24 hours in Sydney

Ah, traveling. How I've missed you.

I recently had the opportunity to hop down to Sydney for a day and night. Sydney's pretty close to Brisbane - I think the flight is an hour and a bit - but you can taste the difference in the air. And feel it (I actually got to wear a light jacket! Glorious!).

I've been to Sydney before and have to say that, while I enjoyed it, I found the atmosphere a little... dare I say it... snooty. OK Sydney, we get it - you're fabulous. No need to get all pretentious about it. So it was nice to have another pass at this sunny, beautiful city and come away with a better impression.

I went to a restaurant called Bodega, a tapas bar tucked away from the water. When the cabbie pulled into a dark, pedestrian-looking street I was a little concerned about this restaurant's dodgy-factor, but I needn't have been. The place was high quality without that 'look at me I'm so pretty' vibe I've come to associate with stylish Sydney restaurants. The place was tiny, vibrant, full of colour and laughter. We sat at the bar and had the best Spanish wine I've ever tasted (and that now I can't remember the name of, damn me). We watched the pierced, waxed and tattooed staff do things to fish and chicken I've never seen done before in giant cast iron pans. We ate massive oysters, fancy fish fingers, and succulent spatchcock that fell off the bone. For dessert, we had affogatos. I can't emphasize how in love with this dessert I am. Creamy vanilla ice cream smothered with a shot of espresso and another of port? I'm appalled that I haven't discovered this before.

The next day I wandered the city on foot, visiting all those very Sydney icons and watching people go about their business. I braved the steely skies and took a walk through St James Park, where a man was making massive bubbles big enough to fit a group of schoolchildren in.

I walked through the Botanic Gardens, which are extensive and lovely and filled with funny-looking birds and bats that hang from tree limbs like giant seed pods.

(Batlets!) -->

I laughed when I saw an actual sign that read: 'Don't feed the birds, they bite' as it exactly described my Dad's very first day in Sydney. Yes, Dad. The signs ARE there for a reason.

I walked Sydney Harbour and around the base of the Sydney Harbour Bridge. I took a stroll around The Rocks, a historic town section around the harbour, which had a farmer's market on. I treated myself to a fancy lunch at a wine bar.

I had another affogato and I did not regret it.

(Historic Governor's House)

(Sydney Harbour Bridge from the Opera House)

(SHB from the edge of The Rocks)

(The Opera House)

(Me, happy)

There's nothing like a day away to brighten the spirits and make you feel like you're actually living. Thanks, Sydney - I needed that.

Characters That Bite

This lovely post by my best friend Eve got me all kinds of excited about TrueBlood. Not that it's out in Australia or anything: no, we're the last kid picked for the HBO series team. I love what Alan Ball has done with the Sookie Stackhouse series; the show, and the novels that inspired them, were the fantastical fluff that got me through my last semester of grad school. I just finished book #10 in the series and was struck, once again, by the kind of loyalty certain characters can inspire. It fascinates me that you can actually say to someone "Team Bill or Eric?" and have them nod sagely and give you an actual answer.

Say what you will about Charlaine Harris or Stephanie Meyer, you can't deny that they've created characters that almost literally jump from the page and into the waiting arms of their many many fans.

So what it is about these characters (OK, besides the blatantly obvious) that inspires so much fervor? What is it about any fictional character that makes them feel tangible, even lovable? What makes us cry for them, laugh with them, want to throw food at them (or eat it off of them)? For me, it's always about their voice. I'm nothing like Harris's Sookie - in fact, she drives me crazy half of the time - but I love experiencing the world through her particular voice. I can feel her attitude in every word she says, so much so that it makes her feel familiar. I'd love to create characters like that, ones that make you want to reach out and touch them.

Until then, I'll borrow this one.

Reverence, Respect & Mauling

In Anne Fadiman's book Ex Libris, a fabulous ode to book nerds the world over, she discusses the different ways in which we treat our books. Fadiman wisely surmises that "... just as there is more than one way to love a person, so there is more than one way to love a book". The way she sees it, there's 'courtly love' and 'carnal love'- and which the book lover practices can say more than one thing about them.

I found myself fascinated by her articulation of a thing I've thought about for years. It's interesting to me how people treat their books and how adamant they are about the right way to love literature. One of the authors at work- definitely a courtly lover- admitted to me that she hates writing in books, so much so that she didn't want to mark in a copy of her own book. I'd say that's an old-fashioned feeling- books are hallowed, keep them clean- but I've known many an older reader who beat their most loved books into submission. My grandfather lived by his books, and he wrote in his (with a pencil). Granted, he only put tiny tick marks next to paragraphs, a pretty minimalist legacy to leave behind. Reading past his tick marks is like becoming a detective: why did he mark that part? What was it that made him slow down and make note?

It seems to me like every reader has their own cringe-worthy feelings about a certain book marking vice. There are those who think writing in a book is a huge bookkeeping sin.

Then there are those people who want to cry when they see a book laid open and face down instead of using a book mark. I've never much cared about leaving books laid open, but a broken spine is a tough pill for me to swallow.

Then there are those people (I'll say right now that I DO NOT get you) that won't buy second-hand books because they are 'dirty'. You know what else is dirty? Money. Treadmills. Door knobs. Your car seat probably has a higher probability of giving you somebody's cooties. And isn't there something great about a book with a history? One that you know has been in someone else's hands, has passed through somebody else's life? Plus they are savers of trees. So get over yourself.

I'm a carnal lover of books (shocking, I know). I tend to devour them, underline them, sometimes (often) stain them. That, plus my frighteningly acute power of losing book marks (even while lying supine and still), means that dog-earring is sometimes a necessity. But ever since I watched Finding Forester, I've had conflicted feelings about dog-earring a page. I can understand why someone would find dog earring offensive... but isn't it better to see that a book has been consumed?

All of this nerdy musing leaves me wondering: can you tell the level of love a book has experienced by its condition? By looking at how someone treats their books, can you learn anything interesting about them that you wouldn't have known otherwise?

I went to my own bookshelf to investigate.

Most of my books are still State side, so I've got a limited sample size. That said, here are some of my findings from books I picked (somewhat) at random:

St Lucy's Home For Girls Raised by Wolves (loved it): browned, water wrinkled, and written in. Still has the price tag on from Politics & Prose (bought 12/7 of an unknown year), which makes my heart squeeze.

Confederates in the Attic (loved it): Holding up well, but a little dirty around the edges. It still smells like the bookstore at the Antietam battlefield. Makes me think of fall and of my Dad.

Down Under (loved it): Wow. I just found my ticket stub from my flight from Paris to Dubai in this book- one of the flights on my first long journey to Australia. I can tell I had this book while in 'Europe' mode- it is yellow, beaten, tired-looking and proud of it.

Watership Down (loved it): scratched and a bit weather beaten, but still in pretty good shape. I found a bus slip in it from grad school days. Spine still very much unbroken.

Mudbound (loved it): spine broken (damn), and bottom corner stained, probably because I loved it so much I loaned it to three people and keep on my desk (where I often eat [spill] breakfast and writing snacks).

Conclusions?

1. I have not made a habit of keeping books I've only sorta liked since coming to Australia.

2. I can tell which books are from which eras of my life. Dog eared and written in profusely= high school falling-in-love-with-literature era. Sun damaged from sitting on a windowsill/dented from holding up a bed= frantic, boisterous college era. Filled with memorabilia but otherwise treated with some semblance of respect= big girl era. All have been ravaged. Just in different ways.

3. My books are a time machine through which I can revisit the time when I bought them and read them. That's pretty nice.

4. The only books of mine that look pristine are the ones I haven't read yet.

Inconclusive findings, but interesting (to me, anyway). So what's your book handling philosophy?

All I Want For Christmas...

There are scores of reasons to love December. There are parties and mittens and slippers with bells. There are nine million semi-legitimate excuses to indulge in chocolate desserts. It's a time of enjoyment, of merriment- of giving.

And then, there's the receiving. December is the only time of year that I get given BOOKS.

Let's face it- I've cursed myself. My obsession with books, which borders on reverence, is so well known by friends and family that they are terrified to give me any. They argue that A) my tastes are so 'refined' that they think I won't like what they pick out, and B) that chances are if it's good, I'll already have read it.

To which I say: what rubbish.

First, I like to think that my tastes are rather varied. Literary classics and Sookie Stackhouse ain't the only things I read. Give me speculative, historical, literary, mystery, doesn't matter: if you loved it, then I'm excited to try it. And as for fearing I've already read it? I have two words for you. Shelfari and Amazon. My wish lists will show you which books I'm drooling over. Consider it a cheat sheet that you're allowed- nay, encouraged- to use.

Lists aside... I probably haven't read it. Because there is SO MUCH out there. If I had a thousand lifetimes, I couldn't get to all the 'good stuff' on those bookstore shelves. I wish they'd hurry up and figure out regeneration so I could have a few more years just to read more of what's out there. There I books I stumble upon that I am amazed I didn't know about before. Again, if you loved it enough to want to share it, then chances are you're giving me a really thoughtful gift.

In fact, Dad and I reconnected through the giving of books. Every year, Dad would research new releases, scanning BookWorld clippings and online reviews for reads he thought I would like. I'd drive through the deserted Christmas morning streets knowing the treasures that awaited me under the tree. Dad would pile them on my lap, each one beautifully wrapped and waiting. As each one was unveiled, he'd tell me why he picked it out as I caressed their covers and read their jackets. In this way, he gave me some of the great books of my life. That's not to say I loved them all, but I loved the ritual through which they were chosen. Each book formed a small connection, a brick in the ever-growing foundation of him plus me.

That's what I really crave for Christmas: to pick up that hefty rectangular present that bends just slightly between your hands. Knowing that the thing waiting beneath the shiny paper could give me pleasure, make me think, ignite my passion, maybe even change my life.

Bring on the giving season!