Noo Zealand.

No, do not fear. I have not fallen prey to the unfortunate misspellings of the obvious that so plague my Australia Now T.A. I've merely chosen to alter the spelling of New Zealand in this title to give due precedence, consideration, and thanks to one of my dearest and most revered best friends, Susanna Beien. She is affectionately known amongst inner circles as Noonie, and her long-standing moniker has myriad variations, similar to my Flo and its offspring-hence, the reason for which I could not resist the necessary 'Noo' play on words in entitling this blog.

Nevermind that I willingly added two days to my truancy record at uni and nevermind that I got to cross country #18 off of my list-to be reunited with a first familiar face in two months...to be reunited with my other half for the first time since December 17, 2009-these were reasons enough to get on a 6am flight for Dunedin, New Zealand on March 30th. The thrills and the beauty of the commencing seven days were just the cherries on top to the already perfect delight of being with Noonie again.

I cannot possibly contain the splendor of New Zealand's South Island in this blog entry; no more can I reach through the air waves to physically goad you toward the airline counter to purchase your own ticket right this moment. I only hope that through this post you will please take my fervent advice to visit the world's well-kept secrets that are patiently awaiting you in the south pacific. New Zealand is the yin to Australia's yang. Aussie's arid, brown, rugged landscape is beautiful in its own shocking, disruptive way. After two months in Melbourne' s metropolitan jungle, New Zealand's kelly green forests, soft hills, and sparkling turquoise waters sure alter your schema a little bit. As a country, she is so delicately beautiful-I truly spent my too short seven days challenging my eyes, my memory, to absorb every minutia of her magic.

Throughout our first four days together, we sated ourselves with all that her college town of Dunedin had to offer: a trip to the remarkable Tunnel Beach, attendance to a few of her classes at the University of Otago, the Cadbury Chocolate Factory Tour, Baldwin Street (truly, the world's steepest recorded street!), and much more. On Friday April 2nd, we commenced on our road trip, much to my parents' deep chagrin and apprehension (their feelings I understood-not many people would trust and encourage two twenty-something girls to manage their own car...in a foreign country...on the left side of the road...for four days...). We picked our car up from JACKIE'S (the irony was not lost on me!! If you are confused and would appreciate an explanation, please promptly YouTube 'Jackie and Debra') and, after responsibly agreeing to pay for the extra insurance plan, we headed for Queenstown at a cool 100 km/h pace. Our car was a hideous "bluebird" Nissan and our navigation system was directly named Bertha. Although we were often scolded by Bertha's ability to gauge the speed at which we were going against the true speed limit, her adept navigation abilities did bring us safely and soundly around the south island to Queenstown, Wanaka, and Milford Sound.

It would be truly tedious to recount all of the adventures, the laughs, the incredible sights that we experienced over our four days of driving. Don't shake your head at your screen and tell me that that is the point of a blog, to fully detail all events and all anomalies while abroad. This I know, but I'm lacking in both sleep and patience at the moment-and as I've noted above, I cannot sincerely share these memories and sights with you-you may only see these incredible things for yourselves. Let me just say this: if you ever do find yourself appropriately situated at Jackie's in Dunedin, ready to embark on your very own Kiwi road trip, do not miss walking around Lake Wanaka, visiting the Ice Bar and Sky Gondola in Queenstown, Fiordland National Park, a three hour hike up Key Summit, and The Chasm and a boat ride through the fjords of Milford Sound.

More and most importantly, only do said things with a best friend and enjoy the blessing and privilege of seeing such a special part of the world :)

A most distressing preoccupation.

I’ve been actively applying wrinkle cream since the age of probably thirteen. Most people I tell this to respond in astonishment; they are incredulous, and their first words are usually “But you don’t have any wrinkles!” Exactly, genius. I don’t have wrinkles, I wear wrinkle cream. You have wrinkles, you laugh at me for wearing wrinkle cream. You do the math. As far as I’m concerned, it’s their loss they don’t understand the power of retinol and green tea to ward off premature crows’ feet, and they’ll come crying to me in twenty years when the irreversible damage needs any help it can get from my non-professional dermatological opinion. It often comes as an affront to people when I tell them to stop raising their eyebrows in wonder (sometimes I even reach across the table and physically push the furrow out of their brows), as it will lead inevitably to forehead creases, and nobody wants to look forever inquisitive-or maybe that’s just me.

My mad dash to protect myself from the inevitable, although currently (and thankfully) non-visible age process, is not all that my fear of age entails. Besides the physical manifestation of age, I am afraid of the philosophical implications of aging too, and I fear the passage of time (as it always seems to move too quickly). As my 21^st approaches in approximately a week, the last birthday with any legitimately exciting connotations in America (besides 25, I suppose, when you can rent a car, finally, after a whopping nine years of driving experience) will be over, along with my “youth.” With drinking abilities, there is not much America can deny me anymore. This, to me, is a sign of growing up—leaving behind the days when people, and the law, can tell you “no,” because you’re not old enough. So what happens now that I’m “old” enough? Where do I go from here, what is there to look forward to, what age am I anticipating now? What excitement comes next? As far as I can see, none, in terms of age.

I celebrated 15 getting confirmed on a Palm Sunday with Allison Pomerantz, 16 in Mexico with Mom, 17 and 18 home alone (the latter involved a broken ankle and twin peritonsilar abscesses), 19 at Disney World, and 20 on Hilton Head Island. At each of these landmarks, I could be heard saying things such as “I can drive!”, “This is my last year as a child!”, “This is my first year as an adult!”, “This is my last year as a teenager!”, “This is the first year of my third decade of life!”—preoccupation at its most obsessive and analytical. Why didn’t someone tell me to just take a chill pill, to loosen up on the associations of age and rather just enjoy the age itself? Side note: on at least three of these birthdays, I can recollect having received some sort of wrinkle prevention cream (legitimately, thanks Mom for endorsing my obsession). Kirsten’s 29^th birthday is forthcoming on April 14^th. Although my siblings and parents are probably as yet unaware of this (I, of course, have had it long considered), this is the last birthday in our family that will find the four of us “kids” as twenty-somethings, the last time in all of our lives that we’ll all be in a place of physical vitality and an avant-garde cultural mentality that so defines this decade of our lives. Is it so wrong of me to want to rewind to 1999, the last year we all lived together on Scio Church Road, when we were kids?

So yes, blah blah blah, I know it is fantastically exciting to have the privilege of spending my 21^st in Australia, amidst a culture of partygoers and perpetual cheer. But what if I don’t want to celebrate my 21^st at all? Yes, it will be fun to finally be a “big kid” when I return home in June, but after that? After the excitement wears down, will there be an age worth looking forward to, or is it merely dreadful from here on out? It seems like defeat, reaching the ever-anticipated American age, and realizing that it was a trick: there’s nothing anticipation-worthy from here on out, so at least now you can have a drink to drown your aging sorrows. Oscar Wilde once wrote: “We never get back our youth. The pulse of joy that beats in us at twenty, becomes sluggish. Our limbs fail, our senses rot. We degenerate into hideous puppets, haunted by the memory of the passions of which we were too much afraid, and the exquisite temptations that we had not the courage to yield to. Youth! Youth! There is absolutely nothing in the world but youth!” I wholly agree with his Peter Pan mentality-I don’t want my twenty-something pulse of joy to ever disappear. I know that I can retain this mentality philosophically speaking, but is it so wrong to want time to just stop in its tracks, to give me a few more years to enjoy this time of life, perhaps to rewind just a little bit and live some of it over again, before an onslaught of responsibility appears as I walk across the stage in May 2011 (hopefully)?

You guys probably all think I’m crazy. You’re saying, “Megan, loosen UP. 21 is not that much different than 20. There are 9 more years until you need to even begin worrying about “old age” and saying goodbye to the popularly considered age of youth” (sorry, Kir...). That’s not much of a consolation, though, and I’m afraid I’ll always be a bit more distressed about the passage of time and the presence of wrinkles than any other lucky twentysomething who is free from these worries. Call it a quirk, chalk it up to individuality, but this preoccupation probably isn’t going anywhere anytime soon, as it’s been weighing on my mind since that 15^th birthday on Palm Sunday so long ago.

Everyone keeps telling me to have the time of my life, that my time here will fly by, that I only get a semester abroad once. They’re right, they’re entirely right. If they were here instead, that’d probably be much more easily accepted than it is for me. I’m trying; I do live every day trying to make this the best possible experience for myself. I guess all I can do on the eve of my 21^st here in Australia is to slap on some extra eye cream and go out and make this one count. Oscar Wilde was also correct when he wrote: “Don’t be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for you. This is merely the beginning.”

Only if you want to will you seize the day.

Impulses are interesting things. We all have them. Whether it’s reaching for the extra (unnecessary) cookie, wanting that new pair of jeans (guilty as charged), or feeling your heart beat increase spontaneously at the sight of a long absent friend, we make these decisions and feel the repercussions of our impulses for better or worse. My trip to Sydney this past weekend was full of impulsiveness at its best. It may have been a bit impulsive to book our flights and hostel a mere 36 hours before our 4:00 am departure from College Crescent, but Kelly, Maddie, and I set out nonetheless to the unknown land of New South Wales, Australia that fateful Friday morning.

I think it is safe to assume that all of us passed through elementary school with images of outstanding international architectural feats shoved in our faces as often as Oreos. The Great Pyramids, the Colosseum, the Eiffel Tower-we know them all by sight, whether we have visited them personally or not. Sydney Opera House, anyone? Upon arrival and check-in to perhaps the worst temporary home we could have chosen (for future reference, for your own sake, never, under any circumstance, choose willingly to stay at Harbor City Backpackers Hostel), we wistfully wandered Sydney’s Royal Botanic Gardens, taking paths winding through a horticultural heaven toward the harbor and, at last, there it was-across the bay, the sail-like coves of the Opera House stood brilliantly under the dull sunlight. We were nearly stopped in our tracks with just one glance at the opaline domes. And such was our weekend-a series of adventures neatly folded around a continual staring contest with the Sydney Harbor in all of its glory. This first walk around the Harbor led to my impulsive booking of a solo Bridge Climb and an activity tour of the surrounding Blue Mountains for our traveling trio.

On Saturday morning, despite suffering the nervous consequences of my impulsive decision from the day before, I ventured all by my lonesome to 3 Cumberland Road, The Rocks, to begin my Bridge Climb. While Maddie and Kelly headed to Mosman Bay, I climbed endless ladders and steel steps to reach the pinnacle of Sydney sightseeing. Despite two instances of overwhelming wariness (mesh catwalks which loom perilously 400 feet over open water), I am endlessly proud of myself for overcoming my long-lasting fear of heights. Having climbed alone, I was able to stand at the true “top” of Sydney, looking out upon the various nooks and crannies of the metropolis, feeling a sense of selfish pride for having the view all to myself, as a result of my own effort and confidence.

Monday took us deep into the heart of the Blue Mountains, named for the tint given off by the evaporation of eucalyptus oil emanating from the trees and meeting the sunlight. We booked the tour not knowing what we were getting ourselves into, not really having any expectations for the perfect day it was to become. Impulse again, and thank god for it. We saw Jameson valley, Wentworth Falls, Katoomba Falls, the Three Sisters (aboriginal rock formation), the mountain town of Leura; we rode the steepest railway in the southern hemisphere, as well as a glass-bottomed cable car across the valley, and saw the site of the 2000 Sydney Olympics; we petted koalas and kangaroos and learned the proper way to throw a boomerang. Such incomparably thrilling things were shown to us that day and the three of us were endlessly thankful that we’d been willing to shell out the $88 to go on the tour into the unknown, which turned out to be the tour of a lifetime.

I can safely say that my sojourn to Sydney was a most impressionable time, if for the sole reason that I let my instincts, my impulses, guide me toward fearlessness-for the first time in my life, I took extraordinary risks and learned to reap the rewards of truly seizing the day and filling it with as much as my eyes could hold. I think the moral of the story is to chase those impulses, to trust them, to let them guide you-to reach those heights, hear those sounds, see those sights-and to be better for having trusted yourself.

It's a small world after all...

I attended Slauson Middle School in Ann Arbor from 2000-2003. I was chubby, brace-faced and, by that time, I was a pretty good-natured kid, having said farewell to my "Megan the Monster" days (for the most part...). In Ms. Turbin's 7th grade language arts class, I suddenly found myself sitting next to an international transfer student one day midway through the year. She was the classic 'new kid,' as I have been before in my life. She was soft-spoken, with a quick, big smile, wary, yet wondrous, of her new surroundings. Throughout that first day, I was to find out that Pavithira Kirupakaran was to be my classmate in Mr. Fuller's geography class and Mr. Bradley's chemistry class as well. The halls of Slauson became much more sophisticated that day with Pavi's presence. I think it is safe to say she was the most worldly peer I'd known at that stage in my life, claiming Malaysian ethnicity, yet having grown up in Melbourne, Saudi Arabia, and Los Angeles. I'm hoping that, at this stage in the post, a 'ding ding ding' is resounding and a metaphorical lightbulb has clicked itself brightly on above your head.

With that said, would you care to guess with whom I met for lunch this afternoon? Pavithira Kirupakaran. That's right, my long-lost 7th grade international acquaintance. Now, to be fair, she was not just an acquaintance all those years ago. In the year and a half that her family lived in Ann Arbor, Pavi and I actually became quite sweet friends. My 'elephant memory,' as Susie so often calls it, can reflect upon a snowy day when my mom brought Pavi and I to get peppermint mochas at the Starbucks on South University Avenue, and the long Sunday afternoon during which Pavi and I slaved over Mr. Bradley's worthless 'hot house' insulation project in the 8th grade. I even have photographic evidence of the farewell dinner that Tracy Richardson and I had with Pavi before her imminent return to her Melbournian home in November of 2002 (you'll be tickled to know that the dinner involved escargot at Cafe Felix..a tad extreme for our 8th grade sensibilities if you ask me). We kept in touch for about a year after her departure via our hysterically self-titled yahoo email accounts (which have since been deposed).

I lost touch with her for the ensuing five years, as higher education and some 10,000 miles served to distract us from the friendship we once shared. Nonetheless, and may I say with extreme gratitude extended to the Facebook team, I spent the entire afternoon with her: lunch at Pizzeria Il Bimbo (organic pizza? yes please!), shopping on Little Collins and Bourke streets, cruising the laneways for the best thrift shops and sushi stands, and capping off the evening with fanciful southern cocktails at Madame Brussells, a rooftop patio lounge that allows you to saunter ever so sweetly back to the days of tennis whites and fairy lights. Over some pitchers of delightful drinks (the names are a bit risqué for the blogging community, I'm afraid) mixed with grapes, mint leaves, and raspberries, we continued our epic "catch up session." I'm quite fond of the ironic notion that Pavi and I have reversed the roles that we once assumed at Slauson, so that while I'm here in Melbourne, I get to be intoduced as the foreign friend. All in all, I am lucky to have such a spectacularly fun and like-minded Melbournian friend for the next few months and, as always, I am ever pleased to have made another connection to prove how small our world really is.

Rugged Sarcasm.

Billy Madison has been singing through my cerebrum, “back to school, back to school, to prove to Dad that I’m not a fool...” Although it’s been a rude awakening (remembering how to take notes, to prepare for class, to engage in the readings), it has been nice returning to the world of the worthwhile. You must no longer envy my status as an aimless city wanderer, a beach frolicker, an out-to-eater, a pub-crawler. I am now an officially enrolled student at the University of Melbourne, the second oldest, very esteemed, university in Australia, and I’m back to contributing, in my own small way, to academia. Nonetheless, I bet Scuba Steve and Mother Mary are glad that I’m finally doing something legitimate with my time, rather than maintaining my status as a social glutton.

My first days of ‘uni’ have proved successful, if successful means effectively finding each of my lecture halls on time and following, for the most part, the entirety of the content despite the amplified Australian accents that professors gain through microphone usage. It’s been quite unique walking into lecture halls; hailing from a small, private, liberal arts university, I am unaccustomed to not recognizing each face and, hence, connecting each face with a name, a sport, a sorority, a judgment, a memory, some sense of familiarity.

The equally new phenomena of T.A.’s and tutorials bring me to explain the reason for which I’ve entitled this blog post “Rugged Sarcasm.” Please be forewarned that I’m saying this purely out of curiosity-I could not help but raise a challenge flag at what happened in my Australia Now tutorial this morning. Much to Maddie’s chagrin, I was genuinely flabbergasted (not disgusted, not being an elitist, simply taken aback, quite aback) when our T.A., a supposed Ph.D. candidate, could spell neither ‘rugged’ nor ‘sarcasm’ without the assistance of the class. So yes, I may have rolled my eyes, and yes, I may have scoffed a tiny bit, especially after the second offense occurred, but is it all that wrong to question someone’s authority and responsibility to teach you when they cannot spell two words that the general majority would consider easy, especially at the level of higher education? I’ve never had a T.A. before, so perhaps that is why I find such fault with what could have been a simple “brain fart” disrupting her Tuesday morning (thus disrupting MY Tuesday morning). Spelling curiosity aside, I am nonetheless looking forward to the fruits of Classical Mythology, Australia Now, Decadent Literature, and Genre and Popular Fiction. Be prepared to hear my upcoming literary suggestions, as my book list ranges from James’ The Spoils of Poynton, Sacher-Masoch’s Venus in Furs, and Huysmans’ Against Nature to (no authors necessary, you’ll see why) The Hobbit, The Silence of the Lambs, and The War of the Worlds. Happy reading and happy (correct) spelling!

Over-indulging in "O Week"

I’m usually quite refined, or at least I’d like to think so. All of you know me: I’m the planner, the safe kid, the early one. I’m the responsible 20 year-old (almost 21, despite its irrelevance here), the one who calls when I should, goes to (most) every class, eats healthy, and sends prompt birthday cards. “O Week” here at Janet Clarke Hall, though, has seemed to transform me into the type of 17 year-old Aussie “fresher” who has just arrived at Uni: eager, fresh-faced, and willing to please the upper-classmen. There’s just one problem: I am not a 17 year-old Australian child who has just been dropped off at JCH by Mum and Dad for their first week of college. I am a 20 (21!) year old American student, a third year in university at home...who has been treated like a 17 year old all week.

Popularly known as “O Week” (probably for legal reasons), this is merely a euphemism. Try “hazing,” try “hell,” try “a whole lot of obscene awkwardness” or perhaps try “the most grotesque fun I’ve ever had." As there are only two of us American students living in Janet Clarke Hall this semester, Shelly and I were required to go through the orientation (or initiation) into the college’s traditions by participating in O Week with all of the “freshers.” We were not given special status despite our third year level...in fact, Shelly and I are both OLDER than the leaders of O Week themselves. This age discrepancy made it more than difficult to comply when they demand we get down on our knees on a street corner outside of a pub, twirling fake lassos and shouting “YEEHAW!” O Week is meant to unite the incoming freshman class, to ban the barriers of awkwardness, to create hysterical and uncomfortable memories to serve as the building blocks of “fresher” fellowship for the next four years. The requirements of O Week are such things as serenading mannequins in busy shops, building human pyramids on the lawn of the State Library, stealing goods from fast food restaurants, begging outside of banks, waltzing with old men in bookstores, partaking in the compulsory and continuous chugging of myriad beverages, and the cherry on top: dancing our choreographed fresher dance to “Good Girls Go Bad” on the corner of Bourke and Swanston in central Melbourne. Of course, there are other (less illegal) activities for us to enjoy throughout the week, including a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream in the botanical gardens, Arvo (afternoon) tea on the rooftop, and ice skating.

All in all, it has been a spectacularly unique experience (although getting sprayed in the face with water guns for 30 minutes was less than ideal). I love my new Aussie friends despite the age gap-they are shockingly mature for their age, and I know it will be a great semester living with them here at JCH. I’m proud to say that I have successfully survived O Week thus far, although four more full days of proceedings are still upon me. The pub crawl tonight will be a true test of my strength (sorry Mom and Dad). Wish me luck!

Princes Park vs. Princess Suite

In a recent email, my sister Kirsten asked me if I’ve been learning anything on my “study” abroad sojourn thus far. That’s an interesting question, considering I’ve been on “Christmas Break” since December 17^th and, more recently in the past 11 days, on “summer vacation” in the southern hemisphere. Okay so maybe I haven’t been plowing through Tolstoy like I’d planned, and perhaps I’ve neglected to think any thoughts in Spanish for quite some time now. In fact, I may or may not have been actively avoiding any and all conversations with academic roots for a while. Is that a crime? Sue me.

I have, however, learned that riding a bike in Australia without a helmet is illegal (love it, Dad?); that I am a ‘vego’; that, although toilets do not, contrary to popular belief, flush the opposite way down here, locks, keys, latches, and doors all apply themselves in the opposite direction than I’m accustomed; that Aussies will never, under any circumstance, say “you’re welcome,” but only “hey, no worries!”; that I must always, always remember to look RIGHT (not left!) before crossing the street or I will certainly lift my foot to what is sure to be a painful, fatal death by motor vehicle sooner rather than later; that Princes Park is a perfect place to run four miles, but the Princess Suite IS a nicer place to sleep. I guess it would be a legitimate claim to say that this whole study abroad “thing” isn’t just about studying, but that learning happens unavoidably every time you set foot on that tram to explore the unknown.

More importantly, I have learned in eleven days that, with the shocking power and presence of anonymity comes immense pressure and potential. To be given the opportunity to recreate yourself entirely, in a new country, a new continent, a thriving metropolis, amidst 11,000 international exchange students, 30 IES students, 45,000 University of Melbourne students-how does one decide who to be, who to become? I have learned that I am faced with this decision, this self-questioning, every day as I inevitably meet more and more new faces. I wonder which of these faces will become a constant presence in my four remaining months here, and, subsequently, I wonder which faces will dissolve in my memory, like the vapor from this heat wave sizzling out of the black pavement. What is that quote, the one I have framed in the Princess Suite at home? “You don’t need to find yourself, you need to create yourself.” Something along those lines. Isn’t that a nice idea, that we don’t need to rely on endless soul-searching to “find” the person we are “supposed” to be-but, rather, we truly have the power, the anonymity that comes with each new day, each new face, each step onto a Yarra Tram, to define ourselves on our own terms, to learn ourselves inside and out, to learn about the person we want to be. Well, until next time, I guess I’ll be creating myself and learning about myself to the best of my ability during O-Week at Janet Clarke, and I suggest that you all go out and create yourselves today. How about it?