Today I went with my new friend Martyn, a Brit who on Monday took his first plane ride ever — from Heathrow to here. (Martyn doesn’t like to go halfway.) We did a walking tour over the Bridge, around the House, through the Botanical Gardens and to grandmother’s house some other spots around the city. Then we went to the Sydney Aquarium, where I snapped the shot above.

It’s an atypical time for the aquarium, as the most popular exhibit isn’t of the 2.5m shark pictured above, but a 4cm clownfish that you could see in many a fish store.

The motivating force is Finding Nemo, and though it doesn’t even come out in Australia for another week, the aquarium has several Nemo-related items, including a large inflated Bruce the Shark right on top of the building.

But that doesn’t go far enough, at least if you agree with the Sydney Morning Herald. The Herald believes that the movie should have been used not only to drive “Sydney-siders” to the aquarium, but even inspire tourists to holiday here. It seems like a no-brainer: it’s the #1 film of the year, and Disney/Pixar has already given its blessing for use the film for tourism promotion.

Yet I haven’t seen a single tourism-related promotion.* Which is a shame, because people will go to Dyersville, for heaven’s sake.

* Meaning before I got here. Of course they could be running wall-to-wall “visit Australia and find Nemo!” commercials on Travel Channel right now, and I wouldn’t have any idea.

The weather was in the mid-50s today. So I decided to go to the beach.

OK, there was more to it: I had a A$42 weeklong “TravelPass” for the city transportation system and wanted to get in at least one ferry ride, the weather be damned. I chose nearby Manly because it was a “world famous,” easily accessible beach. And a direct ferry ride.

As the (quite posh) ferry pulled into the Manly Wharf* I saw a small strip of beach and thought, “Well, that’s a bit of crap, really. Surely there has to be more than that.” And of course there was: a short walk up the Corso and I was at a right glorious stretch of sand. Were it not for the chilly air, I might have dashed directly into the surf.

These guys clearly had the same thought, minus the wussy it’s-too-cold part:

Of course they (and the several other surfers, out of frame) did have the advantage of wetsuits. And I have no idea what they did an hour later when the wind and cloud cooperated to whip up a rather impressive rain, but I know I was comfortably ensconced in a café with a mug of hot beverage.

Beats a wetsuit every time.

* Loads of amusing juxtapositions abound in Manly, such as Manly Grocer, Manly Thai Cuisine…

I’ve seen a wide variety of “street performers” in Chicago and elsewhere, including those “statue” guys who just stand still. But this is the first time I’ve seen a donkey (note the shoes on the rear “legs.”)

Seemed to be working out for the guy. In the high-traffic area (Circular Quay, right up by the Bridge and the House), there seemed to be some kid squealing over the “donkey” at least once per minute.

It would take more than that to get me to spend my day on all fours.

I’ve been in Australia 5 days. Seems like it’s time for a film, right?

I selected the most recent offering from the director of Ratcatcher, and then discovered the theater was located in one of the ‘burbs.

Now, Sydney has several transporation options, which include Monorail (useless), LightRail (only for western suburbs), CityRail (think Metra), ferries, and buses. This theater was in Newtown, so only CityRail and buses were feasible. For me, that’s no choice at all. I really dislike the whole “ring for your stop” process, predicated as it is upon knowing where your stop is. I find the predictable nature of trains much more appealing.

So I bought my CityRail ticket from a lovely little kiosk, inserted it into the gate, and was promptly inside Sydney Central. There were plenty of platforms, replete with screens to tell you all about each train: where it stopped, how many cars it had, when it was arriving, leaving, etc.

Thing was, the monitor for my particular line was dark. I stared at it for awhile before I realized that a flyer a foot or so down announced that track work meant all traffic was being shunted to, you guessed it: buses.

And that is how I got to see not only my first film in Australia, but also my first bus with a complete cash register strapped right in.

Oh, and also my first man wearing a carabiner as an earring. And my first lesbian couple (quickly followed by my second and third.) And my first “socialism is not anarchism” flyer…

Turns out Newtown is quite an interesting little place.

I’m not sure what they call it, but it seems to be Sydney’s answer to the El Camino: not high enough to qualify as a pick-up, not short enough to qualify as a car.

Took a little cruise. Turns out they have a bridge here.

If you’re embarassingly addicted to film — and you like to keep current — Australia may not be the place for you.

Now don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty of stuff that I found interesting…six months ago when it first came out.

For example, here’s what’s playing in a theater I walk by often:

• Identity
• Narc
• Tears of the Sun
• Down With Love

My first roommate was called Paul, a 28yo Parisian French teacher who likes well-traveled Americans, saying he finds them “more interesting.” (I neglected to ask him “more interesting than what?”)

Paul and I discussed language and movies. He noted Amélie has many puns in it that don’t get translated, and I shared a few examples of films where I knew the subtitles weren’t conveying the full dialogue. Still, Paul said he thought American movies were an excellent way to learn English.

He had an example, but he couldn’t remember its name. “It had a lot of this,” he said, making a motion as if he was firing a machine gun. I winced in embarassment, as that alone did not help me to narrow down its title. Also, it had Lucy Liu, he added.

“Charlie’s Angels, perhaps?” I asked. No, that wasn’t it. It also had Antonio Banderas.

“Oh, Paul,” I said, truly pitying him. “You saw Ecks vs. Sever?”

Slip, Slop, Slap. Australia’s cancer rate astounds: at least 1 in 3 Australians get it in their lifetime. (Of 3 employees at the IEP office I casually spoke with, 2 had skin cancer removed. Both were under 30.) The Government tries to combat this trend with a campaign it calls “Slip, Slop, Slap”: Slip on a shirt, Slop on some sunscreen, Slap on a hat.

Emergency dialing. The number for emergencies in Australia is triple zero (000). Americans need not be troubled to remember this, Nikki explained, because 911 works as well. The reason: imported American TV, from Rescue 911 through to the soaps (“She’s not breathing! Quick, Rocco, call 911!”) means Australian youth are similarly indoctrinated with our number…

Visa limitations. I’ve been issued a 4 month “Working Holidaymaker” visa, the shortest duration among the groups IEP administers; Canadians, Danes, and Germans are all given 12 month visas (albeit with a requirement that they switch jobs every 3 months.) This lack of parity seems a tad unfair until one realizes what the USA offers Australian youth: a 4 month visa, for current full-time students only, to work exclusively at summer camps. Recently the visa was further restricted to allow participants to enroll just once per lifetime. As staffmember Tim explained it, “The USA is the hardest country to get into. They give us 40,000 slots a year but we can only fill 7,000 because the requirements are so strict.”

My first glimpse at Sydney was… another line. Our 7:30 arrival was through a bunch of cloud, so I didn’t see much until we were in the funnel on our way to Customs.

My first thought was that the Australians are serious about plants. Every hundred meters or so there was a large picture of several foods and plants and a message to declare it for quarantine or throw it out in the bin below the photo. One question on the customs sheet asked if we were bringing food of any kind (“cooked or uncooked.”)

As it turned out, I was bringing some food: three rolls, two brownies, some chocolate chip cookies, and a new bag of Double Stuf Oreos. I dutifully checked the “yes” on the sheet and was told to go through the “Goods to Declare” line.

There the woman was far more interested in my large pack. Was I bringing camping gear? Haha, no. Shoes? Yes. Any dirt on ’em? Nahh. Fine. The food’s fine. Welcome to Australia.

And with that, I stepped out for my first look at the country that would be my home for the rest of the year…

It’s important to note at this point that the longest single flight I’d endured thus far in my life was the 8.5hr Chicago to London journey, and that seemed endless. Hell, the flight to Vegas I took earlier this year seemed long, and that was only 4. So it would be fair to say I looked toward the 15 hours to Sydney with dread.

Compounding this was my near total inability to sleep on planes (or other moving vehicles, for that matter.) My only hope was that the flight would be fairly empty, so I could spread out and possibly sleep. As I dragged my (way over weight limit) carry-on aboard, I saw this was no to be. I was in row 73 of 75 (of course) and as I progressed deep into the plane, I didn’t see any nice openings.

Just before departure, though, the three seats to my right were empty. Was I about to luck out? I looked at each new boarding passenger with apprehension. Was that guy going to sit next to me? Please, not the woman with 3 kids! (Nope, row 74.)

As it turned out, one guy did sit down, but on the far right, so I was able to at least spread out over two seats (he did the same.) This was doubly lucky, as the flight attendant revealed: my no-show had even ordered a special meal.

Even with two seats, it was some slow going. Obviously thousands of miles separate the States and Sydney, and the QANTAS in-flight entertainment system happily shows you each one (on channel MAP, natch.) The effect of watching the little electronic plane make its way along the little electronic line is something akin to watching the slowest Internet download ever — and you can’t get away from the computer.

Of course, there were other things to watch, including 7 movies I’d either seen or skipped, various TV programs (apparently everybody really does love Raymond) and even Tetris.

It all helped for a little while, but it was still 15 freakin’ hours.

So this is where all the bad luck was hiding.

First there was the completely disorienting way the place was laid out. Then the long wait for a QANTAS rep. (For a long time, it seemed the line wasn’t actually advancing, it was just compressing.) When I finally got face time, I was able to move from a window to an aisle, but no exit row.

No exit, either, from the HUGE line for security — easily a city block or more — in which I quoted Napoleon, thanks to Gludt: when a woman with a “Bonds Trader Association” luggage tag and her husband breezed past the line, I called out, “What’s your secret?” She at least had the grace to look slightly embarassed when she replied, “Oh, we’re first class.” To her (by then rapidly departing) back, I said “You know, Napoleon said that religion is what keeps the poor people from killing the rich.”

The people in front of me gave me a look and pulled their children closer.

Once I made it past the TSA, I was in a special island away from competitive pricing. To wit: care for a medium drink at Burger King, the only place open at that hour? That’ll be $1.99. Perhaps an AT&T calling card for your trip? How’s 40 minutes for $20 grab ya?

It was another world, and there was nothing to do but hunker down and wait for the gate call.

The flight over was actually rather nice. I was seated on the aisle of an exit row, where I met Casey, a dual JD/MBA candidate from Notre Dame. Casey (a 6’5″ fellow) and I commiserated over our difficulty in finding clothes.

Then the flight attendant came over and asked if I’d like to move up a row, where there was even more space. I took the opportunity, and soon I was seated next to Nick, an ATA pilot who would “fly this aircraft back.”

Nick and I discussed a bunch of things, including LASIK surgery, the state of the pilots’ union, corporate scandals, and the best place to buy RAM.

At one point Nick was otherwise engaged, so I read Tuesdays with Morrie in a single sitting (of which I had a copy courtesy Casey.)

If it all sounds rather boring, well, it was… but at least I was mildly entertained for the 4.5 hours I was in that particular plane.

Clearly, the worst was yet to come.

At Midway, my luck continued. Flight 793, the plane to LAX immediately preceding mine, had been AWOL for hours and there are some very pissed off passengers. My flight? On time.

With some time to kill, I stopped at a place called “Manny’s” and grabbed a sandwich. The guy behind me was wearing a shirt that read “Vietnam: We were always right.™” I remember thinking I didn’t mind the idea of leaving the country so much.

As we queued to board the plane, there was an announcement that “government-issued ID is no longer required at the boarding door.” I’m wondering: why not?

The flight over was uneventful (and mercifully short.) My “exit row” was not such a big deal, given the Saab 340 (you bet I read the safety cards!) was just 3 seats wide. About the only thing I remember about the flight was that the attendant put in earplugs about halfway through. Given the noise in those turboprops, I wouldn’t have minded some…