The Bryant Blog


Bryant Kraus

 

3 February 2010
Gone Fishing

The first piece of advice Michael gave me about Australian baseball was to make a diary in order to keep track of the strange things I was destined to see. Until a few weeks ago things seemed pretty ordinary apart from the obvious fibreglass portable mound and some interesting umpiring decisions, thus my diary has remained relatively empty. That was until our January 17th game against Melville was cancelled due to the extreme heat.

 
In my career I’ve had games cancelled due to rain and snow, delayed because the sprinklers broke, interrupted while someone’s runaway chicken was corralled off the field, and postponed because the lights had shut off, but never have I had a game postponed because it was deemed too hot to play. Certainly I’ve been involved in many games during which I wished someone would say it was too hot to play, but I never thought it was a viable excuse. A general rule about Portland is if you don’t do it in the rain then you won’t do it at all, so any 
amount of sun or heat is considered a luxury. Basically, if it isn’t raining then we are going to play baseball-- sometimes we will even play if it is raining.
 
Before the decision to postpone was made, coach Jelks came into the change room to see how we felt about playing considering the conditions. As he went around the room asking each player if he wanted to play I sat in the corner, nearly naked, sweat pouring from every part of my body thinking, “don’t ask me what I want to do, my body is telling me I shouldn’t do anything, but I’ll do whatever you tell me to.”
 
The official temperature the day of the Melville game was somewhere around 42*C (roughly 110 *F), but it certainly felt much hotter on the field. For those who don’t know what a 42 degree day in Australia feels like, I suggest turning your oven on as hot as you can, letting it preheat for 30 minutes, then putting your face right next to the door as you open it up-- that is what it feels like every time you open your front door. Once outside the sun seems to attack your skin, even in the shade, and it feels like you are burning almost 
instantly. I’ve often been left with the dilemma of wanting to put on more clothes to cover and thus protect every inch of exposed skin, but at the same time wanting to be entirely naked so I would stop sweating through all my clothes. If you are lucky enough to have air conditioning your home becomes a little bubble of safety from which you don’t want to leave unless absolutely necessary. Even the ground seems to retain enough heat to make things extremely uncomfortable, something I learned when I tried to walk barefoot up our 50 metre brick driveway one afternoon, only to make it halfway before sprinting back to our house, certain I had burnt the skin off the bottom of my feet.
 
When the game was officially cancelled we decided the beach would be the only logical place to be, but we weren’t entirely correct. To be completely accurate, the only place to be on a 42 degree day is neck deep in the ocean, or some form of cool water, anywhere else will prove to be uncomfortably hot. So that is where I remained, neck deep in the ocean at Cottesloe beach, until the sun was disappearing beyond the horizon and the temperature was dropping into the more comfortable 30’s. Unfortunately there would be no relief from the heat as the next day was forecasted to be just as hot, if not hotter.
 
On the second day of extreme heat we decided to get up early, drive south to Madora bay, and try our luck at fishing. Though Garrett and I both have fishing experience back home, the Goadby’s wanted to “teach the Americans how to fish.” Regrettably, my fly fishing skills from home translated poorly into beach fishing skills and I felt like Matt had to be a babysitter rather than a teacher for me. My excuse is that something about the waves coming at me, or just waves in general threw me off, but they didn’t seem to affect Garrett so that 
is a very poor excuse. Regardless of how natural it looked, we all caught fish so things could have been worse.
 
The first fish I caught more or less caught me and I was forced to call Matt to save me-- something I’m not all that proud of. To spare the boring details, the fish managed to swim around my legs twice and between them once in ankle deep water, thus hog tying my feet together and making it impossible for me to move. Thankfully things could only go better after that.
 
By 10 A.M. we had caught about twenty herring, three times as many blowys, gone for a swim, and were headed back home to throw our catch on the grill-- It was probably the freshest fish I have ever had to eat.
 
 
Send Comments to bryantblog@exemail.com.au 
 
 
 
 
 
19th January 2010
Christmas In Australia

Every year my brother and I pray for a white Christmas. In Portland Christmas means cold-- maybe not always snowing cold, but cold enough to see your breath and loose the feeling in your finger tips. There is a cool crispness in the air that forces multiple layers of clothing-- jumper, jacket, scarf, cap, gloves-- and causes the grass to crunch under the weight of every step. In fact, my entire conception of the holiday season has to do with the cold weather in the months leading up to the holidays and it is only when the air seems too cold to breath and the sun is going down at five that I know it is, indeed, Christmas time.

With weather being my primary indicator of the holiday season, it is no wonder Christmas seemed to sneak up on me this year. The first time I noticed holiday decorations hanging over city streets I thought maybe somebody forgot to take them down last year as it was surely too early to be getting decorations out already. It wasn’t until I started seeing Christmas themed television advertisements that I realized this year was going to be a very different kind of Christmas. I think it is interesting to point out that even the advertising during the holiday season is very different than I am used to and it took me several weeks to realize the adverts showing people jumping into pools and standing over barbecues were actually holiday advertisements. Fortunately for me, my mom and brother were here  to celebrate Christmas and therefore, I had a little bit of tradition mixed in with my strange new holiday experience.

 

Middleton Beach, Albany

Knowing my family (myself included) to be notoriously indecisive and that Perth may not hold enough to keep them entirely entertained for two and a half weeks, I decided to plan a road trip south to get us out of Perth and thus avoid the “what do you want to do today” question. Our adventure started boxing day with a drive down Albany highway during which we saw little more than a dead kangaroo until we arrived at a beach in Albany late that afternoon. The stop consisted of a walk on Middleton beach and dinner at the local Chicken Treat, as I was unaware of some of the sites Albany had to offer and did not budget much time to stop there before moving on to Denmark for the night.

Our second day started at the Treetop Walk where most of our entertainment was provided by moms fear of heights. While the views were amazing from the top platforms, I’m not sure my mom even opened her eyes to admire them-- she was too busy accusing Kyle and I of shaking the platform while we stood perfectly still watching her race from platform to platform, holding her breath the entire way, until we reached the ground. Luckily she survived and started to relax during our walk through the “Ancient Empire” on the forrest floor.
 
                          
Kyle Modeling Under Tingle Tree                 Treetop Walk
 
Situated at an altitude more comfortable for my mom, our next stop was at the Green Pools in Williams Bay National Park. Though the water was cold it did not stop us from enjoying a swim in the large, calm pools created by the surrounding rocks. 
 

Green Pools at Williams Bay National Park

 
Mom would later say this was her favorite spot because she did not have to fight any waves and could just float around relaxing. Kyle and I even did a bit of snorkeling, despite the fact that we have watched too much Discovery Channel to be comfortable getting close to anything we saw-- we just assume any unknown creature/crevice is deadly and should be feared.
 

Kyle Modeling as Usual

Sadly, sometimes this fear spills over into actually jumping into the water. The conversation occurring in the picture you see below went something like this:

Bryant: “You go first”
Kyle:“No you go”
B:“If I go first you have to carry the snorkel”
K:“O.K. but you have to jump in with it... and don’t swim too far away”
B: “It looks cold”
K: “Yeah, I’m just waiting to get warm”
(Embarrassing)
 
 
 
The following day our destination was Augusta for the evening, but we were in no hurry, making a stop at Jarrah Jacks Brewery before climbing the Gloucester Tree in Pemberton along the way. In hindsight, going to a brewery before climbing a 61 metre tree with thin metal bars as stairs probably wasn’t the best logic, but we can’t change the past. As we ascended the tree the park employee managing the tree that day assured us that the flex we felt with each step was “necessary to avoid harming the tree,” and not to worry because it was “perfectly safe.” I’m not sure everyone believed her story, especially not the lady I passed halfway up breathing rapidly and stopping for several minutes at each step, but I was climbing the tree either way. Needless to say, my mom decided to sit this one out.

     

 Gloucester Tree Climb: Looking Up                                   Midway up Gloucester Tree Climb

 

 

We arrived in Augusta that night with just enough time to break in the cricket set I received for christmas in a nearby park before settling in at our hotel. I’m not sure how two Americans attempting to play cricket looked to onlookers, or if our game even managed to resemble cricket, but that didn’t matter to us-- we just acted like we had been playing for our entire lives.
 
Our day in Augusta was unfortunately rainy and very windy, however, we still managed to make a trip to the Cape Leeuwin light house and Hamelin Bay for some snorkeling and more cricket. I was particularly excited for our trip to the light house as the prospect of seeing the place where two oceans met seemed intriguing. I’m not sure exactly what I expected this place to look like-- a place of massive oceanic turmoil with waves thrashing the coastline, or at least some sort of whirlpool I guess-- but if it weren’t for a sign telling us what to look for we would have simply assumed we were looking at the southern ocean. Perhaps the most memorable part of our day was the nervous breakdown my mom nearly had as a result of the swarming flies. In her defense, they were making everyone a little uneasy that day.

  

Cape Leeuwin Light House

 
    

Notice the Flies?                        Meeting of the Oceans

 

From Augusta we headed north on Caves road, past Margaret River, to Yallingup to see the Canal Rocks. My expectations were uncertain as we approached, but I was pleasantly surprised by the stunning coastal views the rocky outcroppings provided. Though I was wearing thongs, a poor footwear choice for rock climbing, I was still able to climb the high peaks and wander through the tidal pools. As for Kyle, he probably dressed most appropriately for the day (See picture: Kyle’s Shirt) and his shirt helped us make a few new friends.

Kyle’s Shirt

 
Our next stop was Cape Naturaliste, before back tracking down Caves road to Margaret river for the next two days. In Margaret river the majority of our time was spent relaxing on Prevelly beach were Kyle and I spent several hours in another cricket battle. Unfortunately I don’t have any photo evidence of our cricket, so you will have to take my word for it and invent how you picture it looking.
 
 
Canal Rocks
 
Along the way we passed an abundance of wineries that appeared to be popular stops, had my brother and I liked wine. Instead we made micro-breweries our thing, stopping at nine or ten of them on the way, and by the end of the trip my brother was starting to enjoy sampling the different kinds of beer. Or maybe he just enjoyed the ability to order a beer, either way his enthusiasm was growing.
 
In the end we had a great trip. Though we had to keep moving and never really settled in one location, this kept everything we saw/experienced new and exciting. For all the driving we did and sites we saw, it is overwhelming to look at a map and realize just how little of Australia we actually saw.

       

Green Pools      

 
 Send Comments to bryantblog@exemail.com.au 
 
 
22nd December 2009
That’s Just Not Cricket
Cricket fascinates me. That a player can be at bat for 120 minutes and do nothing 65% of the time is mind boggling. Six months ago I knew nothing about cricket apart from what most other Americans know: It is the sport where you can hit the ball anywhere and it takes forever. Ask an American about cricket and you are liable to hear an answer about a Gryllidae (cricket the insect).
 
Trying to explain cricket to my friends and family back home is like trying to teach a blind person how to paint-- It just doesn’t work. Most have never even seen cricket and become extremely lost when I start talking about wickets, stumps, and overs. Giving up on the rules they typically ask, “well, who is going to win?” Last week the answer to this question caused even more confusion.
 
“Well... It looks like they are going to draw” I said, knowing this would cause all sorts of problems in my continuing explanation.
“You mean they can end in a tie?” was their response.
“Uh, yeah it can end in a tie, but a draw is different than a tie.”
“...What?”
 
Perhaps this is what I find most intriguing about the sport. Two teams can battle for five days and at the end of five days they can leave without a result. It is unbelievable to me, and adds a whole new dimension to sport that I had never imagined before. Not only do captains have to worry about scoring a lot of runs and allowing very few, but they have to make sure they do it with enough time to force a result. I reckon I would make a bad captain because I would always want to bat and never leave time to force a result.
 
“It would be like having a three hour time limit for a baseball game” I explain, “and if, at the end of that three hours, neither team was able to record 27 outs they would draw.”
“...What?”
“Yeah... never mind” I conclude, realizing nothing more will help.
 
Sadly, I never get to explain scoring and thus never get to tell them about my favorite cricket statistic, 0’s. To me 0’s signify the number of times nothing happened, which seems like an odd thing to keep track of. I know more than nothing happened-- the batter blocked or the bowler bowled into the batters body and everyone yelled-- but from a scoring point of view NOTHING happened. It’s incredible.
 
I bring up cricket because this week my lesson in Australian culture came via a trip to the WACA for the first day of the test match. In the days leading up to the test many people mocked my excitement to experience live cricket. “It’s so boring” they would say, but their pessimism only added to my interest. Even if there were 450 zeros in the first day, what could be more relaxing than sitting outside and not really having to pay attention for an entire day? I can’t think of much.
 
In the end I couldn’t have asked for a better day-- the cricket was good, our seats were great, and time seemed almost to pass too quickly. The only complaint would be that beer was not allowed in the area where we were sitting and some people were unable to drink as much as they had anticipated. Beer, I have concluded, is an integral part of Australian sport thus, I feel some of the days authenticity may have been missed.
 
While this was my first experience with live cricket, it was not my first experience with test cricket. My initial curiosity was sparked while watching hours of the first two tests on television. I even went as far as checking the internet for updates and reviews when I hadn’t heard how the day ended. Though I’ve watched a fair bit of cricket and feel I have obtained an adequate understanding, I still feel awkward talking about it with a stranger. If a stranger at the test asked me what happened, or for my opinion on something, I felt that my answer would be immediately ignored upon discovering my accent, even if the answer made perfect sense.
 
Honestly, and I’m a bit ashamed to admit it, I left the WACA slightly disappointed I could not go back and do the same thing for the next four days. I think a Twenty 20 match is in the cards for my future.
 
Moving on to a different subject. About two weeks ago I received an email from Tim working at Sunriver Resort in Oregon that read:
“Hey Bryant-I was in Perth/Freemantle for America's Cup 20 some years ago and my favorite bar was in Freemantle, but I can't remember the name!! Can you do a little research and get back to me??”
 
Absolutely, I thought, it doesn’t take much convincing for me to “investigate” several pubs. I fancied myself a bit of a Bill Bryson, walking into pubs with my note pad and reporting on things like the atmosphere and appearance, until I realized just how awkward a note pad would be. Instead of trying to remember the hazy details of several pubs, I decided to ask around and was told, with some certainty, that it was either the Sail and Anchor or the Norfolk, but most are willing to bet it was the Sail and Anchor. Does this sound familiar Tim? And does anyone have any other suggestions to help solve Tim’s mystery?

 

Send Comments to bryantblog@exemail.com.au

 

2nd December 2009
Thanksgiving
 
On the last thursday of every November America has a feast aptly named “Thanksgiving.” For those who know their US history feel free to skip the next few paragraphs, otherwise, let me fill you in on how Thanksgiving came to be. (I know history is boring, but bear with me.)
 
The first British settlers arrived on the east coast of North America in December ages ago, and were greeted with a harsh winter that saw an inability to grow the crops needed to sustain their community. Many settlers, affectionately know as pilgrims (See Picture Below), died from disease and famine, making the future of their community in North America decidedly bleak. In their first spring a local Indian tribe (Politically Correct= Native Americans-- Indigenous people) helped the surviving pilgrims by teaching them to fish and grow corn in the new land. The result was a bountiful harvest, one that would sustain the pilgrims through the coming winter.  To thank the Indian tribe for assuring their existence, the pilgrims hosted a feast at which they shared their bountiful harvest.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It is widely believed that the pilgrims would not have survived without the help of the Indians.  Ironic considering that a few hundred years later it would be the descendants of these pilgrims who massacred entire Indian tribes, stealing their land and forcing the survivors into microscopic plots of land dubbed “reservations.” An odd way to give thanks for assuring our existence. Perhaps the Indian leaders should have seen it coming when they didn’t receive an invitation to the second Thanksgiving... But that is beside the point.
 
Today, Thanksgiving is a day of obsessive eating, gridiron football, and family. The tradition centers around an afternoon turkey feast at which feasters give thanks for what they consider their blessings of that year. After the feast it is normal to feel uncomfortably full and retire to the lounge to watch gridiron, have a nap, and reflect on why you still haven’t learned to say no to seconds, thirds, fourths... We have all but forgotten or chosen to ignore the Indians.
 
Much to the disappointment of some of my Australian friends, there is no traditional dress for the holiday-- No bad sweaters, costumes, or formal attire, just wear your “eating pants” as some may say. Not satisfied with my answer they inquired if there was anything they could dress up as, anything at all? So, ignoring the obvious political incorrectness, I suggested that it would be appropriate to dress as a pilgrim or an indian, as I remember doing this at some point in my life-- probably around the age of five, before I knew the political implications of the story.
 
So that, in brief, is why and how we celebrate Thanksgiving in America.
 
As far as meals go, Thanksgiving is my second favorite meal of the year, losing only to Christmas dinner. That being said, you could imagine the disappointment I would experience if, due to the circumstances, I was forced to miss my second favorite meal this year-- not even a fridge full of diary could cure my emptiness.
 
Aware that such a meal might be hard to pull off, especially considering my history with finding groceries, I started planning over a month ago. I inquired about what ingredients shops may or may not carry, had my family send over some traditional recipes, and ordered a turkey. At the butchers I explained that I am American (obviously), we have a holiday that involves eating a large volume of turkey, and would it be possible to get a turkey before the end of November. He agreed to move up his scheduled order to help me out and ring me as soon as they arrived. When I picked up the turkey he was happy to tell me he was supplying three other thanksgiving celebrations and wished me a “happy Thanksgiving.” I might have made a new friend.
 
Given the difference in time, a proper Thanksgiving back home would be celebrated at around eight on Friday morning here, a pretty inconvenient time for people to gather for a feast. As a result, and to accommodate everyones schedule, we decided to celebrate Thanksgiving a few days early this year. Back home the holiday is usually accompanied with a three day vacation, but having no official existence here the date was arbitrary-- for official purposes, Thanksgiving was on the Tuesday before the last Thursday in November, incase anyone is interested in holding their own celebration in the future. Surprisingly, and I hope jokingly, my mom didn't understand why Australians wouldn't know what thanksgiving was. She asked if they get the day off work to which I responded, "mom, what do we celebrate thanksgiving for....?" I hope she was joking.
 
I would like to say I spent all day slaving in the kitchen to prepare the turkey and it’s accompanying dishes, but that would be a lie. My day was spent NEAR the kitchen, but the truth is that I was not allowed to touch the turkey or even clean the dishes used in its preparation. In fact, the one dish I was entirely responsible for turned out nothing like it should have, though it tasted pretty good (I thought). Really, the only thing I can take credit for is suggesting that we have a Thanksgiving and delegating the recipes-- I didn’t even carve the turkey, an honour I deferred to Trevor for I had never done it before.
 
In either case I am happy to report that we had a successful Thanksgiving last week and I am thankful for those who were a part of it. We had heaps of food, Budweiser, decorations, and a gridiron ball. There was even a pilgrim and an indian in attendance, though I had made no costume requirement. At the table thanks was given and everyone agreed they were thankful that I was not allowed in the kitchen to prepare the meal-- a feeling I shared entirely. The meal was topped off with pumpkin pie and I went home uncomfortably full, exactly how thanksgiving should be.
 
The next day I suffered from a food hangover that rendered me mostly useless. I only managed to leave the lounge for a few minutes at a time and that was only to make myself a turkey sandwich from the leftovers-- exactly how the day after thanksgiving should be spent. For the past week I have had turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes and green bean soup (it is supposed to be a casserole, but I think I got a little aggressive with the cheese) at least once a day. Michael isn’t much for leftovers so it has been my responsibility to take care of them and I hate to see good food go to waste.
 
In the end I was asked the question, “what did you do?” referring to my contribution to the meal-- a question I had no answer for at the time. I had talked a big game, saying I would prepare a traditional American Thanksgiving for everyone, promising an extraordinary feast, and then realized I had probably bit off more than I could chew. So I guess the answer would be that I did nothing, at least nothing different from a thanksgiving back home, and that is why Thanksgiving on the wrong day, thousands of miles from my family, on a 34 degree day felt exactly like Thanksgiving should be.
 

Send Comments to bryantblog@exemail.com.au

 

 13th November 2009

Living the Dream
 
 
Everyday Michael comes home from work and asks, “busy day?” He knows the answer, but I think he enjoys listening to me justify why my day was, indeed, busy. It’s not that I do nothing--I work baseball camps, run training, go to the beach etc-- I just don’t always know how I’m going to earn my next twenty dollars. “I work enough” I tell him, I wouldn’t trade my ability to wander down to the beach or into the city on any given day for the regularity of a “real” job. As I tell my friends back home when they ask how things are going, “I am living the dream.”
 
(In a side note: Along with my coaching job, I had a job doing financial planning before I left Portland. Days were spent at a desk doing research, writing reports, making trades etc-- it wasn’t bad work, I actually enjoyed it and it paid quite well. After work I would commute to the field where I would spend my evenings at training or a game. It wasn’t long at the desk before I was longing to get out to the field earlier and earlier with each day. My true passion has always been baseball and I consider myself very fortunate to make the game my lifestyle at an age when most of my friends are settling in at desks. I once heard that it’s not work if you enjoy what you’re doing, so in that sense Michael is right, I hardly ever work.)
 
So far I’ve made ends meet by pouring concrete, working at BWA camps, helping at some tournaments, pulling weeds, random building projects, and by holding a regular Friday shift making shirts in the Freo markets. I like to tell my family I am picking up as many life skills as possible while here. It is exciting to go to bed on a Sunday night and have no idea what sort of work I may be doing on Monday morning-- some might find irresponsible a fitting term as well, but as long I am able to feed myself (and I assure you I am well fed with more than just dairy, contrary to popular belief) I have no complaints.
 
Another life skill I have picked up is yet to earn me any money, but it has been truly fascinating and something I will continue practicing when I return home. I’m not sure when I first learned Trevor Smales brews his own beer, but I haven’t stopped asking questions since that day. I have always wanted to experiment with brewing, but I had no idea where to start. Lucky for me Trevor is somewhat of an expert on the subject.
 
Our first brew was named the “Portland Robust Porter,” and, having tasted it for the first time this past weekend, I think we did quite well. Most of that credit belongs with Trevor as I just tried not to ruin anything or hurt anyone, but Trev has been nice enough to share the credit. Having the confidence of a successful brew I took a more proactive role in our second brewing session and hopefully we will have similar results. Other than a few minor burns and the seven hours it took us to complete the recipe, I think the session was a success.   Unfortunately we won’t know what the beer tastes like for another six weeks so I really have no idea how we actually did-- it is not a hobby for impatient people.
 
Outside of brewing, training, and the occasional day spent labouring in the sun I have made regular trips to Cottesloe beach. The beach is a bit of a novelty for me. Back home we call the sandy expanse of land bordering the ocean a “coast,” the difference being that the weather there is rarely nice enough to do beach activities so that title would be misleading.
 
While people here may find the water too cold or the sky too cloudy for a day at the beach, I’m packing up my stuff and jumping in my car to go to Cott at first sight of the sun. One day I had lunch at a cafe and asked to be seated outside. The temperature was 23 that day, the sky was blue, there was a little bit of wind, but nobody was sitting outside. At my request the host gave me a baffled look and  replied, “yeah, but it is really cold.” I just laughed, we would kill for a day like that on the Oregon coast.
 
Last week I made it to Ascot for Melbourne Cup. I don't think I have ever gambled on anything outside of blackjack at a casino or the friendly NCAA tournament pool back home, but I was sure to put at least five dollars on every race that day. As the day went on and the liquid confidence kicked in I found myself putting more and more money on each race. Had I been picking these horses to finish second I would have made a fortune. As it stands I managed to pick the runner up in 6 of the 9 races-- leaving me with $0 in winnings apart from a few gold coins we wagered at the rail. (The next day I spent $12 at Hungry Jacks for breakfast, that should give you an idea of how I pulled up from the day)
 
I have received several responses to my last post with suggestions on how to solve my fly problems. Some, like Trevor’s suggestion for a hat with corks, where much appreciated but probably would not work in the context of a baseball game. Still others, like Deanne’s suggestion to buy some Areoguard, have been truly life changing. I no longer live in constant fear of swallowing a fly.
 
At the same time I have made several personal adjustments in my battle with the flies. No longer am I bothered by a fly landing on my arm, leg, or shirt, for these flies are no longer a threat to land on my face. Previously I would swat at them to shoo them away, but they would almost always end up landing on my face-- so I just let them rest in peace now. I’ve even gone so far as letting a fly land on the lens of my sunnies because, in my head, it was better than having him buzzing in my ear.
 
Send Comments to bryantblog@exemail.com.au
 
 
 
28th October 2009
Shew fly don't bother me.
 
One of the things I remember noticing when I first arrived in the Sydney airport was a sign on the wall at the end of customs. It wasn’t a vulgar sign, or a funny sign, or even a very interesting sign, it simply read “way out.” This, I assumed, was the “exit”-- I mean it wasn’t too hard to figure out-- but it was a gentle warning of many misunderstandings and subtle differences that were soon to come.
 
Though there is no real language barrier I still find myself asking people to repeat themselves as if we are speaking different languages. At training I will ask Sammy to spell phrases or words so that I might understand what they mean or be able to use them in a sentence of my own. I would say I learn at least two new phrases a week at the moment.
 
The first phrase I picked up on, and quite possibly my favorite, is “how ya going?” At first I didn’t know how to respond. I assumed it was like asking “how are you,” but feared I was making an fool of myself by responding incorrectly. After careful observation I eased my fears and now find the phrase slipping into my sentences--much to my liking.
 
Another one I picked up was “good on you.” Based on the context it was easy to understand what it meant and I liked the way it sounded.   I’ve forced it into a few conversations so far, but it has never felt natural until a few days ago when I said it to an umpire at a little league game. I didn’t even notice I had said it until I was on my way back to the dug out.
 
One word I’m not entirely sure how to say, nor am I very confident in saying is “capsicum”-- I rely on the point and mumble strategy at the moment. I still end up saying “peppers” when ordering a sandwich at subway and when the employee doesn’t understand I bashfully point.   Maybe someday I will get it.
 
 The first time I went to Subway I tried to prepare myself for the differences I would encounter. While waiting in line I studied the menu and asked Quokka a thousand questions so I would not be caught off-guard when it was my turn to order--I hate slowing down the line.   When I came to the front of the line my order was flawless, then came the cheese-- I hadn’t thought about the cheese. I couldn’t see a sign explaining my options so I panicked and ordered pepperjack, what I always get at home. From the blank look on the servers face I could tell pepperjack was not one of my options.
 
 I have had many instances like this, most involving a simple difference in name. My first trip to the IGA took an hour and a half because I had to read the labels on all the products to see what exactly I was getting and what my American equivalent would be. I’m pretty sure the employees became uncomfortable or concerned with my presence and aimless wandering, but I’m better at it now.
 
Changing topics: Sunday we played at Gosnells and, as Trevor’s match review said, I struggled running the bases. Perhaps what I struggled with most, however, were the flies-- they are unbelievable here and I have been warned it is only going to get worse. I would like to say that I am learning to deal with them, but I would just be lying.
 
In my last at bat there was at least one fly on my face at all times-- before one pitch I had two land directly under my eyes. I even had one find its way into my mouth mid-swing. Fortunately for everyone it found its way back out as I probably would have spewed had I swallowed it.
 
Some of my teammates may have heard or they will hear me sarcastically refer to myself as a “mental midget” when it comes to hitting. This is referring to the flies. When I step into the batters box I can zone out crowd noise, hecklers, whatever I need to in order to be entirely focused on the pitcher, except flies. As soon as a fly floats in front of my face or lands on my cheek I’m done. In my head I’m saying, “don’t look at the fly, it doesn’t bother you, you don’t even see/feel it,” but my eyes remain focused on the buzzing fly while my hands just want to swat it away from my face. My temporary solution? Call time to helplessly swat them away from my head.   Hopefully I get used to them, otherwise I may go insane by the end of the season.
 
Yesterday I had another experience with flies while pouring concrete with the Saupold family. Between listening Warwick and Craig argue with each other and playing cricket with a taped up piece of tarp and some PVC pipe, I was constantly covered with flies while wheeling loads of concrete. At first I would furiously swat them away, but by the end of the day I was so tired I just let them alone. Hopefully that is a sign of improvement. That I will, in fact, be able to deal with these flies-- I am crossing my fingers.
 
 Send Comments to bryantblog@exemail.com.au
 
 
 
20th October 2009
How about the price of beer!
 
I have never blogged before. I’ve never read someone else’s blog and most definitely never written my own. I have no idea if there are conventions I’m supposed to follow, who I’m supposed to address with the writing, or what would be considered interesting to read about, but I’m willing to give it a shot. For the most part this will contain pieces of emails I have sent back home to parents and friends and should give readers some insight into my Australian experience.
 
Though I have been here for nearly a month and a half I still manage to get lost all of the time. Often times I will look up directions before I leave, hop in the car or on a bus, and some how manage to get lost a long the way, only to pull out a map and formulate another set of directions to reach my destination from my new location. This process I have dubbed "circling," and it is done repeatedly until I close in on my desired location.
 
In my defense, I must say that google maps is trying to sabotage me.   Once my directions instructed me take an exit that didn’t exist, a fact I didn’t learn until I drove forty minutes past my destination, and on another occasion it wanted me to turn on an “unnamed” street-- I don’t know how I would identify an “unnamed” street, from what I can tell road signs are deemed mostly optional here meaning nearly any street could be nameless to me. As a result, I've started using the google "streets" function, the one that allows you to walk around and see virtual images of the streets, just so I can get a mental image of where I need to turn. It is like using a picture book for directions.
 
This week I’ve had some late nights watching the Twenty 20 cricket matches. Six months ago I couldn’t explain what the point of cricket was, but I now find myself explaining the rules to other Americans I meet. It’s enjoyable, though I have yet to stay awake for an entire match-- at best I can watch one inning before sleep takes over.
 
When I first arrived I was comforted to see Major League Baseball on the television-- being so far from home it was nice to have something familiar around-- but I quickly fell in love with Australian sport.   Footy became my new obsession and I’m sure I wore Quokka out with all my questions. For the first few weeks I watched each game live on the weekend and then proceeded to watch the replay of those same games during the week. I told Michael this was because he doesn’t have foxtel and I had to choose between the footy replay and netball (a sport that makes absolutely no sense to me still), but in reality each replay was new to me as I began to understand more with each game.
 
One thing I was not prepared for when I arrived was the price of everything-- most notably the price of beer. On average I probably pay $9 for a pint, but I have seen pints priced up to $18! Back home I would complain if I paid over $4 for a pint of beer. I need a small loan or a second income just to go out to the bars with everyone.   Luckily the guys have taken care of me and someone is always making sure I have a drink in my hand (or two drinks if AK is buying).
 
Send Comments to bryantblog@exemail.com.au