PLENTY OF TIME

I realize I may be one of the few, one of the proud…I am super excited about the Olympics. So excited that I am torturing my body as I sacrifice my sleep schedule for pure entertainment. Friday night I slept four hours. I went to bed knowing that my alarm would be waking me at 3:45 a.m. so that I could see the Opening Ceremonies live. I was so excited that I dreamt about the Olympics and woke up half an hour before my alarm. Knowing I was wide awake at 3:15, I got up and turned on my local news channel to see the pre-show. 

By 8 a.m. the sun was up and so was Paul. The ceremony had ended and I decided it was bedtime. That night, after spending two non-sleeping hours in bed trying to nap then successfully napping in the afternoon, I was awake for the evening events.

Last night I went to bed around 1:30 but only because I knew that I would be recording the events I most wanted to watch on a U.S. broadcast scheduled for 7 a.m. my time. I watched that feed today.

I am intrigued by the differences between American and Singaporean broadcasters. The Singapore feeds focus on one event at a time and we watch the venue as long as a competition is scheduled – even if there are a lot of pool shots or crowd shots during breaks. There are no commercials, no Bob Costas behind-the-scenes stories, no coach interviews, no family portraits or pictures of the athletes training from the time they could walk.

While the event is on, commentary is scarce, which is rare in my experience. American broadcasters talk through every event, critiquing each athlete’s every move. The Singaporean broadcasters keep the talking to a minimum. At first I appreciated the silence but, at certain times, I wondered why something happened. Like in synchronized diving, how are the scores figured? I suppose I could look up why five scores are kept, the remaining six are wiped and somehow they add up to the number shown on my screen but I would rather someone just say it.

I told Paul today that I wondered if the full-body swimming suits were outlawed because the commentators had made a few comments regarding the times achieved in the “suit days.”

I also noticed that the Singapore station does a lot better job showing other countries’ competitors. For instance, in women’s gymnastics, they not only showed the Singaporean representative, but also showed the Americans, Germans, Russians and Chinese, along with a few other individual gymnasts. When I watched the U.S. feed today, I only saw the Americans and an occasional flip to one British girl, two Russians and two Chinese. That was it.

As I said, the Olympics is exciting to me. Growing up, Shannon Miller was my hero. She made me want to be a gymnast. I was about 7 when I saw her 1992 Olympic performance and remember doing my own impression of her moves around the house following the competition. I was just in the mood.

I begged my parents to put me into training. I wanted to be Shannon Miller.

Let me just say that I did not become Shannon Miller. My parents took me to one gym where I met a coach and a girl on the local team but I was never signed up for the classes.

As I sit on my couch and watch endless hours of ceremony and competition, my desire to be an Olympic athlete is renewed. I wondered what I could do at my age of almost 30 that would make me eligible within four years.

Watching swimming, I wondered if I could learn that technique within three years, compete and qualify. Then I saw the synchronized diving and thought, “Oooh, maybe I could dive…but only the single event. This two-person thing gets tricky.” Combine my gymnastics dream with the pool aspect. Divers are beautiful!

How amazing would it be if I actually learned how to swim and then qualified for the Olympic team within four years?! I could be interviewed by everyone saying, “Four years ago I could not swim. No really – I had never been under water without plugging my nose and closing my eyes. I literally did not know how to swim.” That would be a good Bob Costas behind-the-scenes profile!

I did the math. I would be 33 for the Rio Olympics. That is totally doable, though my fellow competitors would likely be half my age. Meh. I think that is a non-issue since a 31-year-old woman is competing on the German women’s gymnastics team. She looks like a grandma in comparison to her 15-year-old competitors but at least she still has the skills to qualify. And what about the 71-year-old competing in the equestrian events? If he can compete, I should be fine! 

THE NEXT CHAPTER

Do you ever look at your life and wonder, “OK, what’s next?” Do you make a five-year plan or a six-month plan or an I-need-a-change-right-now plan? I used to make plans – and then I moved to Singapore and realized that there are some things for which you just cannot plan.

As a pilot’s wife, I have never been able to plan vacations or things to do months in advance because my husband is always on call – except for the two to three weeks a year he is guaranteed vacation. When this whole Singapore thing came up, I learned that I would likely no longer be able to plan my life beyond a contract term.

With eight months left in Paul’s current contract, we are beginning to wonder where we will be next year. If Paul resigns with his current employer, we are considering moving across the border into Malaysia where there is more land, cheaper housing and no $69,000-you-now-have-permission-to-purchase-a-car-but-it-has-to-be-off-the-island-within-10-years fee.

At first I was completely against this idea. Why would we want to move to Malaysia? We would still be commuting into Singapore regularly (which I would not do by bus anymore). The crime rate is a bit higher in Malaysia since their laws are not as stringent as those within Singapore. And, not having spent any time in a border town like Johor Bahru, I am a bit wary of the area’s conditions. Can we expect new, bug-free buildings with reliable handymen?

Our discussion first commenced one evening when Paul had this genius idea (sound familiar?). I thought it was just an idea. The next morning at the breakfast table, however, he had this whole plan about how we could end our current apartment lease if hegets transferred out of the country for work reasons, so we would not be contractually bound through the next year. Oh. My. Goodness. Here we go again.

Don’t worry – I took a breath and listened to him make his case.

Paul did some research and found we could live in an expat community in a nice area for a fraction of our current rent expense. The idea of owning a car and being able to take road trips and do simple things like drive to the grocery store are very appealing. And, there are a number of Singaporean expats who either own property or regularly vacation in the more rural Southern Malaysian areas. This could be an option.

The next week Paul had a new plan (have we been here before?). This time he decided that we should – in the next few years – move back to the U.S. so that he could once again be a commercial pilot and fly for a major mainline U.S. carrier. At this notion, I decided to remind him of all of the reasons why he hated flying commercially just 18 months ago.

Hey Paul: remember that starting out at the bottom of the list thing where you don’t even need to bid for a schedule because you are so low on the seniority list that you are just assigned the line that no one else in the entire company wants? Remember those awful American unions that take all your money and drive you insane with their 474-page contract that you need to know so you don’t get screwed? Remember the quality flight attendants and how you only get paid while you fly and not while you wait around for maintenance or wait around in hotels and spend four days away from home? It didn’t seem to work.

He threw out a compelling counter offer. “This carrier has bases in all three New York City airports.” “Really?” I said. “I would be O.K. living in Brooklyn.” Then my mind went to the memories of spending a beautiful day in Brooklyn, walking around the old Jewish neighborhood, standing in line for 30 minutes to earn two seats at a small table, shoulder to shoulder with other people who likely did not live anywhere near New York to enjoy the greatest coal-fired pizzas in all five boroughs. After pizza, we would walk across the Brooklyn Bridge, above the traffic, above the river, where a green park and hundreds of people greeted us in Manhattan when we arrived. Yeah, I could do Brooklyn.

Then he came up with Minneapolis, a city so far north that I could be in Canada in less than five hours. HELLOOOO! Cold?! But, don’t worry. I let Paul make his case.

He told me what a great city Minneapolis is and how Minnesota is the “Land of 10,000 Lakes.” Our living expenses would be similar to what we were used to in Columbus (a.k.a. a thousand times cheaper). In the few hours that Paul visited Minneapolis (or, “the Mini-Apple” as my friend calls it), he liked what he saw and could imagine us settling down there – at least until we move somewhere else.

Again, I immediately dismissed him, tried to change his mind and then marinated on the idea like a good wife. I started to realize that there may be some good in going “home,” even if I have been very vocal about not ever wanting to again live in the United States.

I started to think about living in a new American city. I started thinking about how nice it would be to own a car again and how nice it would be to drive that car to a grocery store where I could then load up the car with all of the products that I knew I could find in one location.

When I told Nicola about the idea of living in Minnesota, she asked if I would continue living life like I am today, volunteering and exploring the land. Without even thinking I said, “No! I would go back to work.” The more I thought about it, the more I thought about going back to my “normal life.” That is, in fact, exactly how I see it. This is not normal - Singapore is not my normal.

If we were to move back to the U.S. – no matter where we lived – I would go back to the corporate world, work five days a week, rock the DINK lifestyle – that’s Double Income No Kids – and save the fun stuff for the nights and weekends. Slowly, I started to miss that lifestyle.

Then it hit me: would I feel like an outsider in my own home country? Has this opportunity to live in this amazing place made me different from the people I will encounter whenever it is that we go back? Will I hate being back in America and wish I were back here or, at least, anywhere other than America? I have heard that repatriation is pretty common among expats. I am almost expecting to feel as if I don’t fit within the world I grew up.

The good thing about Brooklyn and Minneapolis is their amazing travel opportunities. We are one flight from almost anywhere, which means I can hop on a plane to visit friends and family in any state and in any country whenever I feel that I need to escape.

While I cannot say for certain where we will be in nine months, I can say that we have plenty of time for Paul to change his mind I am betting 27 times.


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IMMEDIATE GOAL

When planning our trip to Sydney, Nicola had one thing in mind and one thing only: “Right. I need to pet a koala.” Nic was devastated to learn that koalas are not seen sleeping in the trees or wandering across the street in downtown Sydney. In fact, koalas are not typically seen anywhere within an hour of Sydney.

Luckily for Nicola, Sydney has a wildlife park.

I think the best part of our holiday was our ability to make a list of things we wanted to do without scheduling every minute of our trip. We knew we had the concert Monday night and we knew we needed to book the whale watching cruise in advance so we scheduled those events. Everything else we just did when we wanted.

One morning, while enjoying our breakfast and free Wi-Fi at the café down the street, we looked up a wildlife park where we heard we may be able to pet some koalas.

Along Darling Harbour, there is a touristy area housing an aquarium, a Madame Tussaude center and Wild Life Sydney. We weren’t sure we could handle the excitement of all three attractions, so we focused on the goal: we must pet a koala.

Once we escaped the cheesy touristy photo trap at the entrance by bolting in front of a family, we made our way through the dark corridor, up a series of ramps that wound from one end of the corridor to the other and back again and finally out into the sun. When we opened the door, we were transported into the deserty outdoors and were greeted by the cutest (and likely the first) koalas I had ever seen.

While the majority of the koalas slept in the most seemingly uncomfortable positions, one was hungry and did not care who he disturbed in the process. He shook branches, moved up, down and around the tree and yanked off leaves. We loved him.

We saw wallabies, strange birds and kangaroos (they were quite boring). We saw a ginormous crocodile and I touched a praying mantis. 

We happened upon a sort of carved-out-of-a-rock balcony that overlooked the crock tank right at the time birds in the same enclosure got to feed. So, when presented with the opportunity, I gladly took hold of the feeding contraption and attracted the birds.

They were so colorful! Bright, bright green and orange and blue. 

They flew right over, landed on me and the contraption and threw their beaks into the porridge bowls with such force that I ended up wearing bird porridge on my jacket, my scarf and in my hair for the rest of the day. LI-trally, I picked porridge out of my hair when we got back to our hotel late that afternoon.

The place was pretty small – there were not a ton of attractions – but we had fun. And, they did have something that made our entire trip worth the eight-hour flight on a cheapo carrier with screaming kids and no customer service – they had an area where we could indeed pet a koala.

For an extra $25 (kids, of course, had free admission), Nic and I could enter the sacred koala club and get some up close and personal time with the furry creatures. 

This is Nicola, waiting impatiently for her turn:

This is Bob:

This was Nic’s reaction when she actually got to touch a koala for the first time:

Koala fur is very thick and coarse. We were instructed to use the back of our fingers to stroke the koala’s back in a downward motion so that we did not scratch or harm the animal.

This is a picture of us kissing a sleeping koala:

This concludes my tales of the Sydney adventures. The trip was fun but I was ready to go home. I have many fond memories of Sydney but that's all I need. Stay tuned for the next chapter.

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IT’S ALMOST AS IF I NEVER LEFT

Did you know that Sydney is part of Asia? I was under the impression that Australia was its own continent but, obviously, I was wrong. Sydney is actually in Asia. I know this because everywhere Nicola and I went, we were surrounded by everything Asian – crowds of Asian people greeted us around every corner, smells of Asian foods and signs boasting noodle dishes filled the streets and shopping malls and, of course, Chinatown was just down the block from our hotel.

At first we thought it was funny, and slightly interesting. But, as the week went on, it was almost frustrating. Nothing against anything Asian – I mean we live in Asia, eat the food, have Asian friends and love our Singapore home. But, when we planned a trip to Australia, we expected to get out of Asia and experience yet another culture.

One of the funniest parts of the trip, in my opinion, happened while Nicola and I were ambling around Darling Harbour. We spent the morning at an animal park (tune into the next post for some outstanding photos) and wandered around the harbor until our bellies were ready for sustenance.

We had walked all the way around the harbor and, when we reached the end, we turned back to face civilization and go in search of food.

Walking along an area bordered to the left by water and the right by a little park, we found ourselves in the middle of a dock path. There were several meters to our left and just as many to our right as we walked down the center of the path. Then, we saw her.

She was the epitome of a true Singaporean right there in front of us, walking in our direction: a beautiful 20-something-year-old woman, petite, with long, straight, jet-black hair. Her complexion was flawless with slightly more tan than often seen in our neighborhood.

She was dressed professionally, wearing a skirt, nice top and trendy jacket. She wore stylish heels. On one arm she adorned a Louis Vuitton handbag; in the other, she carried a Louis Vuitton shopping bag. Two Apple-white cords draped from her ears and connected to the iPhone in her hands on which she was completely focused.

In a matter of seconds, she approached and, without looking up, walked immediately in between Nicola and me, separating us and breaking our conversation.

“OH MY GOSH!!” I said, and I began to laugh. “Could that have been more Singapore?!”

Beautiful girl dressed to the nines, iPhone receiving all attention, plenty of room on either side of us, yet she chose to not look up and, instead, plastered right into us.

Sometimes I get annoyed when people do not acknowledge on-coming traffic (a.k.a. me and, usually, my grocery bags), do not move out of the way or do not bother to say they are sorry for running into me, but this time I just found it amusing. To me, this one person represented absolutely everything about a large group of Singaporean people – beautiful, fashionable, label-obsessed, luxurious and focused on nothing other than one’s self. Now, this is not to say that Singaporean people are self-obsessed or pompous – they just, as a culture, do not put any real focus on anything outside of their immediate goal. 

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THE ROCKS AND SOME UGGS

The Rocks is a great neighborhood along the Sydney Harbour known for its views and its history as one of the earliest settlements in New South Wales. The neighborhood has thrived almost as long as America has been in existence.

Nicola and I were intrigued by the historic significance, the stores and pubs aligning the streets, the old-style buildings and sidewalks and, of course, the Sunday Market where about 100 vendors set up shops in the streets.

After our whale-watching-expedition-turned-sea-sickness-experiment, we lined up at the door and ran out to land the second the doors opened. We took an amble around the Sydney Opera House until our stomachs were ready for some local fare.

On our way around the Harbour, we happened upon a small crowd and the sound of a youngish man coming through a speaker (I say youngish because he appeared to be around our age). A street performer – how exciting! We decided to stop and see what all the fuss was about – and by that I mean I persuaded Nicola to wait with me until something exciting happened.

We saw this guy, a lanky blonde man believed to be in his late 20s dressed in black pants, a black button-down shirt, a black vest, red tie and shiny shoes.

He had a few items typically seen with jugglers and what he described as the tallest unicycle. To make a really long story short, in the 10+ minutes we were waiting for something to happen, we learned that this man hailed from Minnesota. He made a career traveling across the world to do what he loves so much to do – make people smile – in the streets.

I would like to tell you that the in-reality beggar put on an amazing show but, sadly, I cannot. No, the show was not terrible – as far as we know. We just got tired of waiting for a show, tired of hearing this guy’s life story, tired of hearing his exaggerated happiness and tired of hearing how we needed to be handing him our money.

When we heard that he was married and supports his wife via his street shows, I immediately looked over at Nic and said, “Oh my goodness, I feel so sorry for his wife!”

“Why do I do this?” he asked the onlookers. “Because I get the most joy out of putting smiles on people’s faces,” or some garbage like that. His poor wife!

He not only asked people for money more times than I can count, he even told us all how much we should pay him for the show he was not actually performing. 

“If you don’t want to pay me for providing this service,” he said from atop his giant unicycle, “then all I ask is that you come up and say ‘thank you’ when the show is over. Don’t just walk away like those people (and he pointed at a small group who, like us, were not satisfied with the non-performance). Say ‘thank you’. That’s all I ask.”

To prove what a doofus this guy really was, meet The Kid. He was plucked from the audience before we arrived
and asked to assist the street performer. When he had completed his tasks of throwing a bowling pin up to
the man atop the unicycle, he was given the money he was promised. However, the street performer decided to
double his wages to $10 instead of the promised $5. Immediately upon transfer, the guy said into his microphone,
"Now, if your parents want to take that $10 and give me $20, that would be great." We hate this man.

We gave it two more minutes and then we bailed.

About a hundred meters down the walk, we saw an Italian man positioned on the ground painting a mural. On an easel, he had a sign that stated his name and his purpose: to paint pictures and earn a living from the tips people pay him as he works.

Just down from him was a man taking money from people who wanted to have their picture taken with an Aboriginal man.

Then we saw Cliff. Cliff, as Nic named him, had somehow managed to sit on a park bench surrounded by so many pigeons that I wanted to vomit at the smell of pigeon poop. I practically ran out of the area after I snapped a picture.

Just passed Cliff and up some stairs, we found The Rocks. Yay!

We asked a passerby if he would take our photo with the sign and this is what we got:

At least he got the sign posts. 

We roamed the streets and spotted the neighborhood’s first pub. So we took a picture and headed in for a feast.

Once inside we found the menu less than appetizing so we just had a drink. Nic ordered a coke; I decided to try a local ale. Too bad my half pint was smaller than her coke. Nuts. The plus side, however, is that both our drinks were only $7. 

After a walk around the area, we found a corner restaurant boasting pizza, so we popped in to see if they had something else like sandwiches. This place was a true gem and had its own version of Mamma and Pappa DePandi. We feasted on food so Italian the whole staff spoke the language.

Ah, Mamma! 

Once we had filled our bellies, we headed out to investigate some more. We found some shops and continued our search for true Australian Ugg boots.

The search began Sunday evening when Andrew drove us through town. “An Ugg store!” I shouted, pointing out the window. There were Ugg stores all over Sydney! Here’s the kicker, though – we only found one store that sold the real thing.

A local girl told us that Uggs launched in America and the U.K. before they had a presence in their own manufacturing country. She bought her Uggs in D.C. Due to the boots’ popularity, smaller, more localized companies have apparently come out with their own knock-off products. We found three poser companies and, thanks to Nicola’s expertise and my eye, we nailed each and every one of them.

In one store listed on the official Ugg website as an official Ugg retailer, we saw plenty of knock-offs so we left. As we walked out the door and passed the display, we saw the real ones, so we turned around and headed back in. “Oh, you want dis brand?” the Asian saleswoman asked (Asians are all over Sydney, but we’ll get to that later).

Jackpot. We found the real boots. “How much?” I asked. “$200.” Fricken’ A. I did not fly all the way to Australia to buy some Ugg boots for almost twice the price I would pay in America. Why are they more expensive in their own country, I wonder. I left empty handed. My feet were sad. They truly craved the comfort of the lined interior and the protection from the Sydney winter. At least I can get them from Nordstrom. I suppose I will just have to buy them online and have them waiting for me in the U.S. It's almost as if I never left. 

NOT EVEN

My amazing trip planner, Nicola, found a whale watching trip that we could enjoy while we were in Sydney. Excited because the trip was part of the Captain Cook fleet, and even more excited when Captain Cook was there to greet us – dressed to the 1799s – we were ready to go!

The day before, we had seen a pod of dolphins while driving along the coast. Our personal tour guide, Andrew, just noticed a small crowd of people overlooking the water and said, “What is going on there? Oh look, there are dolphins.”

First we were impressed that he could even spot tiny dolphins in the water 50 meters or so below us and more than 200 meters in front of us. Then, beyond excited to see the dolphins, we found ourselves jumping out of Andrew’s tiny two-door in the middle of the road so that we could capture some photos.

Look how close the dolphins are to the surfers!

Another point in the day, we saw a whale off one of the beaches, which gave us hope for our spotting trip the next morning.

We arrived at Jetty Number 6 well in advance of our stated departure time and, aside from a couple rude people, enjoyed our free time before we boarded. We perused the local tourist-trap shops selling fake Uggs (I may get to that later), overpriced boomerangs and emu cream that, according to Nicola, made her wish she did not open a jar to sniff the stuff inside.

When we wandered back to our rendezvous point, I heard a squeal. Maybe it was a shriek. Either way, it was a high-volume, high-pitched sound followed by a very British, “Oh my God! It’s Captain Coooook!!”

Nicola, stalking the Captain

Nicola immediately wanted a photo with him – but not a photo containing the Captain and herself. No, she was brave enough to stalk him and then ask him to take a picture with her friend. So who has two thumbs and an awesome picture with Captain Cook himself? THIS GIRL!

This picture with Captain Cook was the second most exciting thing that happened during our three-hour tour of the Sydney Harbour and beyond. We joined 50 or so people aboard a smallish, dual-level boat and picked some seats on the outside deck. We were thrilled to see that upon our first movement out of the harbour, like magic, just gliding out from behind a shopping mall, the giant Sydney Opera House was revealed.

We coasted out to a serene area between North Sydney and downtown Sydney and the boat stalled as we waited. We were advised to look out for the spout of water from the whale’s blow hole and, within minutes, a person in a red coat shouted and pointed in the direction of the first pod. The real captain (sadly, not Captain Cook and not decked out in the same uniform), steered the boat in the direction of the distant whales.

We were then advised that the law prohibited any boats within 100 meters of identified whales – and that once the spray from the blowholes were spotted, the whales would be under the water, undetectable, for anywhere from 5 to 20 minutes. So we waited. And waited. And then I saw some whale spouts.

It was a little exciting, but I only saw whale spouts. No whales. Not even one whale tale did I see. Due to the number of people on board, the directionality of the boat and the fact that I am little (5’1” or 1.5 meters), I did not see the one out-of-water viewing when the whales came up for a big dive to the underworld.

Nicola was there, though. She stood on a bench and got some shots.

If you look closely at the spout and zoom in, you might see a tale.

The best way to describe the whale watching adventure would be to compare it to a game of Hide and Seek. The whales were hiding below the deep blue sea and we had to find them. When a spout of water was spotted, someone would yell, others would join in and all would point. The boat would creep in the general direction but, due to the restraining order, could only approach from beyond 100 meters. And then we just sat there for 12 to 18 minutes and waited to see another spout.

We followed two whales for the first 45 minutes and then, because three boats were in the area and only three boats are allowed to be in the vicinity of the whales at one time, we moved on to find some more. For the next two hours, we sat. And waited. And waited.

Nicola and I waited on the boat that rocked and rolled with the waves over and over and over again. We sat inside and watched person after person perform the walk of shame, meet us at the front of the boat and nonchalantly grab a seasick pack before making the turn and heading back down the runway.

The more we sat and waited, the more we wished we were back on land. We saw more people drop than whales surface. Kids were crying, adults were sleeping.

Four down.

People were laying down in their seats holding their bellies.

“This is not good dude.”

“You done? I’m done.”

“OMG can we get moving already?!”

These were all lines between Nic and myself. It doesn’t matter who said them because we were both thinking them. We just needed to get off that boat! We had better things to be doing. 

I was so antsy that I asked one of the staff members when we were expected back at the harbour. "One-fifteen," she replied. I nervously stared at my watch and seriously doubted her estimation. When we finally did move full speed ahead in the direction, I swear everyone perked up and life aboard the boat was renewed.

When we slowed again as we approached the harbour, I grabbed Nicola and made a motion to head downstairs. We were the first people off the boat and we bolted the minute we touched land. All we wanted to do at that point was find The Rocks and some Uggs. 

EVEN BETTER

How does Carrie Underwood in concert compare to Carrie Underwood on television, YouTube or your favorite iDevice? Even better, dude.

The idea to go to Australia began in April when I happened upon Carrie Underwood’s tour schedule, curious to know if she would be coming anywhere near Asia. I was pleased to see the words “first international tour” displayed across the page, but later learned the term turned out to mean that Carrie would be singing in two countries: Australia and the U.K. I was not so sure that qualified as an international tour, but I was still interested.

“Australia is pretty close,” I thought to myself as I skimmed the schedule. “I would love to see Melbourne, and that seems to be the closest destination. Done.” And then I saw that while in Sydney, Carrie would be performing at the Opera House, and that immediately changed my mind. A Carrie Underwood concert and an opportunity to sit inside the famous Sydney Opera House? I. Am. In.

Step 1: Find a friend willing to fly to Sydney and accompany me to a Carrie Underwood concert. Done. Thanks, Nic.

Step 2: Mark on the calendar the date the tickets go on sale. Done.

Step 3: Convert the on-sale time to Singapore time and then set an alarm 30 minutes prior to ensure that I would be online and ready with credit card in hand in time for the sale. Done.

Step 4: Get up on time/early the morning of the sale and get ready.

I was on the phone with my mom the moment the tickets went on sale, but I did not let our conversation distract me from my goal – to get two amazing seats inside the Opera House. It did not take long for my mom to realize that she became second interest and decided to let me go so I could focus on my obvious priority.

I ran into a few issues when I tried to select my preferred seats. I was able to select my own seats but, by the time I hit “purchase tickets,” the seats were no longer available. Stupidly, I tried again. After the third wasted time, I gave up and just hit “best seats available.” That worked. I was able to get two seats near the center of the first balcony, which was just great for me. (Once inside, Nicola and I both agreed they were great seats.) Debit card information entered and approved. Done.

Now, did you catch the missing step? Find a friend, mark the sale date on the calendar, set the alarm, get prepared, purchase the tickets… I missed a step in there – which is why a week or so later I heard Paul yelling from the back room, “Hey, where is this Carrie Underwood concert?”

Yes, I was a horrible wife who bought the tickets before asking my husband or discussing the possibility of a trip outside the country. I figured the opportunity was too good to pass up and that if I ended up not going for any reason, I would just sell the tickets on eBay or something. So, with my tail between my legs, I slowly meandered down the hall and we had the discussion.

Luckily, he did not divorce me over concert tickets and he gave me his blessing before my departure.

Good thing, too, because Carrie was amazing. Just go to YouTube, search “Carrie Underwood How Great Thou Art” and watch her performance on Girls Night Out. Amazing does not even begin to describe the talent. 

THREE CHEERS FOR STARBUCKS!

Free lattes?!

I blame my mom, Anna Marie Smith and Katie Tran-Lam for my coffee addiction. Each of them has contributed in some way. First, my mother. In all my years of knowing her and observing her ways so that I could formulate my own views of society and create my own life path, I knew two things: first, I was certain I did not know her natural hair color because she had colored it so many times that I lost track and now can only say the same about myself, and second, that she was not as fun or functional without a cup of coffee or three.

“Mooom..”

“Wait, I haven’t had my coffee yet!”

Then there’s Anna Marie, a girl I have known since she came into the world just four months after I. Our moms have been close since the ‘60s. I think Anna Marie was born with a cup of coffee in her hand. She can take down coffee and tea like no one else I know. Every day starts with coffee, every afternoon includes coffee and every evening ends with a cup of tea or chocolate before bed. When I visit her, we plan our days around our favorite coffee stops.

Katie was my college friend and everyone knows that Starbucks is where the college kids go for fun – or to study, or to read or to chill and try not to think about school for an hour. When we were busy professionals (and Katie still is), we relied on Starbucks for a much-needed energy boost. And, when I come to visit, we usually need the caffeine because we were up into the wee hours of the morning.

So I blame them – ALL of them – for my culminating addiction. I should also mention that it was Anna Marie who turned me on to the Starbucks loyalty program, which made me add a Coffee line in the budget to account for my refillable card.

Nicola and I spotted two Starbucks cafés in Sydney and we hit them both. Later we found out that Starbucks had pulled all but these two stores because, according to our new friend Stephen (or Steven…not quite sure), “a coffee culture already existed in Sydney before Starbucks was present so it was never really successful.” So, to summarize, Sydney has two Starbucks cafés in the entire city and we found them both without any help from a person or our smart phones – we have built-in radar.

We visited the Starbucks at Darling Harbour after a morning with the animals (check back in a couple days for that post – the photos alone will be worth the peak). We were “having an amble,” as Nic likes to say, and stopped in for an afternoon pick-us-up. As it turns out, we weren’t the only ones with this desire.

While standing in the obscenely-long, nearly-out-the-door line, my ADD kicked in and I began checking out the stock of travel mugs displayed within grabbing distance. I found a cute mug, noticed the “Winter Clearance” sign but paid no real attention and then flipped over the mug to take a peak at the knowingly-not-cheap price. To my surprise, the mug was priced under $4. Awesome, I thought. I’ll take two! And so I did.

When I arrived at the cash register, I was delighted to learn that by purchasing the clearance item, I was rewarded with not only a free mug wash but also a free drink inside my new travel mug. How great is that?! Upon hearing this, Nicola was absolutely certain that she needed to buy a blue mug with yellow pansies and a bunny for her husband and she proceeded to order her $3.95 chai latte. Bonus, when I use my travel mug at a Starbucks in Singapore, I save 50 cents on every fill up. Even better. 

I WENT TO AUSTRALIA!

Nicola, right, and me at midnight, checking in for our overnight flight to Sydney.

Growing up in America, Australia, to me, was one of those truly amazing yet nearly inaccessible places on the other side of the world. Home of Nicole Kidman, the Sydney Opera House, the Outback and the koalas, Australia was always some place I might see myself going, but I never quite pictured myself actually there.

Thursday when I arrived, it was almost surreal. As Nicola and I walked out of the airport into the crisp winter-in-July air, I took a breath and though to myself, “I am in Australia!” This was the first trip down under not only for me but for my friend, Nicola, a 31-year-old who proves that blondes have more fun. She is obsessed with America, koalas and some Aussie show called Neighbours, of which I know nothing about.

I haven’t known Nicola more than a few months but she is the type of person I feel I have known most of my life. Though we come from different continents, we have similar interests and similar backgrounds. We enjoy a good adventure, a good man, a good story and, of course, a good bargain.

Nicola jumped at the opportunity to join me on holiday. And by “jumped” I mean “performed serious research, compiled data analysis spreadsheets, highlighted top tourist activities, created itineraries, documented confirmation numbers and contact details, printed documents in color and handed them to me in a file folder as if I was her boss.” Nuts? Maybe a little, but she did come in quite handy.

We enjoyed the chilly temperatures, which floated between 8 and 15 Celsius (46 and 59 Fahrenheit) throughout the week. We wore sweaters (or jumpers, as Nicola calls them), jackets, scarves and boots and looked pretty darn cute. We were excited to wear what we call our fall attire for a change.

Yeah cold weather layers!

Though we had some plans of our own on day one, involving a couple of lattes, a couple of showers and an amble through a local downtown street market, our plans were slightly altered when we met up with Nicola’s friend, Andrew.

We did have a quick latte in a picturesque neighborhood called Erskineville that reminded me of Columbus’ German Village. There were cobblestones on the ground, parks, brick buildings and sidewalk restaurants. The people in the neighborhood did not seem to follow any fashion trends – they were their own kind of trendy. Young, hip, artsy individuals inhabited the area and so did their dogs. It reminded both Nicola and me of our respective homes, which was comforting in our first hour abroad.

From a townie’s town somewhere tucked inside suburbia, we made our way to The Cliffs, a coastal area where the land is far higher than the Tasman Sea below. The towns along the sea reminded me of New England – coastal towns nesting in the rocks with the waves crashing below.

We made our way from a southern town called South Coogee, passed the apparently-famous Bondi Beach, all the way up to Sydney Harbour National Park where we took a walk to Watson’s Bay’s famous fish and chips house, Doyle’s on the Wharf.

Sydney Harbour National Park

City view from the trail

Doyle's on the Wharf. Awesome. Stand in line, pick your package, get your food in a box and have a beer in the back.

The views were spectacular. We sat in a glassed-in room next to a wood-burning stove and watched the sailboats sway in the water as the ferries moved in and out. I tell you, beer is tastier on the water. Every time.

The wharf, just next to Doyle's

It was great to see such blue skies and such green grass – especially since Singapore looked like this when we left – brown is the new green around here:

Singapore, until this week, had been in a drought. Paul and I have been sharing an umbrella since April when I lost two to the RDA and refused to buy another until absolutely necessary. I finally broke down and bought a new one before my Sydney trip and still have yet to use it. Apparently the rains finally came while Nic and I were away. Since we arrived, the rains have not stopped and I am so thankful. We need the rain.

Sydney did not receive rain while we were in town. We enjoyed beautiful chilly weather our entire trip. After several walks, we got a tour through town in Andrew’s car. He drove us through a neighborhood called The Rocks and passed our weekend street market (we didn’t make it), passed the Opera House and under the Harbour Bridge.

When we checked into our hotel, neither of us had much energy. By that point, our bellies were full from seaside seafood and chips and our bodies were worn out. We did not sleep much on our overnight flight that took off at 2 a.m. Therefore, we were out by 8. Well, Nicola was out by 8.

We both made ourselves comfy in our beds and I had just stated that 45 minutes prior, I was absolutely dead to the world but, for some reason, I had suddenly been revived. I looked over at Nicola and her eyes were shut.

”Nic – you still awake?”

Wait for it…

After a few seconds, her eyes popped wide open, she looked completely confused and then spouted, “Oh my God, I was just in the kitchen having a conversation with my dad!” Yeah, the girl was not only sleeping – she was dreaming. We were talking two minutes prior. I wish I could fall asleep that quickly.

Neither one of us slept as well as we would have liked that first night but we certainly got a pick-us-up the next morning. Three cheers for Starbucks!