What follows are an assortment of updates on Rugby, my 21st Birthday, and the Food here fleshed out from e-mail, Facebook and instant messaging. Lame, I know, but it’ll highlight some of the events and opinions that didn’t get more updates or a dedicated post.

Rugby

Match 1: Played my first real, full contact rugby game today. Just an exhibition match, but my butt is disabled. I can barely chew my jaw hurts so bad. Without question, I was the smallest forward on the field, just like playing the line in football. At least rugby evens the playing field more than most games. I actually get the ball. If only I didn’t have to run for an hour straight. 

Oh and let me warn you, rolling around fighting for a loose ball like you would naturally do in American gridiron football is a big no-no in rugby. I got some bad looks and cleats to the chest for it.

Match 2: Another Bandicoots rugby game against old dudes. The average age we’ve seen so far can’t be under 35. And these guys just relish the opportunity to punish you. We’re clearly not the most fundamentally sound team, so their expectations are a little high and they get frustrated.

Also, I got my eyebrow split open in rugby today. Hospital. Glue. Scar. Gory pictures to follow.

A break: Practices continue, but a cancelled game and a weather warning have given us a two week break from action.

This hasn’t however, prevented team meetings at the local pubs and a house party that excalated quickly. Team bonding at its best, this won’t be the last time one of these comes up. 

Match 3: The Bandicoots are back! And this time we scored. That’s right, until now, we have had zero offense. I rotated between three positions so I have a bit better understanding of what else is going on around the field. Front line is made for people who like to punish their shoulders and shins, by the way. It doesn’t look like we have much of a chance of winning a match considering we keep playing teams that recruit higher level players to fill their roster on gameday, but I guess I’ll just have to learn faster.

Again, they overestimate our understanding of the game and pick fights with us. Chill out and let us learn! Just because Jules did a flying spider-monkey tackel doesn’t mean you have to make a big deal out of it!

I took a few minutes the other day and researched what kind of rugby culture there is in Kansas and found heaps of Lawrence and Kansas City area teams, but all of them limit their seasons to Fall and Spring strictly. No Summer play at all. There’s even a popular pitch (field) between Overbrook and Lawrence!

21st Birthday

What I expected the day before: So my 21st birthday will fall on one of the school’s theme parties, which have so far been heaps of fun. I think some of us will go out for a drink at midnight Wednesday (karaoke maybe?) but call it early and have a birthday dinner on Thursday night. The Date Auction school party ends at 11 when we’ll descend upon Henry Afrika’s and dance, dance, dance. There’s also a rumor going around that I’m getting married, so my friends Tim and Marcus are going to try to turn it into a “Bachelor’s Party” just to see what happens. I don’t expect anything to come of that, though. Maybe a free drink… It’s also my friend Chris’ birthday the night before and my friend MJ’s half-birthday (October 3rd) as well, so there are just two more reasons to have a good time.

Mid-birthday day update: My simple midnight birthday bar-run turned complicated. I got hit with a dozen congratulatory drinks and shots by 1:30. Straight up the hill and into my bed. And that was from my American friends. I fear that my Aussie mates are going to be a bit harsher. Lachy in particular could be bad news bears. No thanks.

We’re getting Chinese food on the Wharf tonight before the night starts. This is a perfect birthday since I didn’t have any classes today and I only have an afternoon one tomorrow. I’m having so much fun.

The foggy reality: Ohhhhh my birthday. Let’s just say that my night started at six with two bottles of wine at dinner and finished with me being politely asked to leave two bars. (Yikes. For the record, it is rediculously easy to be denied at bars here. Something about “responsible drinking”) But I had the time of my life. What a 21st. All day long and for the next few days I don’t think I’ll stop smiling…

Food

Fast Food/Late Night: Hungry Jack’s (Burger King) has equal footing with Mackars (McDonalds) around here. And they always seem to push the “Aussie Burger” on people. It’s two quarter pound patties, cheddar cheese, sliced beet root, egg, and extra b-sauce (barbecue sauce). The fast food quality here is even lower than back home. Except I hear rumors that Aussie KFC (which I wholeheartedly hate in the US) has some kind of Asian influences. That’s probably just a rumor. Luckily there are heaps of good local places.

The real fast food down here is found in local bakeries with their hundereds of varieties of meat pies (Ned Kelly is favorite) and sweet, sweet kebabs. While meat pies are at least recognized as an official food of the nation, kebab shops are the omniprescent eatery stuck in every street on every corner. Wrapped with lamb, chicken or beef and heaps of onions and veggies, these things are greasy goodness late at night.

What they don’t have: S’Mores, Real Pizza, Real Barbecue (Sausages and Sweet B-Sauce only), Hot Wings

What I’m bringing back: Dipping fries in Sweet Chili Sauce and Sour Cream, Pumpkin, BYO, Tim Tams, Tea (but you already knew that)

Passing on: Veal. I never had a problem with veal before this trip. It was just something different from time to time, no big deal. But here… here at this school… eight of twelve hot meals each week… all we get is veal goulash, veal on rice, veal pie, veal with gravy, veal on noodles, veal roast. It’s like Tony Henry has a veal farm or something and cuts the school a deal.

Best Meals: Chinese at my Birthday dinner, Steaks at my friend Scotty’s house, The Fish & Chips at Circular Quay, Beaches pizza (closest I can get to Wheat State Pizza), and all the great sushi trains

This is the first of a few retroactive updates on my life in the past month. Ideally, this entry would have been published in the first week of April.

Homesickness is not an issue for me. Of course, I miss my friends, family, dogs and other parts of my daily routine, but that’s not homesickness. That’s simply a change of habits. On the other side of the spectrum, any and every study abroad prep program warns about the eventual downturn; the “post-honeymoon” effects of your time away from home. They love the word “post-honeymoon.” They will push and frighten and tell you how awful, how debilitating the ailment is once you come down with it. I’m not about to say that I rose above homesickness, because there have been moments I take to reflect, but only moments. 

My father studied in England and Ireland between semesters when he was in college, and my brother spent maybe one month of a summer in Oaxaca, Mexico, but neither had much advice for me. They simply didn’t spend enough time away to have any kind of crisis. “It was enough time to find a routine, or get used to not having one, you know?” I awkwardly paraphrase my father to have said. And my brother was so overwhelmed by the language he didn’t have time to worry about anything back at home. Like most people, they came to the conclusion that I would be fine. I was just to call home when I felt I needed too, and to not make it a priority. They seemed to trust me to land on my feet, despite never before having a harder landing.

I was a little concerned that noone was concerned. I looked to literature, which is a lame thing to admit, but I avoided the touristy recommendation books stacked like a game of Jenga on my desk. The great writers had the answer. Adventurers and travellers, while not exactly in a formal study abroad program I could relate to, definitely garnered respect from me. So wishing I had the time to re-read the classics, I reviewed what I learnt from my favourites. As it happened, practical advice was scarce and what I could recall were mostly tragedies.

My next resource was a book of favourite quotes. I have a few, but one picks up the more obscure authors. Some of which certainly make you work harder to connect to their writings. It attracts me because of how refreshing it can be to have someone push you to find a feeling or memory that resonates with what they write. The book didn’t hold any advice or answers, but a title of one contributor caught my eye: “poet and hematologist.” Who writes prose and studies blood? Apparently Leo Vroman. I jumped on-line and found a list of his works and favourite passages. Finally, I found what I was looking for.

“I’d rather be homesick than home.” 

Quick, direct, and true to my own life. What opportunities might I miss by worrying about some prospective lump in my throat or ache in my gut? Everything. Why not embrace this and any opportunity fully? Problem solved. Homesickness is nothing to worry about anymore.

I have encountered a few moments that called for reflection. A trip to the Basin National Park to find Aboriginal carvings led me to a water mass that too closely resembled the lakes of the Ozarks in southern Missouri and northern Arkansas where I’ve spent many summers. The shallow water and high valley walls, crowded with weekend campers and proud sail boats hit me like a brick when I saw it. I left the group and wandered nearly a kilometre out to a short bluff where I perched alone for nearly twenty minutes. Thoughts about family trips and close friends crowded my head and I had to make sense of what I was feeling. It wasn’t regret or a soreness in my gut, just memories. They are things that I love, that haven’t left me, and I felt comfortable knowing that I won’t leave them.

Weekends later I travelled to Bowral, a three hour train ride south of Sydney, with friends from the university. From everything I heard it would be the small country town community I came from. Sure enough, buildings and industry gave way to trees and hills, and I found myself surrounded by grazing cattle, horse farms and paddocks of crops. All I needed was a patch of sunflowers. I could tell I was better prepared for this trip. I knew sitting on the back porch looking over the “South 40” of their family land that I would instantly connect with my home on the Flint Hills of Kansas. It never overwhelmed me, though later that day I spent a few minutes writing a journal entry and a message to friends back home about what I’d found in Bowral. It was a great way to sort out my thoughts and prove to myself that this experience was healthy.

Homesickness isn’t a weakness. It’s a testament to someone’s close connection with their history. In the end, though, I’m glad I’ve found this introspective middle ground where I can deal with these emotions in a mature, optimistic way. Don’t be fooled, though: I’m dying to see some sunflowers and buffalo next month.

This post follows my previous introduction to the school.

I’ve already covered where I live, here’s how I live:

My four classes this term include workplace conflict management, sponsorship and public relations, strategic human resources and a general computer course. The classes take place over 12 weeks and most meet for one two-hour lecture and one two-hour tutorial each week. A majority of the teachers know the importance of giving us breaks during class while a few know their time is far too important. Whatever.

Most classes are between 15-30 students, but with such a small campus (only 16 classrooms) many run in the evening as well. I get out as late as 8:30 or 9 p.m. on Wednesdays, and I know a few that run onto 9:30. The lecturers don’t seem to mind, and I certainly don’t as long as my mornings are free, but it’s certainly a change of pace.

All of the courses are considered upper-level credit worthy except the computer class which is remedial at best. Now five weeks into class, I can proudly claim that I can beat an intermediate level of minesweeper in less than two minutes with complete ease (I only get under 90 seconds about a third of the time, but I’m not giving up). My best time is 58 seconds, but now I’m just bragging (and nerdy).

And then there are the suits. Because ICMS is a management school, because it’s open to numerous public and private receptions each week, and because it wants to justify its tuition, ICMS has every student wear a full , official school suit to class and any time they operate in the school’s “Front of House” areas. Now I have no problem with suits. In fact I kind of like the suit we were given, but it’s the days that I have to get dressed for one two-hour period that feels like a waste of time. Regardless, I look remarkably stylish in it.

Smart study-abroads wear swimmers under their uniform for beach emergencies

But what would happen if I didn’t wear my suit? Well I’d lose “Professional Conduct” points. PC points are taken away for any infracture including: skipped classes, tardiness, disrupting class, not turning in your linens on the correct day, having a room too dirty for the housekeepers to vacuum, keeping too much alcohol in your room (yes, there’s a six-pack/bottle of wine maximum per person) or any number of things.

I’m sitting at 95 PC points from my original 100 due to a skipped computer class so I could make it to a concert in Week Two. I’m a bad kid, I know. This might dip some more depending on what my St. Patrick’s Day plans are. Aussies love St. Patrick’s Day.

“Bad news, pop. I’m in the black.”

Apart from the uniform, PC points and class schedule, student life is not unlike American universities. With R.A.s, floor meetings, a student council and everything else, it’s pretty easy to adjust. Except for the food. You’d think that a hospitality school with a five-star restaurant downstairs could do their own students a little bit better. Everyday is limited to one entrée choice, salad, fruit and a roll. Vegetarian options are available and usually look better than the beef and gravy we always get, but they won’t believe you unless you produce a blood sample and take a polygraph.

Thank God the fruit is amazing. Seriously, the bananas and pears here are something bizarre and incredible. I think a later post might be dedicated to this topic. Hold on to your seats, dear readers!

One of my favorite parts of student life here are tea breaks. Holy crap, I’m hooked on tea. Part of the courtyard student dining area (called the CYC) is open air and has more hot water dispensers than cool drinking water dispensers. There are literally three times more hot water dispensers on this campus than drinking fountains (see figure 6.2). But the CYC is open 24 hours so tea is available during breaks, in the evening and at 3 a.m. when your voice is shot and you need to get a little hydrated.

Finally, the school also has a student pub on campus that is an open lounge area during the day and hosts theme parties each week. Recently renovated, it re-opened four weeks into the term after a new name contest. Previously “The Sand Bar,” a simple, obvious, but appropriate and fun moniker, the Student Representative Council picked “Class Room 17.” Ugly, not catchy, long, and silly, considering an actual class room number 17 will open next year, I can’t tell you how much everyone hates the name. We’ll still go there, we’ll still enjoy the $3 cans of Toohey’s New and free pool, but we’ll still call it “The Sand Bar.”

You all laughed when I first talked about discovering a love for rugby. Well here I am, during what we American collegiate basketball fans call “March Madness,” with my favorite team in the running for a national championship and all I can think about is union rugby.

As silly as the idea of a hospitality and management school rugby team sounds, I am consistently impressed by the organization, interest and high standards set by the dependable trio of our de facto general manager, coach and team captain. Three weeks into any real club development, they’ve displayed a real understanding of how to motivate and raise expectations. I can’t say that the college administration has been completely won over, but once we sign our club contracts and take a shot at the Student Representative Council’s support, we’ll have made more than enough headway for them to respect our organization. (We’ll be playing rugby anyway, so who cares?) Honestly though, outside of a cursory interest in the sport, it was their management that hooked me initially. It was the opportunity to spearhead the logo and jersey design that caught my graphic illustrator interest. Back home, I get a chance nearly every week to produce illustrations and graphics for our college newspaper and numerous other organizations. Here, creative work has been scarce.

Back on topic, that much involvement, a professional match and a couple pick-up touch games in the school’s backyard were the extent of my “rugby experience.” Tonight, everything changed. We grouped up and headed out to the field in Melwood for a night of practice. With twenty-four players (we expect thirty when it’s all said and done) we immediately picked up a game of touch, familiarizing the newbies like myself and more than a dozen others with some of the basic strategies and rules. It was exhilarating. Forgiving friends that they are, I received more tosses and runs than anyone at my skill level should have gotten.

“Offsides, Chad, back up!”

“No blocking in rugby, Chad, get back!”

“Toss the footy, Chad, it’s our last touch!”

“Quick swatting the ball down, Chad, you have to catch it!”  

I was learning slowly.

But I never felt discouraged or put down. Enthusiasm has a beautiful way of excusing ineptness. Just a smile, a nod and we were off again. 

Too quickly, coach Harris (Or Haro, as his rugby friends call him. Apparently, everyone gets an ‘O’ or a ‘Y’ at then end of their name in rugby. Guess what mine is…) interrupted the play and called everyone in for old fashioned stretches and warm-ups. Already we have members barking out commands for unity in the drills, hooking unconvinced players into a team mindset. Clearly, I enjoy observing human behavior and I wasn’t let down here. Our aforementioned de facto captain already knew it was time to pass on the commands and put other leaders in the rotation.  

It wasn’t until the ball-stripping drill (in rugby it’s handing the ball off when you’re hit) that my memories of high school “gridiron” football came flooding back. I couldn’t believe that I could be so nostalgic for suicides, circuit training and the infamous “Oklahoma Drill” that I loathed so much at those practices. It did feel refreshing to be part of a team again. Perhaps it was the contact of that particular drill that put me in the mood. When my partner told me to hit him as hard as I could, I knew I was being tested, but I had no time to think about that and I didn’t need to. Once the ball had been stripped and I pulled off I heard a friend watching clearly remark, “That kids a flanker.” I can’t tell you that I know what exactly is expected of a flanker, what they look like or if I’d be any good, but I always appreciate any kind of approval.  

The practice transitioned into what I would describe as “team-building” drills, where we learned ball handling at a slower pace and tried our best to remember each other’s names. More advanced players pushed the tempo and the less advanced tried not to drop the ball. There’s a clear line between the city club-level players, the soccer and league rules rugby-level players, and the rest of us.  

From the looks of things, we’ll play as one of a few junior teams for the Forest Rugby Club, picking up games from other clubs when they have multiple teams. More importantly, we’ll get ICMS Bandicoots jerseys and be lifetime club members so I can come back to Sydney and play minor league rugby whenever I feel like trying out (let’s say next year?). Next up, we’ll be organizing a couple campus fundraisers to cover uniforms and registration costs, something I’ll undoubtedly have a hand in.

Oh yea, we’re called the Bandicoots. Because of the incredible bandicoot population at the school I mentioned before, the name was kind of a given. There were a couple other names tossed around, like “The Goonies,” but for other un-Sloth-related reasons. Plus “Bandicoot” is fun to say. Go ahead, try it.

Regardless, everyone has felt and enjoyed the benefits of belonging to a team before and I think this is what I needed at this point in my trip. Nearly half-way through, life here has become too casual for me. Little things have brought homesick thoughts back and forth into my mind lately. This might be the boost I need. If nothing else, I’ve recognized this opportunity to solidify the good relationships I’ve established, and to have my teeth knocked out.

Wish me luck!

Hey Chad, what are you doing?

Oh nothing, just checking the stats on the rugby match last night…

…and getting on the FRONT PAGE!

Yes, that’s my friends Marcus, Bree, Leela, Lachy and I in the pouring rain eating meatpies, drinking beer and watching the New South Whales Waratahs beat the ACT* Brumbies 24-17 last night.

I think I might be a rugby fan.

*updated from ‘Queensland’ after a rather demanding e-mail from Mr. Stephen Gregory, GM Commercial Operations, Brumbies Rugby.

Top Ten Sydey Gay & Lesbian Mardi Gras Float Entries

• Dykes on Bikes
• Ho White and her Seven Fab Friends
• Homo-Pope and his Rainbow Nuns
• ‘DiVAS!’ (3 floats, 3 dance routines, 1 Cher)
• Sydney Rams Gay Bowling (Happy 25 years!)
• Gay/Lesbian NERDS!
• High Schoolers Against Homophobia
• Blackbooty
• M.A.G.s on Parade (Mature Age Gays)
• Beit el Hob (The best drag doesn’t need to shave)

Happy to report that there’s no such thing as an Aussie Fred Phelps.

Welcome to your guided tour of the International College of Management Studies. The bathrooms are on your left, the gift shop is open at then end of the trip, I’m your tour guide, Chad, and please, as usual, hold onto your questions until the end of the tour.

ICMS resides on the North Head peninsula in Manly, just north of, and only a 25 minute ferry from, downtown Sydney. The school opened in 1996 in the renovated St. Patrick’s College. St. Patrick’s College began serving the Catholic Church as a seminary school in January 1889. Historians cite founder Archbishop Moran as a scholar, visionary and surfer.

First, I’d like to take a look to their right and admire the proximity of our fine facility to Manly Beach:

As well as the fact that I am living in a freaking castle:

Eat it, Harlaxton, my castle’s on the beach.

The school holds classes primarily on the first two floors in rooms that hold a maximum of forty students, but often not more than half of that. Higher floors are completely residential, with the occasional computer lab.

To be fair, I should explain that I live in the castle annex, Kelly House. Faulty offices, men’s halls and the student pub “The Sand Bar” share Kelly House. My single room is simple, but I’ve settled in. Bed, sink, desk, window, bookshelf and closet. We’re all cozy.

The window gives me a sea-side view… of a bird nest that wakes me at 7:30 each morning whether I want it to or not. If it wasn’t so much cooler-looking than the birds we have back home (and I was a more ruthless person), I’d have knocked that nest down three weeks ago.

My hall is full of good, new friends. Most of the guys around me are from all around the states, Germany, China, a couple less-social blokes from Sweden and there are some full-time students from around Australia down the hall.

It’s not unusual for weddings (typically three each weekend), photo shoots or any other activity to be occurring in the courtyards or grand halls. Part of the school’s service/hospitality degree programming fits in with work study in their five-star Grand Dining Hall that takes reservations six nights a week.

There’s a rumor I’ve heard from a Trivia Night MC and bartender (both very reliable Manly sources) that the Jerry Bruckheimer-produced Wonder Woman film would be shooting Manly and the college before Summer ends in a couple months. This has neither been confirmed nor denied by the administration. My gut tells me we won’t be that lucky, but who knows.

Regardless, Manly is a laid-back, slightly touristy, beach-covered corner just off of Sydney. Living in the city would be a great experience, but living on the beach is alright too (sarcasm, everyone, sarcasm). There’s plenty to do at night and great trips during the day.

I’ll catch up on classes, teachers and the finer things like laundry in another update.

Also: These signs are posted all over campus and are completely serious.

Continue the adventure with photos!

Hey, how’s everyone been the past few weeks? Things kind of took off, but I’m back on top of life and updating this blog.

Turns out my camera decided that life could not possibly get any better once it experienced a week in Sydney, so it took its own life. It’s final gasps of life are documented below:

If you’ve ever wondered what 15,000 Chinese people looked like walking in downtown Sydney…

…then wonder no more.

What I gathered at the event, from the Hong Kong kid down the hall, and because I have a fascination with mythology, the Chinese New Year traditions all stem from the myth of the Nian. The undersea lion-beast would descend on small towns and devour their hardest working men and women during winter full moons. At some point, the smartest, proudest of their people took a stand and fought back against the threat with what else? Music, dance, the color red and the occasional firecracker.

An undersea monster attacking an Asian country? Never!

Lion Dances, with loud music, crowds and some serious acrobatics, were used to frighten away evil spirits. Outside of the Chinese New Year, the dance is done for good luck. Particularly the “choi chang,” where the dancers jump on each other’s shoulders to stretch the lion to the top of the frame of a building to retrieve a red envelope of money and leaves. This brings down good fortune to the business and crowds. 

The highlight of the day came from a stage show outside a department store and featured a series of song and dance routines. One singer in particular, was absolutely, completely, awful. When the first verse dropped, the crowd craned its collective neck to see what possibly could be killing the mood so swiftly. By the chorus, a look of surreal fascination glazed over everyone’s face. Then, as if the gods had commanded it, our freedom fighter secured us from the wrath of the Nian with the power of his thunderous falsetto. Then he repeated the entire song. In falsetto. Everyone wept with laughter, but I’ll be damned if we didn’t give him an incredible round of applause when he finished.

It’s a shame that my internet is too unreliable to upload the video I have of him. If I catch a decent internet cafe, I’ll do my best. It’s nearly five minutes of perfect.

After a couple traditional dances, the performances turned contemporary with a 007 theme song interpretive dance. Silly? Yes. Good Entertainment? Absolutely.

Sydney is as multicultural as you can get. Considering the mess of European, Asian, American and African influences on top of the tourism it enjoys, there is no end to the list of cultures this nation pulls from. And with culture, comes parades. Coming up is the Sydney G&L Mardi Gras Parade next weekend. Can’t wait.

Another quick photo album to share is already up.

Sydney – Day One.
Welcome to the only torrential downpour in Sydney history. Ever.

In fact, saying “Day One” above is misleading. This is also days two, three, four and probably six.
But I keep repeating my mantra. “Look at me, Mom! I’m really in Sydney!”

The views are incredible, the people are friendly. I absolutely love this city. The study abroad “Honeymoon” stage is in full swing. Aussies are certainly some of the most gracious, friendly, happy people on Earth. I’d say that they are “graciendappy,” but that’s not even a word.

Yet.

They are simply passionate about being where they are, with the good company they are with. You would love it here.

And the international students are grand. Being thrown into a new country, we are all on pretty equal ground. Some are clique-ish, but we’ve all jumped into new relationships without many reservations. The majority of the of the students are from Scandinavia, southeast Asia, across Australia and then an even split of western Europeans and Russians. Not to mention roughly 40 Americans sprinkled about. Unfortunately I’ve found zero arabic language speaking students. So much for my new “I know how to say hello, so I’ll pretend to be fluent” language.

And now… the beach.

The sand below me.

The sky above.

My new friends (from top) Peter Criss and Ross “Banjo” Perot at my side.

Life is good.

Between singling out Speedo-wearing old men who may or may not be Gary Busey and Ted Turner on a holiday, I crashed into waves, climbed a bluff and played the most inept game of sand volleyball of my life. (Yes, as awesome as Australia is, it can’t cure chronic un-coordination.)

My tan is progressing slowly, but I guess that’s what the other 13 weeks of my trip are for. I have a short photo album online at Facebook of my first day at the beach, mostly of scenery, but it’s breathtaking.

Dear snow,

This is it. I’m leaving you. I don’t know how else to say it.

No, don’t argue with me. I won’t have it. I –no– we need time apart from all of this.

We’ve had good times these past few months, you and I.
You’re infrequent visits last November.
Hell, I bet we saw each other once in October, too.

But I’ve moved on as we grew distant these past few weeks.

It’s not because you left so often. I always knew you’d be back.
Back once it was that right combination of the cold air and cool rain we spent so much time together in. I will miss it.

You might hear things from our friends.
Dirty rumors and conjecture about what I’m doing and why.
But because I respect you, I’ll just be straight with you now.

I’m running off to spend time with sand. Yes, that sand.
The big Australian one you’ve heard me talk about.

I’m sorry.

Don’t doubt that we’ll cross paths again one day. I could really see us together and making it last.
I always told you I wasn’t afraid to relocate.

But right now, sand is what I need to focus on.

Goodbye.

P.S. I still have your Sufjan cd. And I’m keeping it.

(This was written sitting on the plane at O’Hare waiting to leave for Los Angeles on Saturday. I know it’s not a beach update, but that’s next. Just sit tight, dear readers.