Lunch Money
8/11/2004
Where's Santa?
Thanks to Alaska Airlines summer special mid-week airmile deals, I just finished a short but wonderful visit with my daughters’ family in Southern California. California, the land of my youth, my old home State. The origin of many childhood memories.Halfway between Santa Barbara and Ventura on US Hwy 101 lies the improbable and strangely placed Santa Claus Lane. I mean think about it. Here, right on the California Coast between two major beach communities, next to Carpenteria California once dubbed the safest beach in the world, lies a cluster of shops which include Santa’s Kitchen, Santa’s Workshop and various other replicas of Santas' North Pole compound. And standing in the midst of this some 30 feet tall, was a large, brightly painted, smiling, stylized replica of the Old Boy himself, waving at the cars speeding by on US 101. I say was because on this trip I noticed that Santa was no longer there. All the other shops seemed to be in place, but where was Santa?. It is not that this Santa had any particular special meaning except for two things. Santa kinda marked the half way point between Santa Barbara and Ventura, a trip I took many times as a child and later as an adult with my children in the car. So, first, it was the sign that we were half way to where we were going. It was the landmark I could use to console whiney kids with "we’re almost there when we see Santa". Second, it had been there for over forty years. It was as much a part of the landscape, or should I say beachscape as any hill, or rock, or other natural feature.
I got to thinking that there must be thousands of "Santa like" landmarks throughout this country. I’m sure all of us can come up with an image of something that we used as a landmark to direct people, or reassure ourselves with, or take bearings off of. Some Billboard or little store that marked being close to home or verifying we are on the right path. Then I got to thinking this. There are the great Icons of this country that are protected by one agency or another, one regulation or another so that they will never disappear. You know, the Statue of Liberty, the Golden Gate Bridge, the worlds largest thermometer in Baker California, the giant Uniroyal Tire in Detroit, all that national icon stuff. But what about all that personal icon stuff. The things that we hold dear as landmarks in are own little sphere of influence, the small but important roadside things that give us comfort or add meaning to our lives. Who is out there protecting those things? What becomes of the small things that are so easily sacrificed in the name of progress or re-development. Things that have meaning to many but most have no say in the fate of these markers of our lives. Oh sure, I’m sure there is some sort of Planning Board or Commission that publishes something, somewhere about decisions that are about to be made. But, really, do most of those who will be affected by the decision have access or input to the process. I think not. I’m not even sure of how many would if they knew how.
What I am struck with is how much of our life is changed, or affected, or modified by forces that we have no input or control over and for the most part we just seem to make note of it and then move on. I’m not sure what else I should be doing about such changes in my life except to make note of them in my blog and maybe personally recognize the fact to not to take the giant Santas of my life for granted because someday I may look up and they'll be gone.
By the way, I later found out that Santa had been purchased and moved next to a used car lot in Oxnard. That alone is fodder for a whole other posting but suffice to say it seems to me there is something terribly wrong about that.
7/17/2004
Genuine Red Ryder 200 Shot Carbine Action Air Rifle
One of my all time favorite movies is "A Christmas Story" which follows the plight Ralphie Parker (narrated by Jean Shepherd acted by Peter Billingsley) who is a nine year old boy from Indiana. The main point of this story centers around Raphie's desire for a `Genuine Red Ryder 200 Shot Carbine Action Air Rifle' for Christmas. Throughout the movie, all the indicators are that it is just not going to happen. His mother is thoroughly against the idea and reinforces her argument with the chant "you’ll shoot your eye out". Dad seems ambivalent and just brushes him off. Even the Department Store Santa ignores his plea and instead follows the stores marketing line by directing Ralphie to tell his parents about the latest special toy the have on sale. Everything points to Ralphie not getting his hearts desire. But does that discourage Ole Ralphie ? No way ! He never misses the opportunity to put forward his case of why the BB gun is really the right present for him. He clings hard to the belief that if he just wishes hard enough , stays true to the dream, clings to the hope, he’ll get his `Genuine Red Ryder 200 Shot Carbine Action Air Rifle' for Christmas. Of course, in the movie, Ralphie does get his `Genuine Red Ryder 200 Shot Carbine Action Air Rifle.' But to me that is really irrelevant to the reality of the story. You see, I believe that even if he had not, Ralphie would not have given up the dream. No, after a short period of disappointment Ralphie would have rekindled the dream and started his campaign for his next birthday. After all, he would be a year older then and certainly old enough for a `Genuine Red Ryder 200 Shot Carbine Action Air Rifle.'Some years ago I unwittingly started a family tradition for our Christmases. It was based on the premise that all kids deserve a toy on Christmas and that everyone was a kid at heart. There were a number of people that I new through my new found recovery from Alcoholism that really had no family left and no place to go on Christmas Day. So, I made it a point to invite them to my house "if only for just a little while" and of course "they were welcome to stay for Christmas dinner." I never knew who would actually show up since commitments were not high on these folks agendas. Before Christmas I would by up a number of small inexpensive fun toys. You know, tops, yo-yo’s, gyroscopes, Tonka trucks etc. I would wrap them up untagged, and stick them under the tree. On Christmas day when a few of the many I had asked would show up, I would randomly pull out one of these special presents announcing "see Santa knew you were coming and left a gift here for you". I have many cherished memories off the looks on toughened faces as they opened the gift and were truly thrilled at the small toy inside. Watching a couple of guys with tattoos and prison records having a ball pushing around Tonka trucks on the kitchen floor is one of the fondest Christmas memories I have. One friend, Rob, was especially thrilled with his gyroscope. So much so that the following year he was one of the first to arrive anxiously eyeing under the tree as he walked in the living room. That year my wife had bought some of the gifts and unbeknownst to me she had picked out some gag underwear as one of the gifts. As luck would have it, the randomly selected gift for Rob turned out to be the underwear. I cannot describe the look of disappointment on his face as he opened the package. "I was hoping for a toy" he uttered. His disappointment was so obvious and we tried to offer up other presents to no avail. "No" he said, "this is fine. They really are cute".
Later that day I asked him about the underwear trying to assure him that it was OK to take another present to get a toy. What he shared with me is this. Seems that he grew up in a home that was oppressively strict and his parents did not believe in "toys for Christmas". So every year he would get practical and needed things. Things like sweaters, pants, new shoes and of course new comfortable underwear. In fact Rob said, last year was one of the first just for fun gifts he had ever really received for Christmas. And, though the underwear was cute, it reminded him when he was taught to not get his hope "too high" for Christmas. The lapse to childhood memories was short lived and he was OK, but it was intense and something that he thought he had ridded himself of.
It seems that much I have done in my life has been a lot like the Ralphie form of logic. There seems to have always been a sense that if I just do the necessary footwork, and wish it hard enough , stay true to the dream, cling to the hope that I’ll get the `Genuine Red Ryder 200 Shot Carbine Action Air Rifle' I’m wanting. This theory has matured over the ages to include a little more rational thinking, but in actuality, in many ways, it is still at the root of how I view things like new jobs, moves, golf shots, work projects, new cars, a change in hair style, new clothes and any number of wants and desires that come up in my life. Most recently the theory has shown it’s face as I start trying new relationships. It seems that in spite of what the evidence may indicate, no matter how much I’m counseled "you shoot your eye out", no matter what else is on sale, I want the `Genuine Red Ryder 200 Shot Carbine Action Air Rifle' and I know one when I see one. And although one can always use some new comfortable underwear, that practicality just won’t cut it in my relationship wants.
So no matter what the cost, I’d rather be Ralphie that Rob. After all, one will have lots of comfortable underwear over a lifetime but we often only get one chance at a real `Genuine Red Ryder 200 Shot Carbine Action Air Rifle'
4/20/2004
I found this on Sandhill Trek a favorite blog of mine.Here's what I came up with;
Doug suggests
Grab the nearest book
Open the book to page 23
Find the fifth sentence
Post the text of the sentence in your journal along with these instructions
"Aside from that, the flight was uneventful"
Tom Robbins, Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates, Bantam Books
4/16/2004
The time machine
In one of my favorite Ray Bradbury books, Dandelion Wine, there is a chapter titled "The Time Machine". If you are a sci-fi like fan me and know anything about Bradbury, you might make the same mistaken jump to a conclusion I did when I first read the book. The chapter has nothing to do with space travel or time travel per se. No, Bradburys’ time machines are the old men who hang out on the down town park benches and spin long winded yarns about what it was like "back then", when they were young. And the kids of the town would occasionally hang around and listen to the stories of civil war battles and wagon trains and all sort of things from the past. In their minds they would travel back in time to before they were born as they listen to the sories from the old timers. I had a conversation with a friend and co-worker the other day. She was mourning the sudden loss of a friend. A friend who had worked at the Park with her years ago, when she first started her career with the National Park Service. We got to talking about the losses and the scars, both internal and external, that befall us all. While we were talking I notice the rather large scar on my left thumb. It’s been there for years. But, in re-noticing it I began to remember how I got the scar. I was about 14 and helping out my Mom by painting the garage. I fell off the ladder and sliced my thumb open on the sharp edge of the coffee can that I was using as a paint bucket. This was before the days of consumer protected "safe Coffee cans". With that first thought I began to remember back to that time in my life, to all that was going on, the good and the bad. The scar became the "on" button for another kind of time machine. My own personal time machine. The kind that we all have and ride on when we take that mental journey back in time to what once was for us. A few days later I was cleaning out the old "junk box" on my dresser. Actually an old metal box in which I keep rings, tie tacks, coins and various other trinkets that I have collected over the years. It was full of old memories including 17 years worth of AA "birthday" coins, pieces of jewelry that were once worn by my father and my mother, and a couple of wedding rings. Lots of fodder for trips on the "time machine". But the major find was six pieces of plain 3" by 4" paper with some very poorly penciled lines of text. I immediately remembered it. I vividly remembered being 10 years old, sitting in the rocking chair next to the fireplace, in the old house on Santa Paula Street. I remembered what I was feeling as I tried to journal some of what was going on in my life. I felt it. I traveled back in time and smelled the smells and tasted those home cooked meals. I traveled on my own personal time machine. I am sure there is tons of stuff for some Freudian Psychiatrist in this short journal but I am not including it for that reason. I am still not too sure how I feel about the child who wrote these words. So, I include it, spelling and all, in the hopes it will kindle someone else to take journey on their own personal "time machine". Hear I seat beside the Christmas tree so beautiful and bright and the wind blows by outside. Grandma is in the kitsion and mother in the dinning room, daddy is dead. Around by the fireplace by ther is the T.V. The roof in here is newly painted but still a few cracks that are hard to see. My life story is not very good but now I have learned right from rong. I used to steal lie and ceat but I know that is gone. I can remember back as far as frist grade in Oxnard Calif., but that is hard to do. Lets go back to thrred and maby I can do better. My teacher Roggow. I only stayed there a little and then we moved to Santa Paula and I went to Glen City School. I think I will rest now but I will be back sone. Hear I am back again. I made many friends their like Gye Ingles. He was my best friend he was a year older then because I was in 3 & 4. We played baseball and all other games. Sone summer came and I got ringworms . I almost notissed all the swimming that summer. Then summer was over and we moved to Santa Paula St. and I went to McKevette School. I was in Mrs. Rogers room. She was all right except when you rong. We did allmost all work and no play but day by day the months went by. And summer came and I had fun swimming and playing and then we had to go to school. Not much happen then but as time went by Christmas came and that brings it up to date and I will add to the book as things happen.2/27/2004
And Today in Iraq
Almost every day on one news cast or another, I hear those words. And they are usually followed with a body count of young men or women who have been wounded or killed in one awful way or another in Iraq. And for a while like too many others, I often hesitated for only a moment, then moved on with what ever it was that I was doing with only a slight pause or reflection of "oh how awful" or " that damn Bush".It seems to me that in this society, we have done a good job of sanitizing or cleaning up everything that may happen to us which would in any way make us uncomfortable. Mel Gibson hit that nerve with his recent movie "The Passion of the Christ" which depicted the gruesomeness of the Crucification far beyond the straight toothed, hair combed "cleaned up", Caucasian dominated story that Hollywood had always portrayed in the past. Oh, we glorify war or violence and seem to take a morbid fascination in the macabre things such as mass murderers or Columbines. But those things are so far on the fringe of reality they don’t really seem real to us. But think for a minute what we tend to do with the death of a family member or friend. What we do not do is personalize the tragedy. We tend to do all we can keep the process of burying and mourning, neat, orderly, civilized and ritually restrained.
The current Administration has decided to not allow the filming and broadcast of the soldiers caskets as they return home from Iraq. They learned the lesson of Viet Nam. The long line of flag draped coffins had a lot to do with feeding the antiwar movement of that time. Not so this war. On the evening news today we only show the bodies of Iraqis. After all we do not want to disturb any Americans with the reality that people, no Americans, are dying in this war. OK, to show the bloody, mutilated bodies of Arabs. I watched with familiar horror the news film footage of the U.S. Marines shooting at a prostrate, wounded Iraqi, who had moments before been shooting at them, until the tell tale of a bullet hitting its’ mark and the man moved no more. I do not criticize, I understand what war can do and what it means to be someone’s target. This is a war, and wars are not neat, orderly, civilized and ritually restrained.
I met this person and she has become a friend, a good friend that I do not want to see hurt. And, as result of getting to know her, I have learned about her life and her family. She has a twenty something son and she has shared many stories of his teenage years with me. He reminds me so much of me at that age. I was always in one form of trouble or another. I was a constant source of worry for my Mom. I meant well, but just couldn’t resist the seedier side of life. But, unlike those who dwelled and seemed to prosper there, I didn’t have the heart for it so I was really not a very good wise guy. So it was with her son. The more I hear about her son the more I identify and the more I see how much he means to her. He is the lost sheep found, the prodigal son come home, he is a young soldier serving with the 82nd in Iraq.
Today, when I hear the evening news or the NPR news update that tells about another "incident" in Iraq, I stop and say a sincere prayer, "please God not Chad". You see this war has gotten personal because I now know and sincerely care for one young soldier over there. So, let me suggest this to you who stumble across this Blog. Take time out of your busy lives to find out about one, just one, American Soldier serving in Iraq. Get to know him as a person. Get to know his family. Make this war personal. Don’t let the media sanitize this war anymore. Every heart in America should pain, really pain and feel the fear so many families feel when we hear the evening news announcement " and today in Iraq, there’s been another incident---".
2/07/2004
Turn, turn, turn
There is an old joke that goes something like this: Seems there was an Admiral who had been in the Navy for years and years. Many of them in shore side command. He had a secretary who watched him every morning like clockwork, go through the same routine. He would arrive promptly at 7AM. Hang his hat on the rack. Go to his desk and before sitting down for the days work, he open the top right drawer, stand for a moment looking in the drawer. He would then close the drawer, sit down and begin the day. Though very curious,. The secretary would never violate the trust with the Admiral by looking in the desk drawer to see what was there. Finally the day came. The Admiral had retired, and the secretary was left there alone awaiting the next command. Curiosity won and the secretary could stand it no longer and went to the desk, opened the drawer and peered in. There taped to the bottom of the drawer was a well worn and yellowed piece of paper with the following "Port = left, Starboard = right".It had to be a distant relation of this Admiral that AJ (aka webmonkey) that went sailing with us that fine day. The boat was a well rigged chartered Beneteau 34. The skipper (provided by the charter service)and interesting able sailor, the crew AJ, Adam(the significant other), me (The Dad), a Japanese national working in Australia (cannot remember nor would it be likely that I could spell his name) and Bill, an Aussie brick salesman and I’m sure a descendant of the above mentioned Admiral.
We headed out on a beautiful day on a beautiful bay and it was not long before AJ and both shared with each other how good it was to have a boat under our feet again. AJ, her mother and I had lived on board a 38’ cutter named Katherine. She (Katherine) was the culmination of several years of sailing and a series of ever bigger boats. She (AJ) was the culmination of a trip on Nicole, one of those series of boats. AJ was 2 ½ when we sold all shore related stuff and moved aboard. Living aboard was for me, and I think for AJ, one of the most wonderful times in our lives. And, I believe that shared experience is part of what has bonded AJ and I so strongly. We sailed a lot of miles and spent a lot nights at anchor and shared all the experiences that come with that. If you have never sailed or have never learned to become comfortable at sea I suspect you will not "Grok" any of this. If you have ever had the wind on you cheek, sailing a well trimmed boat as she rises and falls to a gentle sea, realizing that the tears on your cheek are a result of both the brisk salty air and the shear joy in you soul, then I need say no more about how AJ and I were feeling.
It did not take the skipper long to find out that there were those aboard who had sailing experience. So, after a quick safety talk he began the process of changing from skipper to crew as he turned over the helm to me and started showing the rest some of the basics of trimming sails. Before long it was AJ and I doing a lot of sailing while the rest of the crew refused the helm or stuck to sail trimming. AJ was a little apprehensive on the helm at first but soon got the feel back and steered a good course. Unspellable name Japanese guy took a turn and did well though to me, he never seemed to have a "feel" for the boat. Adam and Bill both refused to have anything to do with the helm. Noontime came and we powered into a neat little cove adjacent the Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park on the far side of the Bay, picked a mooring buoy, and settled in for comfortable lunch at anchor. Refreshed, we cast off and headed back to the Bay. It was not long after leaving the cove that and after some prodding from all, we convinced Bill to take a turn on the helm.
I have been around boats of all kinds most of my life and have become to believe that operating a boat with ease is as much an art as a science. When I was Senior Deputy Harbormaster I was part of the hiring process for several Patrolman. Part of the testing process was to take the applicants, one at time, out in one of the Patrol boats and give them a series of maneuvers to accomplish. It was not so much to see how well they accomplished the maneuvers, but more how they handled themselves with the boat. After five minutes of watching I knew whether the applicant had the makings of a rescue boat operator. The moves have to be instinctive, the operator and the boat become a single machine and even though in docking the operator might miss the mark it was more due to not being familiar with the idiosyncrasies of that particular boat than it was to poor operation.
I have never seen such a mismatch of man and machine in my life, as that of Bill and that 34’ sailboat . Left became right and right left, ease the helm a little became a violent turn, fall off became no, no left, left, no the other left. Now I have to give to Bill, he tried. He really, really tried. And, the more he tried the more we became the boat that I’m sure the Harbor Patrol had in their sights as a wreck in the happening. A fairly good gust and a near knock down did it and Bill surrendered. We were all supportive after he gave up the helm and sat down with a look of embarrassment on his face. During the trip Bill had talked about wanting to take up sailing and hoped he could do more chartering to learn sailing skills.
I hope my instincts are wrong and Bill becomes a wonderful sailor.
1/21/2004
"So what is a Gestalt"
My intent was to post a series of stories about my recent visit with my daughter, aka webmonkey, in Sydney Australia. There is plenty of material to write since it was, for me, the trip of a lifetime. But as usual life changed and I got distracted in another direction. So to close up this side trip I took, I will leave the stories of "Down Under" for a little later.A couple of things that have happened to me as I ply my way through this life. First, as I grow older, I find myself trying to close those unfinished pieces of business that are a result of earlier, lets say negative experiences in my life. Fritz Perles talked about such in his Gestalt Therapy theory. Closing those Gestalts or unfinished emotional experiences we can carry around like jewels instead of realizing they are old bags of garbage we need to take out to the dumpster. Second, I try to live my life today in such a manner as to not create any new pieces of garbage that I will have to deal with later. A task not as easy as it might sound.
On Veterans Day 2003 I posted a story about one of my experiences as a Veteran. On that day, after finishing the story, I decided to Google search around for any links to something that might resemble what I remember was my experience in Viet Nam. As an aside let me say here that I hope someone, somewhere has documented the fact that Google is only an Internet search engine. From the way we refer to it in our current society I fear that future archaeologists will assume that Google was some for of Cyber Deity that we prayed to for the answers in our lives. But enough of that. My search led me to the site ATAV Army Transportation Association Viet Nam. Entering the site was like a time warp for me. There I found a group of a few hundred vets who had bound together to document on the site their experience in the Viet Nam war. More specifically, as members of the Transportation Corps serving in Viet Nam. Now trying to explain what that means to me, or to those guys, is like trying to explain to a non-drinker what it means for an alcoholic to find AA. They hear the facts, understand the principle but never rely can "grock" what it is all about. We were the support troops, the ones who operated "behind the lines" in a war where there were no lines. During the war the press and focus was generally on the grunts, the combat soldier or fighter pilot etc. Mind you I say this not taking away anything that those guys did or went through. Nothing I experienced could equal what the average grunt went through. But as a result of that focus, not too many stories were written about the support troops. But the truth is, support troops suffered and some died just like the rest of their brothers in arms. If you doubt me look at the statistics of who is dying in the current piece of insanity we are asking our young soldiers to endure. Many who are killed are truck drivers and repair persons just like in Viet Nam.
So there I was, surfing through pictures of "Deuce and half’s" with fifty caliber’s mounted on them and LCM’s (Landing Craft Mechanized) and Helicopter repairmen and skinny young men with cigarettes and M-15’s and all the images I had long since buried. And even though I did not know the name of any of these guys I knew these men and these places and had lived as they had. I joined the ATAV. No small event for me for I am not generally a joiner.
The memories evoked by my visit to the ATAV site lead me to dig through some old boxes I had long since tucked away. And there in the bottom of one box were more than a hundred 35mm slides I had taken during my "in Country" tour. I dug out my old slide projector and as I strolled down memory lane I wondered if these pictures might be of some use to the ATAV site. I contacted Dr Ralph Grambo the site webmaster and, as I learned later, quasi historian. His answer was a firm yes. He wanted to use them in adding a section to the site documenting the MMAV (Marine Maintenance Activity Viet Nam) Unit the unit I was assigned to. We corresponded back and forth. In one message I referred Ralph to my 11-11 blog entry about Cleve and his untimely, tragic death and, my frustration at his absence of his name on the Viet Nam Memorial. There is a Memorial section in the ATAV site but I was pretty sure it would be like the wall, for combat related deaths only. Today I received this simple email from Dr. Grambo. " Today I created a section on the ATAV Memorial Page for the 82nd TC and posted the name, Cleve Jackson".
1/03/2004
I get around
Good, bad or indifferent I am, in certain ways, the product of being raised in Southern California. Therefore I am what one might call "mass transportation deprived". I was raised in the era of the automobile. That is to say the automobile, car, wheels, short, sled or what ever else you might call it, was almost as important as sex. In fact for most young men of my generation sex and the automobile are joined at the hip (no pun intended). With all that aside the idea of relying on "Public Transportation" was unthinkable. Not only would you never get any , you would never get anywhere since there was never much of a Public Transportation system anywhere near where I grew up and therefore I had no faith in such a mode of transportation. Later in my life during the 70’s I did try to get environmentally conscious and did a combination of bike and bus riding while living in Santa Barbara. But that was strictly to and from work and to tell the truth I did not keep it up for much more than a year. For everything else I relied on my car. The mega-important extension of most of our middle class, testosterone driven male egos.So when I arrived in Sydney I faced two major hurdles. One, those crazy Aussies drive on the wrong side of the road and there was no way I was ever going to adjust to that in the short time I was going to be there. Secondly I had no car available to me. Without some sort of endorsement or proof I could negotiate driving in that Superman Bizarro World of driving no one was going to rent me a car and AJ (aka webmonkey) is doing the urban living thing so does not own a car. That left the dreaded Public Transportation System. I did not know what good hands I was in. Sydney has an amazing interconnected system of rail, bus and ferry. AJ took me by the hand on my first day in Sydney and bought me my first "Weekly Red City Pass". A small card about the size of a credit card with a magnetic strip on one side. For $32 AU the card gave me one weeks’ access to almost all of the buses, trains and ferries that crisscross the entire city. The routes and schedules are posted at every stop and it took even a small town hick like me little time to soon learn that I could get almost anywhere I needed to go with just the swipe of a card without having to negotiate the backward traffic pattern or finding a place to park. After long ago realizing that my sex life, or lack of it, is not tied to an automobile it was easy to get hooked on this "Public Transportation System". Sydney has every reason to be proud of its transportation system. Each weekday City Rail alone moves approximately 930,000 customers to over 300 stations. I could not help think what it might be like in Los Angeles or Seattle if those cities had invested in an integrated transportation rather than the freeway mess full of solo operated cars looking for an off ramp and a place to park. Oh well, no worry because I was hooked on Sydney Public Transport and never really became disenchanted with it during my entire stay. And believe me, I think I personally accounted for a good portion of the reported 930,000 daily customers during my stay there.
What did slightly irk me was the following irony. I live in one of the wettest climates in North America. The Olympic rain forest receives up to 120 inches of rain a year. Bellingham averages over 30 inches of rain a year and averages only 136 sunny days per year. I traveled to the driest continent in the world and guess what. Rain. Cloudy days. In near record levels. Now admittedly the rain was much warmer. And, when it rained, it really rained. Not like the misty gray drizzle that I usually falls in Bellingham but a real gully washer down pour kinda stuff. And there were some really sunny, beautiful, hot days. But I did not travel 8000 miles from Winter in Bellingham to Summer in Sydney to get regularly rained on. I’m sure the travel gods got a good laugh out of that one. I survived. But it was just a little disappointing.
