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.

Oaxacan on Sunshine

Some people have asked me if my year around the world is really a metaphor for a personal journey to the far reaches of my soul. Anyone who knows me, knows I lack the patience for that level of introspection. I'm not reading Dostoyevsky, Kerouac or anything sponsored by Oprah this year. Who wants to sit around and self-obsess when you can self-medicate with a frosty cerveza in the sun?

So, what am I doing? I'm taking a year off to see the world. Some of you may already know about my trip. In fact, it's been converted into a major motion picture starring Julia Roberts currently playing in theaters across the country. But in case we've been out of touch, you should know I'm now a 30-year-old woman with no job, no apartment, no car, no boyfriend and so far, no regrets.

My first stop is Mexico, where I arrived in Oaxaca City last week and enrolled in a Spanish school to prepare myself for the upcoming months in South America. The school placed me not in the beginner's class, but in the second level after leaving 90% of the placement exam blank, and flunking 95% of what I did fill out. Apparently they have a lot more faith in my potential, but I mainly got stuck with the smarties after boasting I had taken Italian in college. I didn't think it was prudent to mention my straight C average in said Italian classes, so now I get to attempt sentence writing and conversation with classmates who have vastly greater knowledge of grammar, structure, vocabulary and all other skills necessary to learn a foreign language.

I fear my long-suffering teacher, Ita - who has the patience of the Buddha and fabulously groomed eyebrows framed by posh Burberry spectacles - will soon realize I am a dolt and put me with the kiddies class. At her first read-through of my attempt to write a dialogue, I watched with trepidation as her left eyebrow began to quiver:

Would you like you us to watch acrobats on air with me?
Maybe, but no I you like humans levitation presentation.
Taller?
I think the circuses is but for the animals.
This thing event no to have the only body of the humans dead.
Kindness.

Based on my performance the first week, I'd like to think I can't get any worse. However, when I close my eyes at night, I see Ita's brows ticking up and down with pity. Perhaps I should take a personal journey to the depths of my underachievement in all formal language training. My Spanglish, however, has never been better:

Do you habla the Pepto Bismol? Is it cheapo?

That thing! I amored it!

I am el vaca de las oraciones (I am the cow of sentences)

Luckily, people in Mexico are very gracious. And very religious. I've realized it's hard to be godless in this country - everybody wants you to pick a side. Last week the park had a festival that included a lot of live music. My favorite was a band of teenagers covering Nirvana, the White Stripes and Metallica with aplomb (ok, the 14-year-old girl singer was unconvincing as Ozzy Osbourne). The best part was when they turned up their amp when the Christian Evangelists stated singing - in English - about 50 feet away. With a snappy hook and half an orchestra, including strings, horns, drums and a synthesizer primarily utilized for it's 'crashing thunder' effect at the crescendo of ballads, they sang their little blonde-haired, blue-eyed souls out. My otherwise discreet lunch spot turned into Jesus Disco vs. Death Metal, both in competition with festival booths of selling raw beef, Chinese-made cell phone accoutrements and illegally copied CDs of Olivia Newton John's Greates Hits.

It was fabulous and noisome all in one go. I didn't know who to listen to, so I left for salsa class and didn't pick a side.

As part of my life dream to be on America's Ballroom Challenge in magenta heels, a fringe dress with sparkles commingling with sequins, and a severe side parting, I've started taking salsa classes at the school. Four days a week, it's me and a gaggle of mostly Americans following the lead of our teacher who has infinite patience and marvelous biceps. He used to dance with the folk ballet, but I can picture him doing greater things in life as my partner on ABC. We dance in our tennis shoes in the school's courtyard each evening when the clouds roll in and the Oaxacan sprinkles sometimes make the turns more exciting. It's all very Dirty Dancing and our maestro - whom hereinto I shall refer to as Guns - is very Patrick Swayze, but in track pants and a one-size-too-small soccer jersey.

Obviously, I never skip dance class.

All of us girls have a little crush on Guns. We went out one night as a big gaggle of gringas to a salsa club called La Candela, which, in my agnostic opinion, is the Holy Grail of salsa in Oaxaca. The dance floor is in the middle of candlelit tables arranged to face the live band pouring Latin life into merengues, salsas, cumbias and the odd bachata. If you don't know what those are, just imagine a lot of hip-shaking and you're pretty much there.

All the ladies from my class danced and goofed around until... Guns arrived. Then we sobered up, tried to play it cool. The gentleman he is, Guns took each of his students out for a turn on the floor and we lost it. Squealing with delight, we huddled together with abject glee and traded all our maturity as educated, independent, globe-trekking sophisticates to become 12-year-old Justin Beiber groupies. Guns is our Justin Beiber. La Candela is our Casablanca. And that night I proclaimed - remarkably only after one glass of wine - that I was born to dance the salsa!

My illusions of grandeur precede me and I believe I will never live that statement down until I leave this country.