Chapter 38: Cultural adjustment Down Unda

It's the small differences that are always bringing one up short. Cultural adjustment is tectonic; nothing seems to happen for ages and then you get a shaker. Like nearly being hit by a car, which makes you realize that here you jaywalk at your peril. In Sydney cars do not stop for you. Instead, they go for you. And most restaurants are BYOB. I still keep forgetting, so that repeatedly I've sat myself down and settled in and am all ready to enjoy a nice frosty golden beer with my green chicken curry and I am reminded by the waiter that I am a fool who should have stopped by the liquor store first. And now I'm too lazy to go and get one. And people here say arvo, as in I will meet you this arvo… Dunno, to me it sounds like a sandwich filling, but here it means afternoon, and for some reason I cannot get used to this weird little word.

But I'm settling in. I bought a beautiful hybrid bike, so now I'm mobile. Hurrah, hurrah, because I hate, just fucking hate, paying for taxis and Im too lazy to figure out public transport (which is frankly awful here, the newspapers are full of complaints about it). And so now I'm learning to orient myself, with the centre point of my mental map being Shit on a Stick, an appalling public sculpture in the plaza outside my building. Until you have seen it you can have no idea how shockingly ugly this thing is: six or seven tall gun-metal grey poles with large unevenly shaped balls attached to them at various heights. But its a focal (or should I say fecal?) meeting point. As in, "I'll see you at Poo on a Pole in 15 minutes". Or "Meet me at Crap on a Cane". Or Turd on a Totem. Or Dingo Doodoo on a Dipstick (this last one courtesy of my friend Andrew).

And after my lament in my last missive about the poor quality of cheese in Coles hypothermic supermarket, my friend Mr Barry Salzman has kindly offered himself up as the who-to-go-to-man for cheese in Sydney. Thank you Barry.

And I've found myself a specialist dentist (a prosthodontist, no less) who will fix my bruxism (who knew there was such a lovely word for teeth grinding?). He's a strange man, with great mutton chop side burns like some Victorian character. I have to steel myself not to look at him and think of the demon barber of Fleet Street from Sweeny Todd, but in truth Im not really expecting to end up in a meat pie. Instead, I have confidence in him, so hurrah for that. And hurrah, I suppose, for the fact that by the time I've finished paying for all his bills on my British Airways Amex card I'll have enough airmiles to travel anywhere. As his secretary vicious bitch snapped at me when I moaned about the $250 charge for a half hour consultation, "Teeth are expensive, buddy."

And I'm getting used to the dating scene here. Everyone with boyfriends lurking in the background, but everyone playing on the side. And for any date, you'll be stood up 75% of the time. This morning for example. For example, there is this guy who's been pursuing me. I wasn't so interested, but I agreed to meet finally for coffee after my work out. Some 15 minutes before we are due to meet, I receive a text, comprising just three words "Can't make it". No apology, just those words. In a text message. This is sadly typical. Andrew and I are going to set up a blog site, reviewing the dating scene here. We're going to call it Can'tMakeIt.com.

And I'm learning about the subtle dangers of life in the Elan Building. (I think I told you before that I'm living with my lovely flatmate/landlord Philip on the 21^st floor with a magnificent view of the Sydney harbour.) But after waking up one morning looking like a red and white checked table cloth in an Italian pizzeria, I've learned that Australian mosquitoes actually fancy me, unlike their global cousins, and that they are quite clever and determined. What are those little bastards doing flying up here near the 21^st floor? And how do the little fuckers know I have my window open? And why doesn't the wind outside sweep them away? The bites on my eyelid and lip are just fading now, though I'm kind of mourning the one on my lip; it was bloody sore, but it looked good. Sultry. Pouty. Eminently kissable. I wonder how much collagen injections cost…

The weather here is turning into winter, but it's glorious: deep blue skies and fresh, fresh, fresh. Its like living inside a crystal. Everything has a zip, a spring, a light. It just makes you want to skip down the street! Just skip!

And most importantly, MOST IMPORTANTLY, I've started my writing classes, so now my brain is firing up a little, after a year of shocking atrophy. Hurrah for that. And there is a rather attractive Lebanese guy in the class, Hurrah, Hurrah. Right now Im on the Unlocking Creativity module, with daily writing and imagination exercises. And the amazing thing is that Im actually doing them, and loving it. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!

Finally, I'd just like to end with my review of the movie Memoirs of a Geisha: Geishas are dead boring, BORING bitches, with greaaat (!) make-up. But not a lot else. But get yourselves reading the book Gilead by Marilynne Robinson; it's the kind of novel you come across only once every couple of years. It's the reason why we keep reading fiction.