must have happened sometime during the hours of Sebastian’s deck watch. A total of twenty-five cans of tuna were verified missing from the storage freezer below deck.

Several weeks later an unidentified man - disoriented and disheveled - turned up in the city of Nouméa on the island of New Caladonia. When asked if he knew who he was he simply replied, “Brad Pitt.” He answered the rest of the authority's questions in broken French. And though he made himself understandable he still apologized, claiming that French was his ninth language. He was taken to a nearby hotel where he paid for his lodging and meals with solid gold nuggets.

As for myself, well, I too fell in love with the lull and charm of the South Pacific. I am currently sitting in an wobbly swivel chair with my feet on and my desk looking over the manicured lawns of the University of the South Pacific in Suva, Fiji. I've been hired as a part-time English professor and my life for the last three years could be described as Fijian: relaxed approach, casual response to just about anything that would be of major concern anywhere else in the “outside” world. My mind is permanently on “Fiji Time”; I no longer wear a watch.

I’m reminded of my friends every so often when the warm north winds blow through the curtain window or when I sway gently to the rhythms of the sea in my hammock under the shade of palm trees outside my cabana. I’m reminded of how we were young and free and full of spirit. I’m reminded of how we dreamed as though we would live forever and lived as if tomorrow would never come - not knowing what the future held and not caring where the road might take us. I’m reminded of my friends every so often when the warm north winds blow, and in those moments of remembrance I smile. Vinaka, dear friends, wherever you are.