This sudden increase in Celsius has had a few interesting effects on Sydney this weekend.  I noticed that once bustling areas of the city seem very quiet.  It’s as if all the people, young and old, the animals, domestic and wild, and even the cars, from Holden to Hyundai, had an invisible layer of felt thrown over them, soaking up what little noise they could muster the energy to make in the first place.  Even the didgeridoo player in Circular Quay sounded like he had cotton stuffed up inside his constantly droning instrument.  A vast improvement if you ask me.

The heat also leads people to make interesting and occasionally questionable fashion choices.  I’ve already noted that Sydneysiders tend to go out without shoes on, a phenomena that I don’t entirely understand.  No doubt they have flip fops (thongs).  Was the two extra seconds it took to put them on too long for you?  And certainly near beaches and even our local pool, you’ll find people walking around in swimsuits (cossies), towels and less than your usual amount of clothing.  But this morning I saw a man purchasing groceries in a T-shirt and a speedo.  At least, I hope he was wearing a speedo.  There are children running around in their underwear, no shortage of shirtless guys and, even though I didn’t think it was possible for the women to wear shorter dresses when they went out, skirt lengths were chopped by a few centimeters.  Although, those women tolerated their high heels for less time than they did during fair weather.

My un-air-conditioned apartment has maintained a tolerable level of thought numbing heat, thanks to the constant harbor breeze.  And the breeze carries with it an amazing smell which I’ve only ever smelled the likes of during nights in the desert.  I’m not sure what produces it, unless there are always particles of outback sand flying through the air, but it’s really quite pleasant.  The coming summer has also seen a dramatic increase in the amount of weekly fireworks displays.  The Australian Idol Finale at the Opera House perhaps offered the most impressive example of this Aussie tradition.  I was glad to be able to watch it from the “relative” coolness of my apartment.

The fashion is perhaps the most fun part of the day’s festivities.  Whether you are attending the race or not, you are expected to dress for the track.  Men wear fine suits with Easter egg colored ties and women wear tiny, highlighter colored dresses, with elaborate hats called fascinators.  I don’t know why they are called fascinators, but they certainly are fascinating.  Somewhere between a hat and a hair clip, they are decorated with feathers, flowers and all sorts of bright flora and fauna, and worn at a jaunty angle.  This tradition has to have come from Australia’s British routes.  The Empire lives on!

But at it’s core, Melbourne Cup day is just another good excuse to party.  It’s a formal holiday in Melbourne, and an unofficial afternoon off for the rest of the country.  Perhaps they realized long ago, that even though the race itself is only a blurry two minutes of jumbled up racehorses nosing their way to the finish, that the massive lunch and several glasses of champagne consumed before the race, would leave every Australian in a useless state for the rest of the day.

And just like the Superbowl, Melbourne Cup Day ends with stumbling and a little vomiting.  Yes, everyone may look classy but being well dressed doesn’t increase your tolerance.  Melbourne Cup attenders beware, if you vomit while still on the field, you will be on the news.  Their parents must be so proud.

This particular Melbourne Cup day came with a bit of an inconvenience for those of us living on the North Shore of Sydney.  Just when everyone was starting to stumble home post race, the trains broke down and legions of brightly dresses party goers were forced to walk home in the record heat of thirty seven degrees.  If you are only familiar with the Fahrenheit scale, just know that that’s HOT!  I’m very glad that as a brazen foreigner, I decided to violate race day fashion rules and wore flats.

Halloween is not a widely celebrated holiday in Australia.  You won’t find bags of “fun sized” candies in the grocery stores, or endless aisles of cheap rubber masks with suffocation warnings printed on the back.  In fact, with little Halloween decorations to sell, and certainly no Thanksgiving decorations, most of the stores around here started selling Christmas wreaths over a month ago.  But despite the lack of an “official” reason to celebrate, you will find that most Australians are still happy to use Halloween as another excuse to party (as if they need one).  So, in honor of the Australian’s willing attitude and the great American tradition of rotting out your adult teeth before they finish growing in, Gabe and I decided to have a little pre-Halloween party.

As is the case with most parties I host, this one involved a great deal of baked goods and copious amounts of sugar, specifically in the form of monster cupcakes. We had hosted this Martha Stewart inspired event once before, and found people quite willing to decorate their own desserts in a diabetes inducing manner.  Our Australian guests proved equally keen on the idea and Australian candy made for the perfect decorations.  Although, the gummies did get a bit soggy by the third day of exposure to the frosting.  Must be those damn natural ingredients.  Where are those chemical preservatives when you need them?  People did seem truly surprised that we were able to find Betty Crocker frosting anywhere.  It must be because we purchased it via means that most Australians never think to use, an online grocery order.

The party also offered us the opportunity to introduce our Aussie guests to another fine American food . . . chili!  One probably wouldn’t think twice about chili not being an international food, when you can find it most places in the US, but at least five of our guests had never had it before.  By the end of the night, all the chili virgins had consumed two to three bowls each.  I think it’s safe to say that we have successfully prepared them for any trips they may take to the Southwestern states in the future.

On the actual All Hallows’ Eve, we attended a costume party.  Even without Halloween, costume parties are not a rarity in Oz.  People often have theme parties to which guests dress for the theme.  So, despite the lack of plastic vampire teeth and Frankenstein masks, there are no shortage of costume hire places, which will cater to some of the more popular themes.  I did a brief perusal through one of these shops, but since I find myself financially challenged these days, I opted just to add a few accessories to items I already owned.

That turned out to be the perfect choice.  At most Halloween parties in the States, you will find that some of guests planned their costumes months in advance, even down to the finest detail, while others did what they could at the last minute with some construction paper and a few sharpies, and the rest fall somewhere in between.  Out here, perhaps because of the lack of Hallmark induced pressure, there wasn’t a single guest at this party who had a custom embroidered shirt.  We had all simply done a combination of discount shopping and scrounging oddities out of our own closets, and I think we looked rather good.  After all, Pseudo-Halloween isn’t about keeping up with the Joneses, it’s just another excuse to party.

The top image is what the view from our livingroom window would look like on an average sunny Sydney day.  The bottom image, is the view we woke up to on Wednesday September 23rd, 2009, the day an epic dust storm blew over the city.  This dust came all the way from the arid west, and blanketed most of the state.  Keep in mind that the continental land mass of Australia, is nearly the same size as the US, but has only six states.  That would be like the entire midwest getting lost in a cloud.  It’s no wonder they saw this dust from space!

The dust took over 12 hours to clear out, slowly becoming a grayish vale before the sun started to peak through.  So Sydney went from looking like the Mars landscape in Total Recall (minus Schwarzenegger) to Could City (without Billy Dee) and back to normal again.  Though the high winds proved very helpful in clearing the dust out to sea (actually up to Brisbane before heading over the ocean, sorry Brizzie) they also blew the dust into every nook and cranny capable of containing particulates.  So, trips outside required interesting headgear . . .

And my apartment, which I had just cleaned last week, is now a dusty mess.  What you see here is a bookcase where an alarm clock and two pairs of binoculars were sitting during the storm.

News reports of this record breaking event yesterday, ranged from discussion about how well the car washing businesses were going to do, to the environmental implications of acres of missing top soil.  With raging fires and massive floods in the US, earthquakes in Southeast Asia, and a martian haze clouding Sydney, I can’t help but wonder if the Mayans were right.  So what do you think?  Is this a sign of things to come?

Rocket = Arugula
Capsicum = bell pepper.  While pepper = a chili or hot pepper or (in slang) a hot woman.  And if you are hitting on a pepper you are probably tuning her.
Museli = granola, oats, cereal and almost any other form of grain heavy breakfast food
Prawns = Shrimp, always.  I don’t think Aussies believe in eating the prawn’s scrawny cousin, the shrimp.  Not enough meat.
Tasty = cheese.  I agree, cheese is tasty.
Stuffed up = Fucked up.  I kind of like the middle school is charm of that expression.

Cadbury in addition to being a prolific candy, also means lightweight.  If I wasn’t a cadbury already, then $8 for single shot beverages has turned me into one.

Soda and candy has real sugar in it, and costs a lot more.  Ditto for the pasta sauce.  The candy tastes great, but I haven’t gotten used to the pasta sauce yet.

Go out early for breakfast, and early for lunch.  If you want something decent, then breakfast ends at 11am and lunch ends at 2:30.  Good thing It’s impossible to drink enough to leave you so hungover that you wake up craving breakfast at 3pm.  At least you can still get great coffee all day.  And if you see a breakfast special that comes with a coffee, get it.  Unlike the itty bitty cup of swill you might get from a NYC street vendor, coffee out here means your choice of cappuccino, latte, or a flat white, long black, short black and all those other forms of coffee the Aussies seem so proudly addicted to.

When going out to eat, don’t expect great service, unless you’re at a Thai restaurant.  At first I thought there was something to simply paying your waiters a good minimum wage, and not having them work for tips, but I’m starting to think monetary motivation has more benefits.  Luckily there are a lot of Thai restaurants, and the food is as good as the service.

You don’t go to a hospital or end up in a hospital, you are simply in hospital or at hospital.  And you don’t watch or play sports, just sport.  Maybe, like Ta instead of that’s alright, these became part of the language in the interest of saving time.  Although, they say take away, instead of take out.  That has more letters and syllables.

Australians invented the dual flush toilet.  If you don’t see a symbol to indicate that one is a full flush and the other is a half flush, then the left should be half and the right should be full.  There are also on and off switches on all the outlets, so you can turn off anything you are not using without unplugging it.  Americans need to get on board with that.  No matter how much I want to save the environment, there was no way I was going to crawl behind several pieces of furniture just to unplug my cell phone charger.  Now I have a phone that reminds me to unplug it, and an easy to reach off switch for the plug.

Train tickets have to be purchased before you get on the train, and must cover the extent of your final destination.  But ferry tickets are purchased at circular quay, regardless of weather your journey started or ended there.  Unless, of course, you are going from one mid trip destination to another, then you are expected to pay on the boat.  Some buses will sell tickets on board, and others require prepaid tickets, which can only be purchased of random vendors sprinkled throughout the city.  And if that isn’t confusing enough, try getting somewhere, anywhere, without having looked at a map first.  Trust me, you won’t make it.  Hooray for google street view.

Shopping isn’t the impossible task that everyone made it out to be.  There is no gap, and your standard “made in china” fare is actually very expensive (ironic considering we’re a lot closer over here).  But there are malls in abundance, chain stores everywhere, and no shortage of ways to part with money for the sake of fashion.

People also dress much better out here.  Perhaps all the uniformed schools, instill in them and unbreakable habit of putting on a tie every day of the week.  Sydneysides also dress up to go out.  Black is standard, along with short skirts and high heels for women.  Normally when you see that in NY it means they are under-aged.  They are, of course, the same age here, only legally drunk.

But amongst all the things I have learned about Sydney life over these past few months, are still a few urban mysteries that tickle my interest.  For example, why does the occasional bar bathroom offer a hot iron for women’s hair?  For $2 you get 10 minutes of heat out of a hair straightener.  And this is frequently in bathrooms that don’t even have the typical tampon, candy and condom machines.  Don’t tell me that many women remember to take condoms, but not to finish straightening their hair before a night out on the town.

I also see an extraordinary number of people barefoot.  These sightings were averaging once a week, but have started to go up with the rise in Celsius.  This isn’t just by the beach, but often a great distance away from any shoreline, pool, park, or other area where barefootedness might be expected.  I’m sure there is not a single soul in the city who doesn’t own thongs (and by that I mean flip flops).  Are they really that much effort to put on before heading out for your morning coffee?

But perhaps the greatest mystery Australian life still holds for me, is one I might never solve.  Why DO people eat Vegemite?

Among the many benefits of living in a city like Sydney, is the relaxed attitude that makes nude beaches not only easily accessible, but also insanely popular.  Even though we arrived fairly early at the lovely little cove that contains Cobblers Beach, the clean crescent of sand and even the flat portion of cliff above, was already occupied by a long line sunbathers, happily freed of all their clothing.  We were lucky to get a comfy little portion of beach before the afternoon got even warmer and there was more flesh than sand.  If the idea of being at all close to a nude stranger makes you uncomfortable, then this certainly isn’t the beach for you.  It’s all nude, all ages, all shapes and sizes, very popular and very friendly.

Before you even think to ask, no, I did not spend the day sans clothing.  My bathing suit parts have never seen the sunlight, and considering my sensitivity to sun in general, I’m not sure they ever should.  I also happen to think my bikinis (what the Aussies call a swimming cozzie) are pretty cute, so I prefer to wear them.  But if nudity was a private club that required a member’s invitation to set foot inside the front door, then Gabe is my entry ticket.  I was, however, happy to exercise the option of changing out of my swimsuit without the necessity of an overused beach bathroom, or an ineffective towel shield.  Very convenient.

Cobblers Beach is on one of the many peninsulas in Sydney that has been left as a nature reserve, and is a short, tree-lined walk away from the nearest parking lot, so it’s surrounded by nothing but trees and rocks.  Like all Sydney beaches, the sand is squeaky soft, and the water is blue and sparkling.  But of all the beaches I have had occasion to visit so far, I’ve enjoyed this one the most.  Even though it was a definite hot spot on this unseasonably warm spring Sunday, it was worlds away from the touristy buzz of Manly or Bondi.  And the type of people who seem to be drawn to choose a nude beach over the many other options in Sydney, are not only (clearly) uninhibited, but also very friendly.  In fact a great many of them seemed to know each other, and were either meeting friends on the beach or catching up in passing.  Judging from the many people who’s only tan lines were in the fold under their butt cheeks, I figured there were lots of regulars.

The legally nude zone also includes the portion of water within the cove, which made this area equally popular with boaters.  Several boats were anchored just a short swim away from the beach, where their passengers lay nude on the deck.  But being isolated on their own boats made them no less gregarious.  They were shuttling their dinghy’s (and I don’t mean that as a metaphor) to each others boats, and by the end of the afternoon there was the beginnings of a nudist colony on the deck of one of the larger vessels.

The accessibility to boats also made it possible for the tiny boat selling refreshments, to get close enough to the beach for his customers to only have to wade knee deep to place an order.  And the cooperative nature of the people on the beach became even more evident,as they grabbed the tow line to help him steer to the shore, and each patiently took turns holding it to keep the boat straight, as the person in front of them placed their order.  The cappuccinos, made fresh on the boat as it bobbed in the tide next to the growing line of nude customers, were excellent.  If the man who runs the refreshment boat has no competition, then he’s not only a shrewd businessman, but must be a master at making cappuccinos on dry land.  And just in case you were wondering, he did not take advantage of his brief visit to the beach to serve coffee naked.  Although, I’m sure no one would have found it strange.

After I got over the initial strangeness one would understandably feel when suddenly surrounded by naked strangers, I actually found it very comfortable.  There is something about being around people clearly free of inhibitions and judgments that peels away all the ones you might have arrived with.  I now know that, with the exception of a few gentlemen who looked like they were still wearing speedos when they had in fact been removed, the Aussies are a fairly clean-shaven bunch, regardless of sex or age.  I’m much more familiar now with a few trends in piercing that I seem to have missed.  Ouch.  And I will probably never be uncomfortable in a bathing suit (a.k.a. cozzie) ever again.

The only thing I would have asked of this beach, was a slight increase in the temperature of the water.  Anything a few degrees above the icy temperature that must have been somewhere between a meat locker and gelato, would have been nice.  But I was still very happy that I took a dip.  And in keeping with the theme of the beach, all it took was Gabe and I venturing into the water to encourage several other people to try it as well.  According to some of the well tanned regulars, the water is actually quite nice in the summer.  I will definitely come back, and maybe next time I wont bother with the cozzie.

The first thing it’s important to note about crossing the bridge, is that even though the walking path is pretty seriously walled in from the traffic on one side, and the harbor on the other . . .

. . . it’s still not a place for people afraid of heights.  Not only can you see straight down the entire time, but the ground under you also jiggles like a SoCal aftershock every time a train goes by.

I bet most people also don’t know that you can climb to the top of one of the pylons, for a mere $9.50 (sorry there are no pics from there, because I didn’t have that much on me) which sure beats the nearly $200 that people pay every day to climb to the top of the arch, and doesn’t require you to wear the “bridge colored” jumpsuit, or be chained to a group of your fellow climbers.

The $9.50 (if you happen to have that money handy) will also get you into a little museum inside the pylon, about the building of the bridge.  But I got a little taste of what the museum had to offer on the stairs leading to the entrance.

All in all, I would call the bridge crossing a very worthwhile journey.  Especially since all the postcards most souvenir shops here sell are a bit on the cheesy side, and the bridge offers you a great opportunity to take a few of your own.

You can check out the rest of the shots from my journey on my Flickr page.

The only things that still throw me off are two particular Australianisms.  One is “How you going?” the Aussie’s way of saying “How are you?” “What’s up?” or “How is IT going?”.  And even though I can answer the question without hesitation, it still incites in me a desire to respond with what my American instincts would consider a misuse of grammar like, “I go fine”  or “It be well”.  And the other one the induces a bit of a shudder when I hear it is “Ta” yes, just “Ta.”  I think it’s a shortening of “That’s alright” which is the common response to “Thank you” out here, along with “No worries” which reminds me a bit of the Americanism “No problem” (an expression hammered out of my vocabulary long ago, by a boss who wouldn’t stand for the lackadaisical “Jamaican” nature of the response, and preferred the much more gracious “You’re welcome” (that’s still what I always say)).  But “Ta” like the Hawaiian “Aloha” also seems to mean thank you, hello, goodbye, and many other things I’m sure I haven’t figured out yet.  Personally I prefer “cheers”.

So since my daily interactions with Australians, are only peppered by the occasional language confusion, I forget that I am now the one with the accent.  It only takes one or two sentences before they ask “Are you on holiday?” or get more straight to the point with “Where are you from?”.  It’s easy to forget I’m a foreigner.  Sydney is like an odd collection of the neighborhoods I know from LA and NY, in look, pace, lifestyle and culture.  So unlike when I lived in Italy and felt as obviously American as I’m sure I looked (not that I wore a Mickey T-shirt or anything, but come on, the Europeans know Americans when they see them) I expect to blend in here like a eucalyptus tree.   And I pretty much do, until I start talking.  It’s then that I get a taste of what I’m sure every immigrant in the States gets at one point or another.  It’s pretty interesting being on the flip side of those accent induced conversations.

The other outsider viewpoint that being a foreigner has made me privy to, is an objective look at the practice of placeism.  Placeism, like all isms, is a bad thing, yet it is one that we accept into our everyday lives because it victimizes places, rather than people.  I myself have been guilty of placeism on many occasions.  It’s why I stopped telling people I was from Beverly Hills, often inducing drawn out conversations that go a little like this:

“Where are you from?”
“LA.”
“Where in LA?”
“West LA.”
“What part?”
“About 20 minutes from the coast” (45 by today’s traffic standards)
“Which area?”
“Between Hollywood and Santa Monica.”

That’s when people who know their maps would figure out I just covered a pretty large area of the city, and I would have to admit the truth, which was usually followed by:

“No, there is no West Beverly High.  I live in 90212 NOT 90210.  And no, I didn’t get a BWM on my 16th birthday.  But yes, I know people who did.”

I felt justified in my defensiveness, because judgements were often placed upon me because of where I was from.  And why shouldn’t they judge?  We all do.  But since I’m no longer in a place where I get why people from New Jersey say they are from New York (you’re really not), and us blue state residents feel compelled to make fun of the red states, I can tell you first hand that placeism is pretty pointless.

The Australians I’ve met have either vehemently defended where they were from, or preemptively made fun of it before anyone else could.  Each city seems to come with it’s only set of preconceptions.  Sydney is the urban active city, Melbourne following as a close second, while Brisbane and Adelaide are considered country, and Perth might as well not even been on the map.  Or at least, that is what I have gathered from these conversations, although I can’t really remember, because I don’t really care.  I came here completely free of any knowledge or preconceptions about any part of the country, and very willing to experience every part of it, good and bad.  So when people begin to launch into conversations about which places are dodgy or where the bogans live, I usually zone out because, in reality, I’d prefer to find out for myself.

So the next time you meet a foreigner, even if they seem to think that all Texans are George W. Bush, and all Californians are Paris Hilton, instead of launching into a well practiced diatribe in defense of your hometown, give them a chance to figure it out for themselves.  I, for one, will stop hiding the fact that I’m from Beverly Hills.  They can figure out for themselves that I don’t have a trust fund.  It shouldn’t take long.

To being with, weather reporting lacks a certain sense of specificity.  I know I could stand to have a better grasp of Celsius, but even though I’ve never understood why barometric pressure was so important, it never prevented me from getting the gist weather reports in the states.  And instead of offering additional information like UV ratings and pollen counts, Australian news programs opt to show a map of the entire country, accompanied by a series of wavy lines and numbers, which I think indicates wind speed or pressure or bunny rabbit density, I’m really not sure.  And I don’t understand why they are compelled to put up the entire map, when doing the local news.  Even the weather channel, a channel dedicated to worldwide reporting, knows how to zoom into specific cities.  You would think that with the overwhelming majority of Australia’s population parked in six major cities, they would do the same thing here.

Perhaps the most confusing practice in both television weather reporting, and the only slightly more helpful website, is the use of a term that I think should be banned from all proper reporting . . . fine.  Fine is a relative term.  Fine to one person might not be fine to another.  So unless there is a scale related to temperature, cloud cover, humidity and all other things weather related, with tick marks indicating when one might use the term fine as opposed to crappy, I think they ought to stick with sunny or cloudy.  The terminology only gets worse on a rainy day.  I have yet to figure out the difference between a shower or two, a chance shower or two, a few showers, coastal showers (almost all of the dang city is coast) and chance showers, mostly fine.  Although I will give them a certain credit for trying.  In a city where the cloud cover moves faster than the public transportation, and it rains in full sunlight, it can’t be too easy to predict what might happen next.  Like a saltwater croc, the weather just sneaks up on you.

The lack of heating systems in most buildings, also does not help the day to day confusion.  Relentless sunlight will heat the bedroom to boiling during the day, while the wind getting sucked in through the kitchen window chills my coffee before I’ve even added the milk.  And even though you can dress to stay plenty warm during the colder nights, if you sit still long enough, your fingers turn blue and the tip of your nose feels like a snowy mountain peak.  To all my friends who knit, consider inventing some finger only gloves and nose cozies.  You could make a fortune out here.

But for the most part, I really can’t complain.  It’s far from freezing rain pelting me in the face, deceptively deep puddles of sludge that remain on certain street corners until June, and being forced to wear the same pair of salt stained boots for two weeks straight.  And the swiftly changing conditions here become a sort of theater of the sky.  The rainbows are intensely vibrant, often set against deep gray clouds that sweep in and obscure them behind a vail of distant rain.  The water in the harbor changes color with the sky, going from a vivid sapphire blue to a placid mercury gray.  And the fluffy flock of clouds turn a cotton candy pink at sunset.  So I’ll enjoy all these “fine” days while they last, before it’s as dry as a “nun’s nasty” or a “dead dingo’s donger” outside.

Yup, that pretty much sums up Australia.  Welcome.  Come on in and enjoy yourself . . . oh and something might eat you before you leave, but no worries mate.

The Australian Museum is a nice little piece of Sydney history, that maintains that message very consistently.  Just like the Zoo, it’s a very friendly place to get to know the local animals.  Of course, all the ones at the museum are stuffed, with the exception of a few sea creatures (I’ve actually never seen a cuttlefish in person before) some ugly spiders, one bored looking blue tongue lizard, and one itty bitty freshwater crocodile (they’re cute when they’re small).

The idea of being surrounded by stiffly posed, glass eyed creatures, that probably ate their last bits of eucalyptus thirty years ago, sounds morbid, but it’s actually quite fun.  Now I know that the grey headed flying foxes that I see leaving the botanic gardens in droves each night, have the softest of fluff on their heads, and that echidnas are quite spiny indeed.  And even though a great deal of the animals are safely stowed in display cases, including a few that seem to have seen better days since their visit to the taxidermist, there are no shortage of Australia’s more iconic animals primed for petting on each floor.  The surplus have been turned into a creative series of displays where the rats chase each other through the backyard BBQ, and the magpies dive bomb unsuspecting bikers.  According to the wall text, it’s common to use ice cream containers with eyes drawn on them as fake targets, to prevent being blinded in a magpie attack.  I’m not sure I’ll go as far as wearing an ice cream container, but I will walk cautiously during their nesting season.

Although smaller than some of it’s American counterparts (lacking the space for both the massive T-rex skeleton and the life sized humpback whale, this natural history museum opts for a whale skeleton as a compromise) it is a great place to learn about the many creatures that are, and have always been, unique to Australia.  Did you know about the Diprotodon Optatum, the largest marsupial that ever lived?  And somehow all my previous explorations into natural history, in both museums and books, never taught me about zooids or that sandworms could have legs.

But perhaps the most important thing you learn during a trip to the Australian Museum, is that everything, from the most unassuming shell washed up on the beach, to a tick practically invisible when first born, can kill you.  That may be obvious when you’re looking at a saltwater crocodile, a reptile so large that it might consider a full grown human no more than a hearty meal.  But no one would suspect that the tiny blue ringed octopus, that could fit in the palm of your hand, could also paralyze every function of your body, to the point where you would need constant CPR until its poison worked its way out of your system (a mere twenty four hours later).  I think Bill Bryson said it best when he wrote, “It’s a tough country.”

So once again, I find myself grateful for my humble abode, but today that’s because of it’s lack of a spider filled back yard and distance from crocodile friendly shoreline.  I have until early summer to prepare myself to get into the water.  In the meantime, I’ll buy the large container of ice cream, just in case.  It’s a good thing I like ice cream.

Check this flickr set for more fun photos.