Intercultural gesticulation

I was feeling kind of underwhelmed anyway.

I'd been down under for two weeks with The Diplomat without feeling like I knew what Australian 'culture' was. I figured Hugh Jackman, fit and frisky on a surfboard, might do the trick.

The beach: the answer to all cultural mysteries.

I'd missed my beaching opportunity on the east coast because god was punishing the nation for selling it's soul to Oprah the month prior.

'Oprah's Ultimate Australian Adventure' probably sounded good to the tourism board at the time, but do you really want thousands of middle-aged Angel Networkers asking for the nearest Outback Steakhouse and telling Aboriginals how to live their best life (according to this month's edition of 'O')?

Anyway, I couldn't blame god - it was all doomsday floods and hurricanes on the Great Barrier Reef, so westward ho!

Beach bag full of SPF and David Sedaris, I waited for Number 411 to take me to Scarborough Beach, outside Perth. As the bus came rambling down the deserted roadway and I stood up, taking my bag and walking three feet to the 'Bus Stop' signpost, money in hand - exact change, thank you!

I believed these efforts to be obvious international signals for 'I'd like to ride your bus! And - I will pay!'

I watched the bus approach. I saw the driver look at me. And then I watched the bus sail right past.

What the effy eff?

I then did what every woman ignored by a man does. I ran after him.

I caught up at the next light, breathy but willing to give this guy the benefit of the doubt. I had already learned direct eye contact in Australia does not equate acknowledgment of one's existence.

I rapped on the door.
He looked at me.
I pointed to the door.
He kept looking, indifferent.
I pointed to myself, then the door, then made an 'open' motion.

He shook his head no and put his hand up in the air, waved, then pointed at me and shook his head again.

Wave? He wouldn't pick me up because I didn't wave?

It was quite a change coming from free-wheeling South America, where the designated bus stops are wherever somebody wants to get on. No Latino - or accompanying farm goat - is left behind. Waving optional.

I furrowed my brow, rolled my eyes sidelong, stomped a little for effect, then mimed my ascent from the bus stop bench to the bus stop sign and flopped my hands forward in an appeal to just let me on the damn bus already.

This is what Oprah's soulless Australia had reduced me to: a temper tantrum with a public servant. A'la charades.

At this point, all the other passengers became interested in our mime-off, and I'd like to think some asked him to just open the door for this nice foreign lady who maybe had a wave impediment? But the driver wagged his index finger at me, the international sign for 'I am a patronizing figure of authority and you are not.'

The light changed and he left me standing to brood in a viscous bisque of irritability. This is the Ultimate Adventure? Somebody get me a koala to hug, stat.

I changed my strategy and made a complete fool of myself, again, flagging down the next 411 with every limb and digit flopping in the air. I also changed my ticket to leave Australia a week early.

After all that, Hugh wasn't even at the beach.

It smells like it sounds

The game starts with all participants encircling a drum-able surface, fists pounding in unison with the finest bottle of vodka $10.50 Australian can buy laying in wait.

The 19-year-old Belgian ringleader hollers, 'What's the name of the game?'

And everybody shouts, 'Let's get fucked up!'

'I can't HEAR you - what is the NAME of the GAME?'

This time, with emphasis: 'Let's get FUCKED UP!'

Then follows a series of deeply complex hand gestures and count-offs. When somebody, er, fucks up, he or she drinks. Okay, everybody drinks because... well, that's the name of the game.

It was a charming reintroduction to the world where I meet really nice people, who later vomit all over the sink while I'm brushing my teeth.

Hosteling: where everyone is young, free and most importantly, ignorant to all standards of hygiene.

Would you like a bed bug infestation to complement your new STI? Done!

When The Diplomat said she'd come and meet me halfway through my adventure, she had a few stipulations:

1. No bunk beds
2. No partying
3. No tours of prisons

'I don't know what all this hostel business is, but if it smells like it sounds, your mother is not interested.'

See, The Diplomat doesn't get fucked up.

So, begrudgingly, I accepted her offer to stay in hotels where actual cleaners use actual cleaning products that actually clean.

There was no mold on the shower curtain because there is no shower curtain in a 5-star hotel! There were no smelly French people snoring in 3-part harmony or Cuban girls having epically bad sex from a five foot distance (por favor, amiga, just fake it already!)

Just days beforehand, mom checked us into Melbourne's Windsor Hotel (shaped like a castle, clever). This was class. Even the queen has stayed there! Beyond the high tea and our butler, I was most impressed the Windsor had a pillow menu.

'Yes, Miss Lauderbaugh,' said housekeeping (housekeeping!), 'would you prefer the aromatherapeutic lavender-infused goose-down or an extra firm anti-snore contour cushion?'

A contour cushion?

Let's get fluffed up!

Half a year gone already...

Ian Thorpe is not a queer

My mom has always had a million friends. It never surprises me that upon walking off the plane, she'll know the most detailed life stories of her seat mate (twice divorced), the flight attendant (working overtime - again) and the single mother in the second row (post-partum, what a shame).

I call her The Diplomat because she has this ability to like and respect everybody, a laissez faire approach to being judgemental that I find maddening.

If had dinner with Hitler, she might say, 'Well, I don't agree with him, but I do understand where he's coming from...'

So I wasn't surprised at all when I left her alone for 10 minutes at the Sydney Opera House to find she had made two new friends on our second day in Australia.

Meet Nice Aussie Mum and Cool Aussie Daughter. Both extremely friendly and FUN, Mum is retired from working with disabled kids and Daughter is a pediatric nurse.

Salt of the earth types, they tucked us two Yanks into their proverbial Aussie marsupial pouch. Okay, it was a Ford hatchback. And to The Diplomat's great delight, drove us all over Sydney's suburbs not one afternoon, but two!

I was impressed. How many people give up their days off to be kind to complete strangers? Americans, no less? We were really hitting it off when Nice Aussie Mum said:

'Do you have many Muslims in Seattle? We do here, and it's a real problem.'

Hmm. Silence. The awkward kind. She was referring to a group of ladies walking down the street, heads covered, pushing baby carriages.

I prepared what I thought was a witty retort to a rather ridiculous comment, when The Diplomat shot me a look that said, 'Keep your mouth shut, young child, these are our new friends. Don't ruin it!'

I frowned and listened to her non-answer about there being a number of mosques in Seattle. According to The Diplomat, whenever one is encountered with an uncomfortable (read: racist) question, it is best to bob and weave with statistics, then quickly change the subject.

'And what are those funny trees with the green leaves?'

Thusly, we moved on to tropical deciduous shrubbery.

The tour of Sydney continued. The Harbor Bridge! Yorktown! The Ian Thorpe International Swimming Center!

'Say, where does Ian Thorpe live?' I asked.

Ian, ahem, ‘The Thorpedo,’ and I go way back to the days where he battled Pieter van den Hoogenband - my Dutch dreamboat - in the Olympic pool. Ian and I have an unfulfilled destiny, of course, and I figured being in his hometown was my best chance.

'I think he lives in Los Angeles now. He's turned awfully queer, hasn't he?'

The word queer slipped off her tongue like she was trying to spit out sour milk.

Actually, I can think of worse things than my future husband having perfect eyebrows, a Beverly Hills mansion and a collection of scandalously low-slung Speedos in the closet. Even if he sleeps in there with them.

But I hate the word queer and was going to explain why when The Diplomat knocked over my soapbox, offering to buy everyone lunch.

‘Dim sum?’ Cool Daughter asked her Mum. They both snickered.

‘Hmm, wonder who’s going to be working there! Oh, wow, more Asians!’

We went for Mexican instead. My guess is Australians have very limited knowledge of Mexico and its stereotypes (or even what Mexican food should taste like). In this case, I was thankful for their ignorance and ate my enchiladas in peace, starting to forgive their casual racism.

After we ate, mom fell asleep in the backseat of the car, snoring along lightly as we drove through a beautiful public park lined with eucalyptus trees. Picnickers played with rugby balls and little doggies fetched on a nice, sunny day. It was so lovely! And then...

'There's some Abos for you there, Julie,' Nice Aussie Mum said. 'Well, at least they're with their families. That's nice, I suppose. It is a public park.'

‘Abo’ is Australian for ‘Aboriginal’, and its use also identifies the speaker as ‘scared of black people.’

From my travels, I know racism exists in every country, but I had kind of thought Australia was less… like the United States?

Mom snorted loudly, momentarily waking herself up and mumbling, 'I'm so sorry... I just have... to take a little... nap.' She took a deep breath and wiped out again.

I seized The Diplomat's moment of low blood sugar weakness.

'Say there, do you, um, not like Aboriginals? Or Muslims? Just wondering, 'cause you keep commenting on it...'

These super nice people, being extremely kind to the foreigners in the back seat, sort of laughed it off and explained all the politics of Aboriginal issues I obviously wasn't privy to, like how Aboriginals suck off the government, how the Stolen Generation thing was unfair all around, how they’re all drunks anyway and...

'I see. And the Muslims? Do you hate them as individuals, or as a whole group?'

The Diplomat stirred. I was losing time.

'I mean, god, what would you do if you ever met an Aboriginal Muslim? Wouldn't that be crazy! Especially if they were queer?'

The Diplomat awoke after I said this and apologized loudly for snoring, interrupting my moment of socially aware indignation. She was onto me, even in her sleep.

'Gee, what does that number '70' on the sign there mean?'

It was the speed limit sign.

'Oh, how interesting,' The Diplomat said, looking at me sideways.

Another classic save, mom.

I kept my mouth shut and kept The Diplomat happy.