The Red Sea

My first walk down the main strip of Sharm El Shaikh had been a surreal and terrifying experience.

I had walked off wanting to explore, get some food and make some bookings for activities.  Instead, I was confronted by the terror of a stereotypical tropical tourist scene.  It wasn't the tourist scene itself that terrified me, rather it was that I no longer felt like I was in Africa or the Middle East.  I could have been in any cliched resort town anywhere along the tropical zone.  I kept feeling like I was walking around in one of either Phuket or Krabi.  The shops looked exactly the same and they were even selling the same mass produced junk.  Even more astonishing was that the tourists wandering around had the same glistening red sun burn and horrifying sense of dress.  I felt out of place and incredibly vulnerable wandering around the souvenir stores and amongst the touts and their wares.  I needed to be here though and I wasn't going to leave until I booked my snorkeling tour of the Red Sea.

I looked for the most reputable company I could find, made my booking and left.  The effects of jet lag were beginning to overtake me and I needed to get out of the sun.

The next day, I woke up early.  My mind and body were still confused about the actual time, but this didn't matter as I was far more overcome by the excitement of some undersea fun.  I was going snorkeling in the Red Sea!  I was a touch disappointed that I didn't have the necessary experience required for me to go scuba diving (not that it mattered, as the timing of my flights meant it wouldn't have been possible anyway), but I was looking forward to getting into the water regardless.

Being out on the water was what I wanted.  Breathing in the cool and salty air, I could feel the stresses of the old job disappearing.  Jumping into the water, I was happy to see an immense variety of colours and animals.  It was truly beautiful.

However, my body was simply not up to it.  As the initial excitement began to fade, the exhaustion of the past weeks and the trip began to take its toll.

As others went into the water for their 4th or 5th excursions, I was more than convinced that I had seen more than my fair share.  Instead, I found myself a nice corner of the boat in the direct sunlight and fell fast asleep.

Snorkeling was definitely an enjoyable experience, but I am fairly certain that it doesn't hold the appeal to me that it does others and I don't think that I will be turning into one of those scuba/diving obsessed travellers that I seem to be encountering in ever increasing numbers.

Still, as the boat turned around and began its trip back to Sharm El Shaikh, I found myself staring out into the distance.  The shimmering surface of the water had an almost hypnotic appeal that I found seized my attention as much as what was beneath.

Sharm El Sheikh

I arrived at the airport feeling nicely jet lagged.  Walking out into the desert, I was astounded by the complete lack of any taxis.  I had arrived in what was supposed to be a tourist mecca to find myself alone.  I eventually found a driver who charged me an exorbitant price knowing that I had no choice.  In my sleep depraved state, I had little will to fight and soon agreed to his ridiculous terms.  I was in Sharm El Sheikh and being a tourist that gets ripped off seemed to go with the territory.

Speeding along the desert road, I could see the familiar little outcrops of tourist villas and hotels approaching.  As I hopped out of the taxi, a group of uniformed men descended on me to carry my bags and to usher me towards the front desk.  Once I was there, I was greeted by another man in a uniform who courteously informed me that I had arrived before the check in time.  However, he then kindly informed me that he would do his best to arrange  for a room to be cleaned so I could check in immediately.

This was a level of service completely at odds with my usual approach to travels!

When traveling on the company coin, I would happily accept the finer things in life.  This attitude was not in anyway reflected in my personal approach to travel!  I would normally be looking for accommodation towards the more backpacker end of town.  However, I had decided that this would be my one off extravagance.  It would be both a way of transitioning into my holiday as well as helping me to overcome the pain of jet lag.

Walking into the room made me think that it may have been a mistake to take the more comfortable option at the beginning instead of at the end of the trip.

How was I going to cope with the rest of my trip if my upcoming accommodation  didn't come my own personal bidet?

I wasn't going to be trapped by this luxury.  I threw down my bags and had a quick shower.

Sharm was waiting for me outside so I needed to get out and explore quickly, before the soft bed and the comfortable sheets drew me too close.

Ready to go

I wish I was in this situation more often.  I wish I found myself sitting in Sydney airport more often, just for the simple pleasure of waiting.

I have always found the anticipation of leaving for another adventure to be one of the highlights of traveling.

Even the thought of sitting on the long haul flight itself was appealing to me.  Most people I know hate long haul flights, but personally I've always enjoyed them.  A long haul flight meant being able to sit and watch movies, whilst someone else brought me food and drink.  After the grueling months that I had just been through, I could think of little else I would rather do.

Sitting and waiting for my flight, I had no desire to move and was satisfied that at that time, there were no demands or obligations on me.

Before long, it was time for me to board my flight.  As I wandered through the familiar main hall, I could feel a sense of relief knowing that soon I would be far away.

It always ends with cake

The recent weeks had been strangely traumatic and emotional for me.

I had made the decision that my time at work was done.  It had been almost five years in the same job and it was time to move on.  I was quite happy in my job, I liked what I did and I had a genuine affection for the people around me.  So it was with much sadness that I realised that I needed to change my surroundings not because of any personal dissatisfaction, but because I needed to continue my development with new challenges.

The final weeks at work had been challenging as I tried frenetically to complete outstanding tasks and to ensure that no one would be burdened with my departure.

However, time keeps moving and eventually I found myself standing in the same spot that we had all gathered at so many times before.  It was the standard farewell location where the team would congregate and where the formal goodbyes would be made.  The surreal experience was that now I was the one being surrounded, I was now the focus of the surrounding crowd.

I stood with a smile on my face as my five years were condensed into a few short sentences, a handshake and friendly applause.  I was given a card and then there was the cake.  The gathered crowd moved swiftly towards the cake and then after the socially acceptable amount of time has passed, everyone moved back to their desks and the noise of tapping keyboards restarted.

I looked at the remains of the cake and I couldn't quite shake the thought that my five years of work had been reduced to a few slices of a cake.

And then it was gone

After three months in Sydney, Cirque was leaving again.

I had been through this before, but this departure was very different to my past experiences.  I was happy and actually relieved that they were leaving.  This stint with Cirque had not been the joyous experience that I had been expecting when I signed on for another spin.

However, seeing the tents slowly going down still made me feel sad.  It wasn't the sadness that this particular show was leaving, but rather the sadness in knowing that this was Cirque itself that was leaving my life.  I would not be working for Cirque again, that much I knew.  From this point onward, I would only ever be one of the paying patrons.  I would not be one of the insiders, I wouldn't be able to see the workings of the shows with that deeper understanding that comes only from having seen the show and its preparation countless times.  Cirque had become intertwined with my young life, so in many ways this goodbye to Cirque was also a farewell to a part of myself.

The goodbye with Cirque isn't slow either.  From the outside, there is surprisingly little that changes up until the end of the last show.  As far as the paying customer is concerned, nothing is out of the ordinary and walking into the final show will appear little different to the first.  Small changes are occurring though and once the final patron is out the gates, a torrent of new workers suddenly appear to begin the task of deconstructing the entire site. Standing inside, you can literally feel the walls around you falling and the ground underneath your feet being removed.  Frames are dismantled and storage chests are filled.

When you are working for Cirque, there is a permanency about it. It is built to feel like it belongs to its location, to feel like it has always belonged to that location.  But it's a lie.  None of it was ever meant to remain.  Yet in many ways, it is merely a condensed version of what we face in everything we do.  Even the most permanent of relationships and enterprises that we may create, only last for the briefest periods of time.  A home will only last as long as it is filled with family.  A career will only last as long as you are there.  Friendships only last as long as you allow them to.

As I stood outside of the front gates, watching the construction workers swarming in to pull the tents apart, I already felt distant from it all.  The tents had already been emptied and most of the staff were gone.  All that was left was the shell.

Simple magic

I always viewed myself as having a more refined sense of culture than most others in my own generation.  This over inflated sense of pretension was quickly destroyed when I visited the opera in Vienna.  Before the first act was over, I quickly realised that the opera was not for me.  Chris and I stood up, walked out the back and straight to the coat check girl and asked for our jackets.

"There is still another act" she said to us in a kind but also strangely patronising tone (this was clearly something that she had been required to inform other less informed patrons in the past).

"We know.  Give us our coats." was our response.

We took our coats, walked out into the cold evening air of Vienna and quickly found somewhere to get horrendously drunk.

We were backpacking at the time, so I use that as my excuse for my lack of interest in the finer musical arts.

Since that time, my interaction with the finer musical arts has been limited.

This was all about to change though as I was going to spend an evening at the symphony.

A symphony playing music from cartoons, but it was still the symphony!

I had finally, after many years, managed to go and see a performance in the Sydney Opera House.  This most iconic of Australian landmarks had been so close to me for so long and it was only now that I was taking up the opportunity to enjoy its proper use.  Like most natives to a country and city, I had experienced surprisingly little of where I lived whilst yearning to see the world.

I don't think I could have chosen a better moment either.

Seeing the symphony playing the music to the Pixar cartoons was incredible.  Combining cartoons with the symphony had clearly worked as a method of gaining some much needed popular support for the symphony, but no one seemed to be concerned with this.  I liked Pixar as well, so there really weren't many problems at all with this marriage.

The emotional impact of the songs took me by surprise and I struggled to keep myself composed when they played the music to "Up" with the montage of the Carl and Ellie's life being played on the big screen in the background.  By the end of the song and the montage, the music of the symphony faded to the sounds of most of the audience either crying or gently sobbing.

Waking dreams

There is something horrifying about not being able to sleep.

As you lay in your bed, hoping for the relief that comes with losing consciousness, knowing that insomnia is striking creates a rising fear and stress that pulls you further from what you need.  The counterproductive thoughts and terrors begin to grow and it isn't long before my sleeping has become a fiction.  I am merely laying in my bed, forcing my body to remain motionless in an attempt to lie to my mind to convince it to accept something that will not come.  It's like a sick attempt at bargaining with my own mind, I refuse to open my eyes, knowing that this will only waken me further.

Eventually I fail though.  I open my eyes and I look at the clock.  Minutes pass and so do hours.  It isn't even clear to me whether I have slept or if I have merely lost the ability to comprehend the movement of time.

I always close my eyes again, and sleep finally comes, but it's too late.  Too many of the precious hours have slipped by and I only receive a small fraction of what I need.  It is a strange form of torture, it is like a dying man in the desert, desperate for water, receiving only the smallest of mouthfuls, only just enough to sustain them through the agony, long enough to reach that next precious moment when they can finally satiate their thirst.

Childhood heroes

I don't care for soccer anymore.

I barely even take note of it these days.

It's a very long way I've come from when I was a soccer mad teen, anxiously checking the overnight scores and staying awake into the early hours to watch Champions League games.  It seemed important to be aware of what was happening on the other side of the world.  In a strange way, it also made me feel more connected to the world.  Living in Australia, with its indigenous sports and culture so far removed from anything done outside, it was easy to grab hold of soccer and its traditions as a way of being part of a greater global community.

It didn't last though.

The grip of soccer on me loosened as I saw what once seemed to be an environment based around the power of the clubs turn into a proxy for warring oligarchs to make ostentatious displays of wealth.  The whole idea of the game just didn't seem so interesting after that.

With this lack of current interest in soccer, I was surprised that I was in the stands of a soccer game in Australia, excitedly waiting the start of a game.  It wasn't even an international, it was just your ordinary and standard local league game.

A local game with a difference though, as Alessandro Del Piero was playing!

The thought of ever being able to see the amazing Del Piero playing was not something I had contemplated.  He had always been in my mind one of those near legendary figures that seems to have almost appeared out of a storybook rather than real life.

So together with over 30 000 other people (a number which was shocking itself), I stood and waited for the spectacle of the great Del Piero.

I expected that I would be writing that I was disappointed and that what I saw was a shadow of what I had once known.  It seems almost be the expected theme of what I now write, but happily this was not the case of faded memories and lost heroes.

Age had slowed him, but it had not robbed him of his brilliance and he still danced passed defenders with his subtle tricks and darting movements.

As he stood at the corner to take one his kicks, hundreds of arms lifted immediately and the flashes of cameras burst out to capture the moment.  Bathed in the flickering lights, it was clear that even though he had traded his black and whites for the unfamiliar sky blues, he was still the hero he has always been.

Feel the pain

This is an awful feeling.

It feels pretty similar to a break up or a pet dying.  I don't make this comparison lightly either.  There's definitely a combined feeling of pain and sorrow that I want to be rid of, but I know that I'm stuck with.

All because of a game as well.

My beloved Hawks have lost the Grand Final.

I didn't even watch it till the end.  Once the result was confirmed, I calmly turned off the television, placed the remote control on the table and then proceeded to throw an almighty temper tantrum.  It didn't really help to calm me down though.  I'm normally a calm person who is well in control of my emotions, so this kind of release is anything but satisfying.

To be so severely impacted by something as inconsequential as the result of a sporting match seems to be a character flaw, and yet this is something that has indeed become part of my character itself.  The Hawthorn football club has become a part of me since my childhood.  I have come to associate myself with its culture and I have come to love its story.  It is one of the few things besides my family that I have truly held dear and close to me for my entire life.  Through the travels and through the relocations, it was one of the few things that I was always able to take with me.  Even as a small child removed from my familiar surroundings, I was able to hold onto the club in my mind.  This club has remained my connection to my past and my connection to my first home in Melbourne.  I have cherished their successes and I have truly suffered through their losses, so much so that even colleagues at work have said to me that my mood is noticeably worse in weeks where the Hawks have lost!

Yet I wonder whether I would have remained as committed to this club had I remained in Melbourne.  I wonder if I would have held on as tightly to one of the last reminders of my Southern home had I not been forced to say goodbye to it all those years ago.

Never go back

I cannot shake the feeling that working for Cirque again has been a mistake.

The good memories that I once had have now being replaced by the grim realities of an organisation that appears to have lost its once beautiful soul.  In the past, all of us who worked for Cirque used to describe the atmosphere as having a "Cirque magic".  There was almost a feeling of joy being involved with Cirque and I cherished every moment that I was able to work.  It reached a point where even travelling to work elicited a feeling of excitement in me.

This atmosphere that captured my imagination (with my willing acceptance) seems to have disappeared.

In its place I find myself in a business, but it is an ordinary business.  There doesn't seem to be anything special or unique about this business and that is the most crushing thing of all.  The Cirque I once knew was far more than just a business, it was an organisation truly dedicated to the "show" and to the experience of the customer.

And yet, I cannot help but wonder about how much of the problem lies not the organisation and its undoubted changes but with myself.  I couldn't help but think back to a passage from one of my favourite books, "Keep the Aspidistra Flying" by George Orwell.

"It is like bathing for a second time on a summer day. However warm the day is, however much you have enjoyed your first bathe, you are always sorry for it if you go in a second time."

I have undoubtedly changed.  I have matured and grown with the passing of time as you would expect.  I wonder if this means that things can never be the same when you go back?  Does it mean that the old memories always linger like brambles that overwhelm the possibilities of new joys growing?

Some time in the sun

I never thought I would work for Cirque du Soleil again.

I had come to think of Cirque as something confined to my past.  I looked back on it with fond memories, but it was slowly slipping out of the range of what I could firmly grasp.  The experiences were becoming  faded and the emotions more distant.  I was even reaching the point where even some of the names of those I had previously worked with were becoming unfamiliar.  I was actually starting to forget names of some of those whom I had shared amazing experiences with.

So, when I found out that Cirque was returning to Australia with a new tour, I didn't pay too much attention.  It had been years since I had been able to watch a Cirque show and I had even overlooked going to the arena version of Saltimbanco when it had come through Sydney.  I sent a few emails to see if any friends were working the upcoming show, but that was mainly to organise catch ups and possible free tickets.

Then suddenly, a few changes in circumstances at my "real" job suddenly altered what was possible.  A change in my working hours now meant that working nights and weekends at Cirque was once again something within my realm of possibility.

This was an opportunity that was too good to pass up.  It was a serendipitous combination of events that was not going to happen again.  It meant a bit of extra money, the ability to watch some shows for free and a chance to meet some new people.  I couldn't think of any downside to this idea at all.....

Excuse me while I snus

This stuff isn't for the weak of spirit.

It will send your heart beat soaring and make your breath smell like you've eaten an ash tray.

Yet this seems to be one of the most beloved of the Scandinavian traditions.

I'm not even sure why there was a packet of snus in my apartment.  It was sitting there waiting to be used though, so I thought I might as well fulfill its destiny and make use of it.  I grabbed one of the tiny little packets of fun out of the box and jammed it into my upper lip.

It wasn't long at all before I could feel the surge of nicotine going to my head.  The taste of tobacco was swirling in my mouth and I was fairly confident that I had received about as much enjoyment that I was going to get from my snus.

I spat it out and put the box away.

An epic meal time?

My housemates and I have a tendency to get caught up in silly trends and fads.

The latest one on our radar was the YouTube show, "Epic Meal Time".  A show where outrageous food monstrosities are created, often with copious amounts of bacon and booze.

We were so enamoured with the outrageous antics of the guys on the show, we even succumbed to the powerful lure of merchandising.

We purchased the bacon flavoured spread they sell online.

It seemed like an excellent idea at the time.

However, like so many other ideas that seemed incredible at the time they were first thought up, this one turned out to be the disappointed that only bacon flavoured spread could be.

As funny as the purchase was, the bottle now lies untouched and unloved in the back of the fridge.  I am fairly certain it won't be leaving that spot for quite some time.

Unexpected kindness

I am constantly amazed by the kindness that friends can display.

I was just sitting around in the cold, minding my own business and thinking about making tea when I my housemates dropped a parcel on my lap that had arrived for me in the mail.

I wasn't expecting anything, so I wasn't certain if this was going to be my untimely end or a gigantic pile of bills.  Whatever it was, my sense of dread and fear was growing.

Instead I found presents!

Swedish styled presents sent all the way from France to Australia.  Everything themed with a moose.

The kindness shown to me definitely created an unexpected mix of feelings.  I was of course incredibly happy at the thoughtfulness of my dear friends to think of me enough to send me presents, but I also felt petty and small.  I thought about all the times I had complained or sulked over relatively meaningless things and then contrasted it to this act of generosity.

People who say that we shouldn't concern ourselves with little things in life are wrong.  The little things we do are often the finest things of all.  Hopefully I will use this as a reminder to do these things more myself.

Pisco

Farewells are tough.

For me they are a constant reminder of the limited time we have with those around us.  My time in Sydney seems to have been largely spent with people who are only in town for a short time.  I have not regretted the opportunity it has provided me to expand my understanding of the world, but the constant rotation of the social scene can get a bit tiring.

The most recent farewell was for friends I had met through my masters program, some Swiss people and someone from Peru.

The catering for the event was distinctly South American.  We had cheesy empanadas made by the Peruvian girl herself  as well as many bottles of pisco from her family property.

The pisco was something else.  Lethal and powerful, it is not something I can imagine myself ever turning into a habit.

The night began to hurtle out of control with the ample encouragement of the pisco, but in a good way.  Saying goodbye is always tough, so it's important to ensure that it isn't forgotten and that it's done properly.

Hotel to Hotel

The miserable weather in Melbourne wasn't a major surprise.  After all, Melbourne is a city with the deserved reputation of often having "four seasons in a day".  Arriving late in the night in the awful weather had added my feeling of exhaustion, so I was happy to collapse into the hotel room.  Work had decided to put me up at the Stamford, which was nice of them, and I was given another nice surprise by the suite they gave me.

I hadn't realised it immediately, but this was actually the same hotel that I had first stayed in when I had begun my working life.

The suite I had been given also looked identical to the suite I had stayed in previously as well (probably because it was indeed identical....)

Sitting in the room gave me a sense of nostalgia for my earlier working days.  I couldn't help but think of how much I had developed professionally and personally in that relatively short space of time.

I had also clearly lost some of my sense for adventure and fun as when I checked out of the hotel, I decided to move a few streets over into another hotel for the weekend instead of into a hostel as I had once done.

I wasn't even completely sure why I had made this decision.

As I have noted in the past, there was much of the same sameness to everything.  The location of the place was convenient, but I am certain that there would be hostels in the area that would offer similar convenience.

The biggest problem I find with the higher level of comfort would have to be that it creates a draw on you to stay in.

Why go traipsing off into the cold and uncertain world when you have your own warm and private space with satellite television?  If I'm going to be somewhere different, my aim should always be to explore, to see something different.

Looking out the window of the hotel really doesn't suffice.

Hidden in the laneways

Australia is a small country and yet there are still distinct cultural differences between the regions.  Going to Melbourne provides a nice change from the superficial obsessions of Sydney.  It's by no means innocent of being superficial, but the mood is definitely more alternative.  There is a darker approach to dress and far less skin on show than in Sydney.

Melbourne is also far more well known for its cafes than Sydney.  To be more specific, Melbourne is more famous for both its cafes and the unique locations of these cafes.

Melbourne has "laneways" that have become one of the greatest selling points of the city.  The unique design of the city provided its CBD with numerous small alleys and streets that have been utilised by city planners as perfect locations for small shops, restaurants and cafes.  These laneways are intimate settings full of life and a busy atmosphere that belies the more relaxed impression that Australia generally gives.

They are kind of fantastic.

I was sitting with a friend on Degraves St, one of the more famous of the laneways having breakfast on a cold and wet winter's morning in Melbourne.  It was busy and noisy.  There was a constant flow of people moving through the street which I love.

These streets reinforced my firm view that Melbourne is a better winter city than Sydney.  In Sydney, winter often feels like a time that is merely spent waiting for summer.  In Melbourne, there is a real culture that is made for social life in the colder months.

The life of these streets is hard to pass up.  They are one of the best parts of Melbourne and of Australia as a whole.  I only wish that there was something comparable in Sydney (particularly when it gets cold).

Undercover football

Visiting Melbourne is something I don't do anywhere near enough.  For me, going to Melbourne for work meant being able to get a fix Australian football that doesn't involve the Sydney Swans (something that is a rarity for me).

So after work on a cold winter's night, my friends and I from work all made our way on the tram down towards Etihad Stadium down at Melbourne's docklands.  It was still relatively early, so we went into a pub next to the stadium for a beer and a dinner of chicken parmigiana (I was trying to keep things nice and Victorian after all).

The atmosphere was good.  This was a standard Friday night in Melbourne, and the crowd was slowly gathering for the game. At the pub, supporters from both teams as well as the non-partisan like myself were laughing and talking.  I was surprised by the mix of the crowd.  There were the usual groups of men engaging in the light hearted banter, but there were also groups of women having dinner all decked out in their supporters' apparel, families, couples as well as people from all different ethnic groups.  It was a refreshing thing to see and once again reaffirmed my view that sport (at its best) can play a truly uniting role in a community.

As game time approached, we made our way with the crowds through the cold winds and into the stadium.  This was the first time I had ever been to Etihad Stadium, so I was looking forward to seeing what it was like for myself.  Aussie Rules fans love the MCG, but are generally ambivalent about Etihad.  One of the common criticisms of the stadium being that it lacked the atmosphere of its more illustrious older brother.

Personally I thought it was great.

I was watching Carlton play Geelong, so I had no vested interest in the match and I was able to sit in the perfect climate controlled stadium without feeling the least bit cold.

Looking around the stands, it was also perfectly clear to me that this stadium offered excellent views to the crowd no matter where they were seated.

The modern touch of this stadium is a far cry from my childhood spent shivering in the miserable wet and cold of Waverley.  It is more clinical and sterile than the football I remember, but that isn't necessarily a bad thing.  My memories are probably seen through rose coloured glasses as I don't seem to remember the painful trials involved in watching football such as trying to find your car after the game at Waverley.  Still, it was nice to be able to reconnect with some things that don't seem to change as one of my mates and I grabbed a bag of hot jam donuts to eat while we watched the game.  

I'm a graduate (again!)

Time feels like it is slipping through my fingers.  I say this because of what seems like an ever increasing speed at which my life is moving forward.  Days seem to pass by very quickly, as do the weeks and even the months.  I now seem to experience the terrifying days where I find myself incredibly busy and the day is over without me even fully realising that anything has happened.  There is a repetition that kills the uniqueness of each day, that turns it into something more akin to the rotation of gears than an actual individual moment of beauty it should be.

I think back to when I was a child and how even the thought of having to wait a single hour for anything would be tantamount to torture.  Yet now, I seem to want the opposite.  I want to slow the time, I want to turn the water through my fingers into molasses, yet with no success.  This is concerning to me as I constantly wonder and fret over whether I am doing enough with my life.  I question whether or not I am actually taking hold of the moments I have been blessed with and using them for something worthwhile.  Yet even this has its challenges as I am forced to decide between the investments for the future and acting for the present.

I now found myself in one of those situations where I was once again questioning whether I had made the correct decision in how I had used my time.

I was graduating from university again.

I now had a Masters of Law from the University of New South Wales.

I had enjoyed the opportunity to study again, but it had not been easy.  There had been significant sacrifices that had been made to ensure that I was able to undertake both the studying and the work to a successful degree without negatively impacting the other.  I had found myself locked in study labs and in front of computers working when others were out enjoying themselves.  I had been forced to concentrate in isolation as others were enjoying the company of friends and family.  I could even clearly remember the times when my housemates tried to convince me to the go to the beach and I was forced to turn them down so that I could read journal articles instead.

The sense of achievement was definitely still there.  It was the cliched feeling of reaching the end of a journey, but with more finality.  I had never expected to have completed my masters (and definitely not so quickly), so there was also satisfaction in knowing that I had hit another milestone unexpectedly.  The only problem was the continued nagging thought in my head of whether this was the "correct" milestone to be hitting.  Had I had made the right decision?  Had I sprinted in the right direction or had I merely placed myself even further from the destination that I ultimately wanted to arrive at?

Sitting in the audience, I was lucky enough to find that the guest speaker was George Williams.  The famous George Williams who wrote the constitutional law textbooks that filled me with pain and terror during my undergraduate years.  He was not what I expected at all.  He was not the old and grey professor I had imagined, but was instead an open minded progressive.  Who would have thought it?

As I sat and listened to Prof Williams speak, I found myself actually being interested by what he was saying (another shocking surprise I did not expect from my graduation).  He spoke of failure.  He spoke of the need to fail and how often he had failed in life.  He spoke about how it was only through the constant failure that he had eventually succeeded.  I contemplated this message silently in my seat.  Failure was truly inescapable, but it was still more difficult to rationalise it when I struggled to decide what I considered to be success.

And now for something completely different

I am a dedicated fan of Aussie Rules Football.  It is something that I have grown up with.  My upbringing is so ingrained with Aussie Rules that it almost seems to be a part of my personality (and I'm sure that many people would attest to that fact).

There are few other sports that interest me and there are many others that I look down on with disdain and contempt.

One of those sports is Rugby League.

I have never understood the attraction of this sport that seems to me to be so two dimensional.  The two lines of men running at each other with the constant repetition did not create any drama or tension for me.  Instead of trying to embrace it, I actively railed against it.  Being a Victorian transplant, stuck in the middle of NSW/ACT, my love of Aussie Rules and disdain for Rugby League became like a badge for me.  It was a constant reminder that no matter how much time went by, I would never fully integrate.

This all left me in an awkward position when I was asked by a friend at work to attend a Rugby League game.

I really didn't want to go.

However, I also knew that as this was something I had never tried before, it was a new experience I shouldn't be passing up.

I agreed to go.

On a Monday night (yes, a MONDAY NIGHT) after work, we all set off on the train to the middle of Sydney to watch the Canterbury Bulldogs play the Cronulla Sharks.  

The crowd was small, but passionate.

I couldn't help but compare it to the enormous crowds I was used to seeing at the Aussie Rules games.  Still, the atmosphere was good.

What definitely surprised me was that I enjoyed myself.  It was impressive to watch the spectacle of the game and to hear the noise of the tackling.  It was very clear from the sound that these were by no means painless encounters.

I walked away from the game with a different view (which is always important).  I hadn't become a fan of the sport, but I definitely had a new found respect for it that wasn't previously there. 

Breakfast of champions

They always say that breakfast is the most important meal of the day.

Who "they" are is completely unknown to me.  However, I'm fairly certain that "they" probably wouldn't approve of my standard breakfast of a croissant at my desk as I check my emails.

They probably wouldn't be so happy with Andy's version of a nutritious breakfast either.

On this chosen day, breakfast for Andy consisted of some standards.  He poured himself a cup of orange juice, then he made himself an espresso.

Then he microwaved a plate full of left over pan fried dumplings.

Pork dumplings.  Truly the most nutritious way to start your day.

Legoland

Growing up, there were always the kids who loved Meccano and the kids who loved Lego.

Then, there were always the kids who would make and eat mud pies .... (a practice I found to be bizarre even in my youngest years).

For me?  I loved Lego when I was a kid.

The steel and bolts of Meccano was too cold and unfeeling.  There was a sharpness to it all that I didn't like.

Lego on the other hand was colourful and welcoming.  It was like a real life cartoon that had the benefit of being interactive.

Sitting in the middle of Martin Place in Sydney having lunch with my friend Philipp, I was happy to see the Lego forest that had sprouted overnight.

I couldn't help but feel as though I had reverted to childhood.  I was clearly wandering around inside my memories.  I definitely missed it.  Lego for me was an intrinsic part of my childhood and the end of  the time I spent with it almost directly coincided with my move to boarding school (which I consider to this day as being when I began to grow up).

Being around so much Lego made me long for something that was still neatly stored in boxes in my parents' house and yet could never actually  be found again.

The only thing missing were some Lego pirate men and some Lego knights.

An iconic beach

Being asked to organise an event for work is very often a pain.  It usually entails additional work with little to no recognition.

However, there can definitely be situations where the benefits outweigh the hard work.

For one thing, it means that you are able to control where it is you go and what it is you do.

More importantly, it means you get to arrange the allocation of rooms!

All things being equal, that meant that I got a lovely room with an ocean view.

The room itself was a bit older, but that wasn't a real concern to me.

In fact, I think I actually preferred it.  As I've said numerous times before, the bland ultra modern hotels seem  to lack soul and feeling.  Rather than make me feel at ease, the rooms they offer make me feel cold and alone.  I hardly see this as being a recipe for successfully providing comfort to patrons who are often traveling, by themselves and away from those they care about.

This room was a bit rougher than some of the other places I've been in lately.

The furniture was not perfectly matched.  It was a bit old fashioned.  The bathroom was tiled from floor to ceiling in a truly awful colour of off-white.

And yet I liked it.

I liked  the old wooden furniture that looked like it had been used.  I liked the couches that had clearly been sat in.  It actually felt like someone had been in the room at some point.

Of course, it also helped that the view from my balcony wasn't too bad.

Or rather, it was amazing.

This was the first time that I had the pleasure of staying in Bondi.  The weather was cool, so the beach front felt a bit sleepy.  There was a mood of a beach resort in winter, which I guess is what Bondi is during the cooler months.

It didn't stop me swimming.  Once I had a break from work, I rushed down to the beach and jumped into the water.  Looking north and then south up the long expanse of Bondi's sands, devoid of its usual crowds, it was peaceful.

Giants awaken

How often do you get to attend something truly historic?

How often is it that you are able to attend an event that you can say has never happened before?

You may think that this may occur when you have attended the "last" of something, but very often those things can change or revert.  My university days are a good example of that.  I thought I was done and dusted when I walked out of my final exams.  I celebrated, I partied and I even spent moments contemplating the time that had past.

This was a short lived "last" though, as within three years, I was back at a different university doing my masters.

Being at the FIRST time for an event, that is an entirely different situation.  Nothing can take that "first" away.  Once it's happened for the first time, it's locked in.  There can be no reverting and there can be no going back.

I was very excited to be at the very first AFL game for the Greater Western Sydney Giants!  A new franchise entering the AFL.

I was also fortunate that I was able to share this event with my good friends Philipp and Dana.  I had met them both through my LLM studies.  Having come all the way to Sydney from Switzerland, they were keen to get more of a taste of Australia.  Attending AFL games would be perfect for that.

So I had two firsts all set up.  The first ever GWS Giants game in the AFL and the first ever AFL game for my Swiss friends.

The day went off without a hitch (except for the crushing defeat of the Giants).

I had been part of something historic and I had been able to introduce my friends to something new, and incredibly, they loved it!

Seasonal Affective Disorder

Well this is just awful.

Summer is Sydney is what makes it worthwhile to live in this city devoid of culture and character.  It's meant to be the best time to be in Sydney.  It's the time that makes me forget about the long period in the middle of the year when the entire city seems to go underground, waiting for the sun to reemerge with its warmth.

Something was dreadfully amiss though.  My precious Sydney summer was being robbed from me and in its place was rain.

It was a never ending gloom.  It was a rain that was seeming into the cracks in the walls and seemed to be melting the buildings themselves.

I was finding it hard to write as well.  My posting for this blog was months behind the times.  I have often read about how many artists and writers find themselves most productive during times of anguish and suffering.  I am by no means an artist (or even a real writer), but I was not fortunate enough to experience any such surge in creative output.

Instead, all I had was a never ending pall hanging over my mood.  I was suffering some pretty major SAD and I was a complete loss as to how to fix it.