Even with a 17-hour time difference, I, devoted student that I am, dragged myself out of bed at the ass crack of dawn to register for my next semester’s classes. It’s been an ongoing email war I’ve had with the administration (who, to their credit have been as helpful as possible). I’m a second-term senior, which means I get to register for classes well before everyone else does, but it also means that, since I’m taking mostly electives and only a few required classes, I must liaise with multiple departments to procure multiple clearances and argue with degree progress that no I cannot fill that form out in person before my registration time as I’m several thousand kilometers away right now and not coming back anytime soon. Being a senior in my last term also means I get to take the most interesting classes the school has to offer in my educational autumn, thought it also means I finally learn that I cannot actually, contrary to what I’d been promised, finally enroll in all those cool classes due to hidden prerequisites, rejection from a programme, or my attendance in the wrong school college.

Nevertheless, even though I’ve had to give up my most cherished prospectuses (namely part two of my beloved sailing class and the motion capture class I’ve been looking forward to since I heard of its existence), I have managed to secure a number of what promises to be highly stimulating coursework of an usual and atypical nature in a student such as myself. Of course, they are almost all half-unit courses, so it seems I will be taking rather more of them than I had anticipated. Witness:

On the whole I am extremely excited by my schedule for the next semester; excited enough to overlook the disappointing fact that all my newfound subjects are taught in inconvenient night classes (since apparently all interesting courses must be, and somehow all must conflict). After what seems like ages of intellectual under-motivation I am internally grateful I have one more semester as a Trojan to take advantage of USC’s strange offerings, cinema and otherwise. On top of all this, I will be returning to KSCR, engaging in some classes at Scratch Academy, continuing my work with Angelingo, volunteering at the Korean Cultural Centre of Los Angeles so that I might begin to learn the language, and trying to get a job lined up for when I graduate. My plate will be a full one indeed, but a tasty one.

So 2008 was a globetrotting year; no surprises there. I spent some of it in America, some in Japan, and some in Australia. As I’m getting ready to leave Brisbane, I thought I ought to give a thorough report of the best and worst of all worlds, the things I loved and hated about each country I’ve lived in this year. Who knows? Maybe next year will bring a pro/con list weighted much differently. That’s really up to 2009.

Australia (***)

Thumbs Down Australia
I spent more money one month in Australia than I did one semester in LA (and one summer in Tokyo) and got about half for it. I had to let go of bushwalking and island hopping: of the eight getaway vacations I planned, six fell through, got cancelled, or were impossible to actually arrive at due to the flaws of Queensland’s public transit system, though New South Wales’ and Victoria’s aren’t any better. I had difficulty eating because the food is decisively English (from blood pudding to meat pies to treacle tart) and the Australian’s aren’t any better than the Spanish when it comes to throwing meat in places where it doesn’t need to or shouldn’t be (e.g., on toast, pureed as a spread, salt, or in anything labelled “vegetarian”). I can only find international news coverage on Fox, and cannot find non-reality (or non-trashy) television altogether. I considered faking a mental breakdown in the middle of several lectures just so I wouldn’t have to sit through more awfully dull, poorly constructed, terribly produced Australian national films or hear Peter Weir’s name one more time. I also scorned the country’s involvement with cricket, which to me will always seem like the bad move for any country. I realised after the housing request deadline passed that the age difference between 17 and 21 cannot be shrugged off, especially in a dorm setting, especially when the drinking age is 18, especially when you’re the only major who doesn’t have a car. I am not the only one who cannot stomach a 14:00 schooner of Irish lager every weekday, and of those of us that cannot, I guarantee none of us are Australian. I discovered Australia is two decades behind everyone else in everything from telecommunications to fashion. I witnessed more gaudy patterns and tactlessly cut sun dresses than I knew could possibly exist. I also learned that along with the asymmetrical haircut and the eyebrow piercing, Australia invented Uggs. I have been told 95% of Australia’s land is a desolate waste, and don’t particularly care to verify that claim. And lastly, I’d get better mobile reception and internet connections calling Alice Springs from Siberia than I would signing into SunCorp from Sydney.

Thumbs Up Australia
I will say first and foremost that Australia is a country of extraordinary natural beauty, and the only continent to feature all five ecosystems from desert to rainforest. I was also astounded by the marine life and aquatic habitats that can be found near the country’s extensive beaches, and I’m not just talking about the coral reefs. I admit that the Australians are a beautiful bunch of people who are generally tall, blonde, tan, and fit, with a friendly air that is kind to the foreigner. I rather enjoyed UQ as well, even if I didn’t like my programme, or the bureaucracy, or the classes I took, or my campus college, but the institution is a good one. And I cannot deny the superb tastiness of the country’s Tim Tam biscuits, flat white coffees, and excellent (and highly popular) paninis. I was invited more than once to a cookout (since they happen every weekend) and found the pastime to be a relaxing one. I also enjoyed the Australian beer — Toohey’s, XXXX, and Cooper’s — though not as much as their international competition. I let myself become addicted to AFL (footy) and cheered on the right side of a winning team. I was in the country long enough to see the Australian Dollar halve itself in value. I agreed with the reasoning behind Australia having more World Heritage listed sites than any other country. I visited the largest sand island in the world and viewed flora and fauna that cannot be seen anywhere else on the globe (the platypus were my favourite). I lost several weekends to festival revelry, notably 10 days in August for Ekka!, the Queen’s royal show. I was not surprised to discover that, along with Perfect Potion and 95% of the globe’s opal supply, most of the world’s surf clothing companies were birthed in Australia: Billabong, Von Zipper, and Rip Curl (the rest come from California). I greatly enjoyed Australian local bands as well, who do house music just as well as they do electro-rock. And lastly, I spent loads of time on beautiful, sunny beaches with perfect waves, white sand and crystal clear, warm waters.

Japan (*****)

Thumbs Down Japan
expensive, fruit was hard to find, jap-talian, kanji (writing for proper nouns), expensive, lack of japanese language skills, ATMs, expensive, post-22:00 Roppongi-dori, Kyoto bus system, ¥3,000 shot bar, passerby vomit, strange affinity for raw egg, expensive, chican salarymen (serial gropers), long commutes, child abduction laws, humidity, daytime television, heinously expensive medical system, getting stared at, street stabbings, no ovens (in homes), bullying, omnipresence of hentai manga (anime porn), generally expensive, acceptance of smoking

Thumbs Up Japan
Mori tower, restaurant quality, overwhelming numbers of coin lockers, ramen noodles, nighttime television, genba (club/music scene), sushi even I liked, obsession with electronics, udon noodles, cute stilettos, JR and metro system, kind citizens, romaji (writing in roman letters), how everyone wears said stilettos, onsen (hot springs), soba noodles, mt. fuji, roasted sweet potatoes, baseball league, urban design, beer, custom of not tipping, MosBurger and R Burger, 24 hour kombini (convenience stores), every stop on the F! line, instant noodles, seafood, yoyogi park on a Sunday, Enjoy! house, gossipy women in the workplace that treat you like their own children, naginata (like a scythe only scarier), films, open container policy, non-threatening (polite even?) nature of homeless, somen noodles, shiki theatre co, sweet cream (really rich soft serve), ease of being a vegetarian, proliferation of vending machines (and thus green tea), noodles in general, incredible skyline

America (****)

Thumbs Down America
Dear America, for the improvement of your self-image, as support of your citizens, and in the name of all that is holy, please reconsider the following:

Subpar public transit in the cities of Los Angles, Phoenix, Las Vegas, Houston, Seattle, and Portland

The dollar coin in any form, Sacagawea or Susan B. Anthony or otherwise

Sarah Palin

The abomination known as fast food (this includes deep fried Oreos and Monte Cristo sandwiches)

Cosmetic surgery, especially to those under the age of 30

Packages containing the following anywhere on its label: Non-Fat, 100 Calorie, I Can’t Believe It’s Not, Contains No Real, cheesefood, high fructose corn syrup, partially hydrogenated oil, fully hydrogenated oil, bacon flavoured, red 40, made in China

Microsoft products, namely Windows Vista

Actually dropping that A-bomb

Oprah Winfrey’s continued popularity

Killing the electric car, not signing the Kyoto Agreement, or failing to enforce or research new environmental standards

Soulja Boy

Impossible parking and unspeakable traffic in top 10 major cities

Chemists that don’t actually do anything

Corporate greed and credit card debt

Thumbs Up America
Dear America, in an effort to be fair and in order to prevent you from becoming depressed after reading the last letter, please find the following done well:

French fries

The interstate system and its road-trip implications

Natalie Portman and Edward Norton

California in general: the Governator, San Francisco, mexican food, Hollywood, right on red, Current TV, gay marriage, surfing, Yosemite, the UC schools, In-N-Out, etc.

Keeping me from dying of Cholera or Scarlet Fever

Delivery pizza

Successful revolution against British imperialism

Hip hop

The Internet

Coming of age stories

Widespread civil liberties

Benjamin Franklin

Popularising fruit pie

It’s the end if October, and aside from the insane costumed blitzes and inevitable bouts if indigestion brought on by the sketchy mix of alcohol and Hallowe’en sweets that are about to transpire, the unstoppable arrival of autumn marks something more than just Christmas decorations at every storefront in the mall.  The final sunset of October prompts the first dawn of November, and with it, National Novel Writing Month will begin.  I for one, will be fighting my post-party hangover by penning those first few monentus words in this year’s attempt to crack the 50,000 word limit in just 30 days.

This will be my fourth attempt.  I have delved into the insanity that is NaNoWriMo thrice prior, and though I have failed to break the wordcount barrier in sufficient time, each November novella marks an improvement, and I find myself hoping once again this fresh attempt will bring enough progress to see me victorious at long last. Noble cause? Perhaps the endeavour is too eccentric to serve the cause of nobility, too outlandish to be considered a fruitful use of time and energy, but nonetheless I choose to soldier on whilst youth affords me a relatively free month to attempt the preposterous.

It is, of course, a ludicrous proposition.  Good literature takes years to manufacture and the absurd deadline mandated by NaNoWriMo is not only ridiculous, but infeasible for all but the most devoted 2% of registered participants.  In fact, if I had not met the writer of one of the fabled 50k word success stories, I would believe those that claim to have actually finished by December 1 were just a myth, some great Internet hoax created by secondary school English department burnouts with a penchant for vengence and a cruel sense of humour towards those of us gullible enough to try our hand at substantial writing.  But the prospect of under-one-month novel completion is not a mythical bedtime story, nor is it a legendary world record ballad taken from the annals of history.  It is a modern goal, one I intend to bluster desperately towards if not surpass altogether.

The reasons that NaNoWriMo is, however slightly, more practical than flying to China from New York in a washing machine have to do with the contest’s philosophy. You can write about whatever you want however often you want in whichever language you prefer provided you write. The idea is, by setting the obscene goal of a 50,000+ word novel by the impractical deadline of 30 days, you’ll spend some time every day cranking pages out to get your creative juices flowing in a creative burst meant to convince every participant they can be a novelist too. As the title of founder Chris Baty’s book on the subject explains: No Plot? No Problem!, and unless you take that mantra seriously, you’ve no hope for wading through to the light at the end of November. In the spirit of the event, it’s much easier to start on a fresh idea than start working on an old one, but the point is not to write a good book, the point is to write. NaNoWriMo’s debut featured 140 participants, almost all from the San Francisco Bay Area, 21 of which completed novels. Now the participants number more than 14,000. But the best part of NaNoWriMo comes after the initial excitement wears off. If you try your luck, you can use your foray into the world of literary brilliance to encourage the tortured artist in you: you have complete freedom to stop showering and shaving, to never go to the grocery store or do laundry, and to live under a pile of newspaper clippings and torn pages of notepads. It’s a beautiful time where we NaNoWriMites consume our body weight in caffeine, stop sleeping, and spend most of our time frantically clicking away on our laptops at 24-hour coffee shops. I highly recommend it.

As far as my personal track record goes, my first attempt at NaNoWriMo was not a complete failure. I finished the work, clocking in a word count of over 57,000 words, though it took me not thirty days but thirteen moths. I consoled myself, noting that a late finish is still a finish, and I was sure that the next year would bring me closer. I was wrong. After my completion of year one’s The Pleated Skirt Bare Essentials (consider yourself warned: not only is about 200 pages long, but it’s poorly crafted too), my next novel was to be of higher quality. That was the biggest mistake of NaNoWriMo year two, for in my determination to write something decent, I failed to write more than a page a day, and wound up with one fifth the word count I had projected by the end of the month. So by last year, year three, I figured I had learned my lessons. I now knew I had a novel’s worth of words in me from 2005, and that I would have to stop caring if those words were any good from 2006, so 2007 had to be an automatic pass. Wrong again. Thirty days flew by and I was stuck somewhere at 15,000 words, 5,000 of which I’ll guiltily admit were posted outside of the rules. But my 2007 novel-in-progress is more promising still than those of ‘05 and ‘06; it may not have been of the desired length, but it was still of better quality than try number one. So again I am filled with vigor, with jovial conviction that I will make the deadline this time around, with excited fervor as I count down the days until the checkered flag drops and I begin my month-long spiral out of control and into hermitism for the sake of a literary stunt.

Try four will see me take characters I already know and love from year one and weave them together with all the ruthless pilfering and humiliatons from my six months abroad. I’m hoping to adopt some interesting conventions in tentatively titled The Denim Miniskirt Bare Essentials, telling the story from one character’s point of view, then retelling the same series of events by the other’s. I’m sure you’ll be hearing all about 2008’s attempt in the days to come, but I’m not just telling you all this for your personal amusement. I’m telling you this for accountability. If I partook in the exercise quietly alone in my room, my failures would go unnoticed. But by making my intentions public, I am inviting my failures to be more painful, and my friends to hold me to my word. NaNoWriMo just got a little bit more serious.

As recommended, and as my personal tradition, I swear before you all that I will take on the NaNoWriMo challenge in earnest.  You are welcome to: follow my progress online as I update my status both here and on NaNoWriMo’s site as well, demand not only my current wordcount but proof of that quote at any time, and, should my efforts fall woefully behind or fail miserably along the way, mercilessly ridicule my futile stabs at literature, my foolhearty bravado and naïveté, or my atrocious writing, and anything else tease-worthy you should discover along the way, all with the understanding that should I succeed, you’ll never hear the end of my achievement until 2012 at least and be forced to endure constant bragging, taunting, one-upping, bohemian garb such as berets, quips of condescension, caffeine withdrawal, and impromptu excerpt readings throughout the Christmas Holidays. Or, if you’re ready for the bragging and the ridicule, the elation and the despair that comes from joining the club, you could try it for yourself, and finally cross “write a book” off your list of life goals.

That said, I thought you might like a few of the tastier quotes from my various NaNoWriMo attempts in the past, to give you an idea of how hastily these words are strung together, and why I personally find comedy much more forgiving than drama.

My internal clock was forced to focus on how many seconds passed minute to minute as I repressed the urge to claw Mark Jacobin in the face with my long uncut toenails.

I had learned at a very early age that there was no such thing as ducking out of the somewhat less than happy holidays, even if you broke a limb, lost a family member, and were suffering from mental instability. This crowd would not consider even childbirth or instantaneous death excusable. This crowd would not conceive that perhaps discovering what your Spanish, Facist, mad grandmother thought about oral sex was not on your ideal to-do list of the winter season.

Additionally, things tend to lead to a muddled confusion about whether or not you are exclusively dating yet and whether or not there is indeed a future with the other person, or whether you were too drunk/desperate/both to notice the other person is either extraordinarily unattractive, unworthy, or worse, perfect.

Following this speech was clapping, cheering, champagne, an explosion of eggplant innards, and another parent teacher conference.

Dr. Miezkovitch wasn’t much better than Dave. He was a half-blind, mostly-deaf, fully crazy old coot with no less than six different diplomas tacked up on his office wall. He raised his voice at everyone from his cell phone to his secretary and looked disdainfully at the file folder with my name written in small, unfriendly letters on the tab. The moment he opened his mouth, I knew he was a bitter and jaded figure who’d clearly lost his optimism in a war of some sort. He had the curmudgeony look about him as though he hated me. I liked him.

Our conversations were often like this. But I enjoyed them nonetheless. We tended to cut all the bullshit out of conversations. Neither of us spoke to fill the silence, we spoke with purpose. And that was a rare thing. Something worth savouring. Well, at least saving long enough to last the duration of a cigarette. After that, I figured, everyone was on their own.

The eggplant, in reality named Ms. Pat Sherman, was to all appearances a real therapist, but the more meetings passed, the clearer it became that she was unqualified for any career more complicated than one that involved stealing shopping carts. Even then her potential was still questionable at best.

Some things were much more important than humiliation. My pride was not one of them, but my Salem 22s were.

Collected like a true gentleman in the way that only equestrian polo players and rugby team members manage mid-match, William Henry did not panic. Instead he made a face. A charming one. Mr. Jacobin was less than pleased. His smile was nowhere near as charming.

Twins have to be god’s practical joke on the world. One day, god was on a people-making binge and got bored, so he came to the conclusion that it would be funny as hell if he made two of the same people. And thus twins were created, marking the beginning of the end of humanity. Fate must have had a field day, because ever since that moment, twins have been immediately followed by disaster

The temple stood steadfast before us and said without words, quite clearly, the old era has ended. Our poor and weary hearts were lifted by indiscriminate humming emanating from the structure, and our battered and lacerated feet were more than enthusiastic to agree, and nineteen smiles stretched wide and staring, expectant. We were home at last.

It’s a whole level of unanimity that I can’t seem to wrap my head around, as if we are building something some unseen architect has already designed. As if we see these blueprints in our dreams, but nowhere else.

Jacqueline Rosmart was a typical princess with curly golden blonde hair and a musical voice. She enjoyed poetry, cooking, sewing, and throwing parties. She did what her father, King Harold, asked of her, and was quite content to sit in the castle and wait for a knight to make an acceptable marriage proposition. She was beautiful and polite and a good dancer, and everyone loved her. Her older sister, Catalina, was the complete opposite.

Catalina didn’t say anything but instead began to chew on her left thumbnail in a shockingly un-princess-like manner, but she didn’t care. Derek read her reaction like wind, and quickly decided which way to turn the sail.

There was no protocol for situations like this in Lord Mercer’s dusty volume of The Courte At Pass: A Guide to All Things Proper. Jacqueline knew for a fact; she had looked it up quite a few times, and although there was protocol for situations in which the eldest daughter was kidnapped, and etiquette required for situations where the eldest daughter kills other family members in an act of betrayal, there was nothing about princesses who voluntarily left their duties, so Jacqueline was left confused and without knowing whose side she was to take.

Harold on the other hand, found himself getting less and less sleep each night. He was constantly grumpy and sleepy, but unable to rest. So, Harold did what any headstrong and honorable leader of a mid-size country would do: he asked his mother.

It’s 21:00. I’m lying down on the fresh linen I just made for my new bed. The room smells like fading hair gel, stale cleaning fluid, the salty tang of sea air, and the unmistakable dusty perfume that can only mean I’m spending the night with more than four others. Sure enough two more freshly-showered ladies amble in, chatting to one another as they pat dry their skin with middle-aged hands and profess their wrinkles with voices of teenagers.

I vaguely notice I’m the only one to claim a top bunk bed. It doesn’t matter. It took me four hours sitting next to the saddest example of parenting I could imagine, three train transfers in the pitch black, two sandwiches that were a bit on the soggy side, and one casualty of a stubbed toe to get me here, and even that was a blessing I wouldn’t have the opportunity to be grateful for if the Tweeds Head bus driver hadn’t been so generous. After that, top bunk is fine. I was about fifteen minutes away from sleeping in a bus shelter.

It’s a friday, too, but that doesn’t mean much anymore since I don’t have any classes left to attend. Right now I don’t even care that I’m dozing off before anyone in the building has decided which bar they’ll fall apart in tonight. It’s been a long week, and the only thing that registers in my brain, flickering from exhaustion, is that tomorrow I don’t have to do a damn thing. For the first time in months I’ve got a real weekend on my hands.

The sounds of the ocean roll through my dreams, and I wake up suspiciously early, at about 5:30. The owners aren’t even awake, so I can’t ask them how far the walk to the beach is. I make myself some tea and read instead. After fifty pages of Gabriel Garcia Marquez I realise the ocean noise wasn’t just a tidal soundtrack to my desperation for sunshine and sea breeze. It’s a real noise. It’s a real beach. And a pretty one at that.

I don’t know what made me give up one of my last weekends to something that by all accounts promised to be a tourist trap. Almost anything involving an extended stay at the Gold Coast is an automatic recipe for disappointment, but something tugged at my curiosity, my escapist desires, my determination to keep from withering under the suffocation of exam revision. I put my name down on the list, with some trouble, and mark the end of my last frantic paper-writing evening with a weekend getaway.

Of course I’ve been to the beach before. My family does so often, and who can live in Los Angeles and escape the many beachfronts of southern California? But this was different. These were paradise beaches. White sand, decent surf, warm weather and warmer water, beachcomber luxuries I am not used to. I thought it would be a different world with different rules. But no. The moment that first wave breaks over my shoulders I feel myself fully exhale. I am home.

It’s summer in Australia, but that glorious period where spring has ended and school isn’t out yet, and only those of us in the upper echelons of higher education have the luxury of starting vacation early. I catch the 765 up to Coolangatta beach where I know I’m bound to run into a classmate or two after breakfast. I laugh when I see the water, so bright it’s blinding, knowing that all of my friends back home are about to be blinded by the season’s first snowfall.

A cup of coffee beverage and sure enough I meet up with some German exchange students passing the morning idly with fistfuls of donuts. We exchange a few words and walk back to the beach together, admiring the sunshine and discussing how much sunscreen we’ll need. There’s a big red truck with “Walking On Water Surf” emblazoned on the side in the tackiest font, and a churlish man with braces jumps off the back and deals with the specifics. Twenty minutes later I am on the beach in a rash shirt carrying a longboard into the foaming surf. It isn’t the best day but luckily there are fewer surfers there than I could have hoped for.

I’m far on the beginner scale, but I have decent balance and even better timing, and on a lightweight board I can consistently catch a wave and stand up for at least half of the ride. Unfortunately two hours is about all that I can pursue with weak upper body strength. However, they are two immensely fun, tiring, sometimes glorious sometimes crushing hours. Any longer and I’ll be immoboilised by soreness tomorrow. I try my hand a few more times. I will be sore before afternoon even hits. It will be worth it.

When I can’t bear to paddle anymore I retire to the warm sand bars and tide pools to watch the children play and their mothers plodge after them. I close my eyes and let my face be warmed to the sun, forming salt crystals on my eyelashes that crack audibly when I open my eyes again after a quarter hour to find the Germans are also exhausted, but triumphant. A quick rinse or two follows and after I return my board they ask if I want to go to lunch with them and bikini shopping on the strip opposite the beach to pass the time. Sure. I could use another swimsuit.

Lunch is typical, but I’m hungry enough to eat a wetsuit so as long as my food remains on my plate long enough for me to put it onto my fork, I will be a happy diner. We eat, I learn more about these friendly folk, and then we browse our way back to the city’s downtown area. Corinne spends another few hours in the increasingly gnarly surf, while Adrienne, Christoff, and I sunbake ourselves into a stupor. At about 14:30 the sun disappears for the remainder of the day and all of us call it quits.

I had another day of board rental put down. I would have gladly forsaken another Saturday night to boredom if it meant a fruitful Sunday of surfing. But the weather turned dark and the day grew long, and one by one the room, so full the day before, emptied out. The regular surfers switched to skating, and I knew that no one would be willing to battle the current if tomorrow was more of the same. So I was among the throng to pack up and move out. Sure I could have benefited from another day spent wrestling with waves instead of checking my email, but when I checked out I had only one thing in mind.

I’m back in the city, exactly twenty-four hours after I left it. It feels good to come full circle. It feels even better to have the mad rush of people around me, zooming in and out of shops and restaurants, trying to catch the last buses, waiters laughing loudly during their smoke breaks. It put me in the mood for people watching. So I pass by my favourite ramen shop, don’t look twice after the Chinese inn I frequent, and head straight to the centre strip of the Queen Street mall where a plate piled high with spaghetti and a pint of lager waits for me. I watch the butterfly swimmer from Australia break the world record for 50m while I’m waiting for my food. I chat with the Japanese tourists next to me and make small talk with the Irish waitress, both of whom are bored because Sunday nights are rarely this slow. I polish off dinner about the same time as all the other lonely diners do, and we all tip and leave at the same time, a perfectly timed orchestra of scraping chairs and shuffling change. No one looks up. We all know that if the four of us stop to grin sheepishly, our exactingly calculated walk to the bus will be off, and we’ll have to run to catch it before it pulls away. So we leave. I leave. As I turn my back to the emptying restaurant I feel the last throes of my weekend getaway slipping away as well. I sigh. It seems I have more to catch than just the bus.

Ten Teams I Root For

1. Manchester United (football)

2. New Zealand All Blacks (rugby)

3. Houston Rockets (basketball)

4. Fukuoka SoftBank Hawks (baseball)

5. Toronto Maple Leafs (hockey)

6. Chicago White Sox (baseball)

7. USC Trojans (american football)

8. Dallas Cowboys (american football)

9. Iron Chef Chinese (cooking)

10. Spain (world cup football)

Ten Best Desserts

1. Peach pie

2. Chocolate chip & oatmeal cookies

3. Mae’s gingersnaps

4. Lemon tart

5. Cranberry crisp

6. Chocolate bundt cake

7. Anything with rocky mountain icing

8. Strawberry shortcake

9. Marble pound cake

10. Stewed plums over vanilla ice cream

Ten Musicians I Admire

1. The Bird and the Bee

2. MYLO

3. Zero 7

4. James Taylor

5. Basement Jaxx

6. Death Cab for Cutie

7. Coldplay

8. Jamiroquai

9. Common

10. Nujabes

Ten Instruments I Can Play (and how well I can play them)

1. Guitar (decently)

2. Piano (moderately)

3. Bass (well)

4. Harmonica (iffy)

5. Violin (barely)

6. Theremin (okay)

7. Accordion (terribly)

8. Saxophone (okay)

9. Spoons (proficiently)

10. Drums (awfully)

Ten Jobs I’ve Held

1. Computer Sales Representative

2. Online Magazine Editor

3. Radio Promotions Director

4. New Media Journalist

5. Camp Counselor

6. Contract Painter

7. Residential Advisor

8. Videographer

9. Graphic Designer

10. Event Photographer

Ten States I’ve Been To

1. Texas

2. California

3. Arizona

4. Colorado

5. Oklahoma

6. Montana

7. North Carolina

8. Minnesota

9. Massachusetts

10. Illinois

Ten Television Shows I Watch

1. Coupling (UK version)

2. Friends

3. Futurama

4. Flight of the Conchords

5. Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip

6. Iron Chef (Japanese version)

7. Everyday Italian

8. Comedy Central Presents…

9. Mythbusters

10. Restaurant Makeover

Ten Favourite Beers

1. Kirin

2. Hoegarden

3. Heineken

4. Asahi

5. Yebisu

6. Cooper’s Pale Ale

7. Stella Artois

8. Tsingdao

9. Shiner Bock

10. Dos Equis

Five Languages I’d Like to Master

1. Spanish

2. Japanese

3. Korean

4. French

5. Swahili

Five Holidays I Wish Were Celebrated Back Home

1. Dia de los Muertos/Obon

2. Hogmanay

3. Bastille Day

4. Golden Week

5. Lunar New Year

Ten Most Used Computer Applications (and what they do)

1. Mail (like Outlook that doesn’t suck)

2. Safari (internet browser)

3. Net News Wire (RSS reader)

4. Skype (VoIP client)

5. TextEdit (text editor)

6. Photoshop (image editor)

7. Preview (image and PDF viewer)

8. Photo Mechanic (image processing suite)

9. VLC (media player)

10. iTunes (media player)

It’s a global world, and you are a global person. You know where the art house cinema is. You’ve been to Europe, or Europe’s identical twin: Canada. You order Chinese food and drink Mexican tequila regularly. And you even remember a bit of that high school romance language you had to take four years of. You are global.

Maybe you are more than global. Maybe you’ve actually been to that art house cinema to see what Pan’s Labyrinth was all about. Maybe you even used that rusty French on your last trip to Paris. And maybe you can instantly tell the difference between Thai, Chinese, Japanese, and Malaysian dishes. You are more than global; you are worldly.

Well, even if you’re global, even if you’re worldly, you aren’t watching Korean cinema. Now don’t feel left out; truth is, pretty much no one but Koreans are watching Korean cinema. That’s because their domestic box office has a quota system in place and their international trade policies have bad luck. But before I go into the nuances of Korea’s intense industry, let me start with world cinema as a whole, otherwise known as How Hollywood Looks to the Outside World.

From the medium’s get-go, we Yankees took over the game. Even in the early days of Edison vs. Lumiere, when Edison completely tanked and it looked like the Lumiere brothers were going to take the cake, the silver screen still drew the spotlight stateside. I don’t know if France has ever forgiven D.W. Griffith for stealing the thunder their brilliant invention caused at its inception, but ever since even they can’t deny that Hollywood is THE dominant force in the film world. Now I’m taking two cinema classes in a foreign country of whose language I can actually use nuance and sarcasm in, and have been given an incredible insight into how Hollywood is perceived by the outside. In short, I am the resident Hollywood expert because of my accent, when there are a number of students of every nationality who have seen more summer blockbusters than I. Hollywood really is everywhere. It’s become synonymous with film as a whole.

Now I could make a number of conjectures about how this notion has affected the American psyche and foreign relations — while it would be naïve to expect international waters to host every comfort of home, it must be noted that in the case of American comforts, pretty much every international water does host our establishments, from McDonald’s to Visa, and both Hollywood and the American music industry are no exceptions — but instead I’m going to put it in perspective. It is said that there are three countries in which the domestic industry overtakes the international one. Only three countries in the entire world where the local Blockbuster has an overwhelming number more natively-produced films than any other. Which three countries?

Well, the United States is obviously first on the list, though to my dismay it is often assumed that Hollywood is our national cinema, which is not exactly the case, and while I am proud of what Hollywood has given the world, I also grow frustrated that it is always seen as an omnipotent monolith, a domineering aunt you can’t get rid of but succumb to anyway, when America has so many great other niches outside of Hollywood that are overlooked.

The second on the list is, unsurprisingly, India and her Bollywood media. If you underestimated the power of one billion people interested in the lifestyles of the rich and the famous, you wouldn’t be alone. After all, Bollywood cinema is unassuming as a powerful force; it is admittedly difficult to take movies made in Ed Wood haste on drive-in budgets with breakaway musical numbers seriously, but while Hollywood is criticised for its happy endings, Bollywood is the epitome of riding off into the sunset. It’s an entire country interested in fantasy, escapist cinema, a country that is a good deal larger and more supportive of its films than Australia or Canada or Russia, which, while larger in size than India, are a mere 2% the population.

So what’s third? Hong Kong? China? England? Japan? Nope, as you’ve probably surmised from my opening paragraphs, it’s South Korea. Unlike Hong Kong, China, Japan, and England, Korea has been (to put it politely) xenophobic for a good deal longer and on (to put it even more politely) less than friendly terms with other countries to a larger degree in recent decades. Add to that a…er…restrictive government and you get a set of cineplexes that offer home brew romcoms, domestically-specific action flicks, and a series of heart-wrenching tragedies adapted from national literature. And the audiences flock in droves.

Okay, I recognise that just because a cinema is popular doesn’t mean you should fall for it immediately. But Korean Cinema is well worth taking a gander at. I give you ten excuses as to why you should start threatening to your local video shop that you’ll switch to Netflix if they don’t start wising up (or ten reasons why you actually should switch to Netflix), ten quips to make you sound like an expert at a cocktail party, ten new vocabulary words you can’t even pronounce and ten fresh stars you’ve never heard of, and most of all ten reasons you should start loving Korean film. Right now. And if that wasn’t enough, ten films to get you started on the road to your newfound favourite film genre.

1. The number one reason you should not skip from Japan directly to China is that Korean film is underestimated. Do not be one of those people who overlooks such a strong national cinema, which through modest means in the last two decades can produce a similar volume to Hollywood films that are just as vehemently attended, within their home country at least. And don’t ignore the fact that the cinema can contend with the production values and narrative arc of not only Hollywood but England, France, and Italy. Now I’m not saying Korean film has it’s own style yet, at least nothing to rival Brit Grit Social Realism or French New Wave, or Italian Neo-Realism, but they’ve glossed over the whole grassroots establishment and gone directly to world recognition, collecting $200,000,000 along the way in profits. Why is this impressive? Because they’re the first Asian country to do it in such a short time. In short, Korean cinema isn’t as old as Hong Kong’s, or as well established as Japan’s, but it’s a whole lot faster. And while it may not seem like it, Korean films have to constantly assert their Koreanness while still trying to be mindful of their confusing identity. Case in point: Le Grande Chef is well-made, well-paced, mindful of foreign cinematic influences, but still distinctly Korean. It’s about Korean cooking and Japanese reconciliation in a Chinese culinary world. Watch it and you too will discover just how how much overlooking you’ve been doing not just on Korea’s film industry, but on their culture as well.

Before I continue, I should explain now that there are three main types of genuine South Korean films you can rent (i.e., not horror film attempts at imitating the Japanese speciality). The first is the tear jerker. These stories are meant to play your heartstrings like a cello on a sinking ship, but while the narrative may be hokey beyond your ability to suspend disbelief, the method in which Korean films strike that final chord before the last splash is more than just admirable. The time they take to develop the characters, the motifs they invariably plant, the decisively unhappy endings but only after two-hours worth of close calls; the South Koreans know how to cry. And while movies that offer the watery-eye-inducing pretense at the onset (Sad Movie anyone?) abound in the South Korean market, there are a fair few films that you aren’t expecting to wrench your heart, even if it was painfully obvious the love interest was going to die since that scene halfway through.

2. But beyond just nailing the tear-jerker genre (among others) that someone else created, let’s not forget that Korean movies did it first in oh so many cases. Thought Frequency was a truly original concept? I give you the ham-radio drama of Ditto. Convinced 2007’s Juno was the most unique film written in ages? Try 2005’s Jenny, Juno, which also explored the pregnancy of a witty but unwed fifteen-year-old girl and her awkward boyfriend with good intentions long before Ellen Page made a name for herself. Excited about Jesse Bradford’s new film, My Sassy Girl? It’s a remake of the quintessential and most famous South Korean teen flick of the same name. What about Sarah Michelle Gellar’s newest, Possession?. Yup, a remake too from the 2002 South Korean thriller Possession/Addiction. Case in point: The Lakehouse was an abject failure, while the original Korean version five years prior, Il Mare, is not only better narratively, but breathtaking beautifully. The cross-cut cooking scenes will make you pine for your own time-travel experience in a way that Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves never could.

3. It’s not just Il Mare that is beautiful enough to make you cry. Korean films look like Hollywood films, with their beautiful stars, incredibly high production values, elabourate sets, and impeccable costuming. This may seem like a trivial thing; after all, global, worldly audiences such as yourself surely can overcome the shortcomings of low-quality visuals, but it cannot be denied that it isn’t just us that are used to Hollywood glitz and glamour. The world is conditioned to associate cinema with Hollywood gloss. When we see the hair and the makeup and the big names and the great lighting, it signals to us “these people know what they’re doing.” Let me assure you, the Koreans know what they’re dong. Case in point: Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter…and Spring looks akin to The Last Samurai only with no Tom Cruise. As you can imagine, the seasonality of the land plays a huge role in the film, which centres only on one location: that of a Buddhist hovel in a valley. If I tried to explain the premise to you, you’d think it was terribly slow and never go and watch it, but any preamble I give won’t do justice to the film’s real purpose: to showcase nature and beauty in Korea’s passing of ages.

4. So they’re original and beautiful, and they can make you blubber like a baby. But Korean movies can also make you grip the edge of your seat, flinch and grab your neighbour’s hand, or provide the perfect backdrop for the romantic date of your dreams. Another huge plus for Korean cinema is the incredible range provided by Korean movies. Oh yes they’ve got the tear-jerker down pad, but they’ve also mastered horror and suspense, rewritten the book on epic war dramas, and vaulted the “first love” romcom/chick flick to a whole new status. You’re certain to find your favourite film genre in Korean cinema. While Hollywood is associated almost exclusively with high-concept filmmaking, and Hong Kong with kung-fu flicks, South Korea is not tied down by such convention and within the industry a remarkably diverse group of movies are produced. Unlike Japan, which evokes the lonely stoic film, or India, which conjures over-the-top musicals, Korea reminds us of…well…everything. From this tiny country you’ll find equally well-developed genres of horror, romantic comedy, family melodrama, action blockbuster, war saga, art house films, romance melodrama, and science fiction. Strokes of Fire sits on the shelf right next to Project Makeover and across from Woman on the Beach. Case in point: Peppermint Candy shows that an industry with a bit of a reputation for fluffy teen movies (e.g., My Boyfriend Is Type B, A Millionaire’s First Love and My Girl and I) can take the same sets of events and circumstances and also produce a moving, tragic, beautiful film in a completely different vein. You’ll be astounded.

Aside from the heart-wrencher, the second type of Korean film you’ll come across is the war blockbuster. Rife with non-stop action and military themes, these films are meant to blow your mind, not just with all the shoot ‘em up explosions and insane car chases, but also with the twisty and occasionally shocking stories and characters you are actually invested in. Imagine Infernal Affairs (aka: The Departed) all the time. When you tire of the CIA-like inquisitions and wartime setting, remember that South Korea is always thinking of war. It’s fresh on the culture’s memory, as they have not only fought wars on their own soil, but among their own political turmoil also had their country split down the middle, and are constantly afraid someone’s about to blow them up.

5. Watching Korean movies will help you get a dose of cultural insight into the whole affair. If, like me, you aren’t living anywhere near Korea, you’ll find it hard to really understand the South Korean situation without sounding condescending or giving up your current citizenship. But, beyond just the obvious war films, there’s an undercurrent to the Korean industry that’s altogether too unusual to ignore. By watching Korean movies not only will you gain a respect for the politics and history and traditions of the culture (as you would to some degree by watching any national cinema), but you’ll come to see how the culture looks upon its own politics and history and traditions, which given the privileged western view is normally impossible to ascertain. Current affairs issues that most South Koreans are reluctant to talk about come to the surface in their films; topics like suicide and bullying and their previous political regimes are open for debate. Whether it’s a drastically different school system, family structure, or institution of marriage, Korean films make it easy to see more to the culture than just Kimchi and BBQ. Case in point: JSA: Joint Security Area asks whether or not the gap between North and South Korean can be bridged, and what part other countries have to play, even alleged neutrals like Switzerland and Sweden. Even if it does grow a little dramatic towards the end, it gives you a feel for why reunification won’t be as easy in Korea as it was in Germany (if you could call that easy).

6. You have to hand it to them, Korean films are never boring, either. No really. I don’t know if it’s the industry’s desperate tendency to underdevelop screenwriting, or the fear that audience attention span is likened to that of a beta fish, or the need to compete with both Korea’s degeneration of older generations and their traditions as well as the array of omnipresent modern conveniences (like insanely fast internet, wicked mobile phones, and online gaming communities), but with the exception of Railroads, pretty much every Korean film I’ve seen is thoroughly entertaining. I used to joke that Korean films employed the theme of time travel (which shows up alarmingly often) just to keep their movies from getting too boring or too predictable. Sure you’d expect Oldboy to be mind-blowing the whole way through, but you wouldn’t expect a film like The Classic to keep your interest the entire time, but it does. I pin it the fact that you don’t really know what to expect, even if you know what kind of movie you’re getting into. Case in point: Memories of Murder, a film about a small town serial killer and the futility of 1980s police force in a murder mystery that is anything but cliché. It isn’t strictly a detective crime thriller, but when the screen isn’t spewing mystery action at you, it’s cracking you up. Unusual, but far from boring.

7. Another reason to blow the dust off your DVD player is that Korea is legitimate, no longer just a helpless entity, even if South Korea is convinced North Korea is going to blow them all into oblivion and turn them into communists (their films reveal numerous close calls, Northern attempts that our stout and loyal undercover Southern operatives manage to sabotage), while the U.N. is in a playground standoff with the country and the U.S. can’t stop writing about Kim Jung-Il’s harem. But I’m talking about domination of a different sort. Back in the ’80s Korea was just one of those Asian Tiger countries with an economic boom quietly civilised and as well developed as its neighbours, yet even now that the bubble’s burst, Korea registers more on the world radar than it ever did back in the day. Politically it may have been a huge point of contention in the ’50s, but culturally it was just another place of atrocity, another Vietnam, another Cambodia. Slowly though, Korea has culturally bucked off those ideas, relinquishing the image of the farmer in the rice patty and placed itself among the technologically and economically elite, redefining its national identity in the process. And Korea will no longer lie by quietly. Case in point: Shiri is the new embodiment of the age old Korean struggle. The film has intrigue, thrill, action, romance, and one hell of an ending. Thus it is fitting that Shiri broke all box office records at the time of its release. If South Korea is to take its place among the pantheon of highly relevant countries and cultures, shouldn’t you at least be well versed?

By this point down the list you have a number of films to name-drop regarding the tear-jerker and the wartime-action movie. The last main type of Korean film out there is, not surprisingly, the intense teen romance-cum-melodrama. It starts as a lighthearted romantic comedy, a fun summer flick if you will, and inevitably some external pressure compacts the fluff into something substantial, and the comedy becomes full on romantic melodrama. I should mention the idea of the “first love” here, an elusive concept endlessly called upon in Korean cinema. It is believed, more or less, that in every man, woman, and coming-of-age-child’s heart his or her first love, and their first romantic entangle will remain forever. Many a South Korean film is made on this premise, with feelings for the high-school sweetheart either developed and retained for life even when circumstances are far from fortuitous, or these feelings resurged mutually until death forces one to move on. In Korea, the first love is sacred. And it usually starts out innocently and comically, but, unlike the American coming of age movie, it is eventually seen as a serious and real thing. Rather than youthfulness displayed in the fickle in and out of love romantic antics, love is always everlasting and youth is personified in the comedy of these Korean films. It’s the best of both worlds really, and while the comedy certainly isn’t in tune with the Hollywood or ’70s British meanings of the word, South Korean comedies are undeniably worth a laugh.

8. Perhaps the secret weapon of South Korean cinema is that the jokes translate. I often find myself confused with foreign films, especially if there are parallel stories, jumps in time, or actors that look alike. It’s even worse when you’re trying to watch a foreign movie with subtle humour. 2 Days in Paris has a few distinctly French jokes, while Little Britain is only entertaining if you are privy to the infamous British humour. No sweat with Korean movies. All the jokes translate well, even without subtitles. So you aren’t limited by your lackluster knowledge of hangul and are free to the entire extensive library of comedies coming out of South Korea. Moreover, you’ll find comedy is used unusually often, even in melodramatic films to provide contrast. You won’t be lost in any of it. Case in point: My Sassy Girl is perhaps Korea’s most famous romantic comedy. The poor protagonist is mistakenly identified as the boyfriend of a drunk girl on the subway, and you will laugh along with the comedy that ensues; every pratfall will be yours to treasure and you’ll feel the full effect of every embarrassing and awkward situation presented.

9. The industry is young, really young, and I don’t mean the actors. I mean Seoul especially is becoming an epicentre of youth culture and the filmmakers in South Korea are not the sixty-five-year-old fogies that make up a “golden era” like Hollywood’s power players. The identity of Korea’s national cinema has yet to be formed, so what results is a series of highly developed films with highly experimental natures. There aren’t a lot of big name directors and writers out there, so the entire industry has a sort of “anything goes” feel to it, an attitude that is reinforced in the cinema’s products. Case in point: House Husband isn’t just a good old fashioned disguise comedy about family values and the love of your life, it’s about gender equality/disparity, relationship stereotypes, filial pressure, and critique of modern values. It’s an entertaining film about a stay at home dad, but while the premise is offhand, you cannot forget that such a film’s production (and indeed success) is possible because it is a product of a young industry staffed by young individuals and observed a young audience.

10. And perhaps the most overlooked reason to move to Seoul right now just for the cinema choices, you haven’t heard this one before… Let’s talk about formula. Like Hollywood filmmakers, South Korean filmmakers know there’s a formula. They see a movie succeed and they want to duplicate that kind of success. But unlike Hollywood filmmakers, South Korean filmmakers aren’t out of ideas yet, and, though they understand there can only be so many ways to end a romantic entanglement, thy never try to make the same movie again (i.e., aren’t Sleepless in Seattle, You’ve Got Mail, and Must Love Dogs the same movie?). Moreover, Korean films are incredibly innovative. They present new takes on a genre you thought you knew to the letter. And while you may know how it’s going to end, you never know how they’re going to get there. Case in point: The Young Bride might seem formulaic — our two lovers hate one another at first and eventually through a series of events grow to love one another — it’s rare that one of them should be underage, and rarer still that they should be married at the start of the film rather than end. So I say again, you haven’t heard this one before.

So there you have it. Ten reasons to start taking an interest in yet another east Asian export. Sure Korean films will never be released to American movie theatres unless the directors hand deliver the reels themselves, but because the movie-going, pop-obsessed, disposable income-earning South Korean population will keep seeing these films, and because the government isn’t about to abolish the 80% rule anytime soon, you can bet that more Korean films will be made, and that they’re only going to get better as their industry matures. In filmic terms, South Korea is the place to be. It’s the most exciting, the sexiest, and, in my opinion, the best developing industry. It’s got great potential. More than potential. It’s got great start value. And now you’re in on it too.

If mankind were to be destroyed tomorrow with just enough time to preserve one important facet of the human experience to be discovered by whatever descendants survive the impending calamity and almost certain death, the Americas’ vote would go to the potatoe, more specifically, the fried potatoe. Yes, the U.S.A. and Mexico would finally agree on something, Chile and Brazil would finally find a word that translated in both languages, and Nicaragua, Belize, and El Salvador would gladly salute the same flag of the potatoe, as our gift to future races.

It is, after all, an American tradition, and one of the greatest achievements the continents have to offer. The potatoe began in the new world, cultivated in South America over 7,000 years ago as a tuber with innumerable qualities not limited to: tastiness, healing properties, ease of growth, and resistance to spoilage. In fact, the world’s first mashed potatoe, Incan chuñu, could last in a cellar for ten years without ill effects. And that was without riboflavin and hydrogenated oils and canning facilities. So you can imagine why the Spanish conquistadors were so eager to bring so many on board their sailing vessels. The Spanish certainly didn’t have to worry about getting bored with something as versatile as a potatoe: when they grew weary of mashing and boiling the starches, they prepared a potatoe gratin or a jacket potatoe. Indeed ways of cooking the potatoe are just as old as the root itself, but none so famous as the french fried potatoe.

Known under many aliases, the fried potatoe may be a purely American invention, but it is a delicacy enjoyed worldwide. In America we eat them with Ketchup, in England with lemon, in France with vinegar, in Australia with chicken salt, in Canada with tomatoe sauce, in Korea with mayonnaise, in Malaysia with fish sauce. They are served in bars, diners, cafés, railway stations, carnival stalls, beach fronts, taco trucks, four star restaurants, cafeterias, and home kichens. And their shapes are not limited to the mere stick, but our humble potatoe can appear as a curly ribbon, a shoestring, a wedge, crinkle cut, waffled, double fried, or even as stubby little tater tots. But just because the fried potatoe has many faces and many family members does not mean it has many names. Make no mistake, the chips so beloved by the English are not the same as the french fries on the menu at McDonald’s. And I, a confirmed globetrotter and connoisseur of the potatoe (need I remind you I am of Irish blood), will help you navigate the world of the fried potatoe by explaining away the differences between pomme frite and papa frito.

We’ll start with the most obvious inconsistency in potatoe nomenclature. It’s the Americans versus everyone else in the English-speaking world. We think sticks of fried potatoe should be called french fries while everybody else claims they’re called chips. Well, I’ve seen both sides of the arguments, and even gone so far as to engage in the debate myself, before realising that they’re both right, because they’re talking about two different things. Unlike aubergine and eggplant or napkin and serviette chips and french fries are two entirely different versions of the french fried potatoe, not, as would be believed, different names for the same thing.

This is the french fry, as the Americans have come to know it. This is what you’ll find in a Wendy’s, a Whataburger, an In-n-out (depending on your region). It is crispy on the outside, it is covered in salt, and it is a thin strip of goodness that doesn’t harbour many remnants of potatoe inside of it. And it’s usually shoved along with so many others into a cardboard box or bag into a car. That is the french fry.

This is the chip, as the British/Australians/Canadians have come to know it. This is what you’ll find in a pub, a chip shop, or a salt shack down the road. It is a thick slab of potatoe that’s a bit soggy on the outside but still discernibly potatoe, then dumped into an open paper trough and passed over a counter. And it’s usually the bed for a strip or two of beer-battered fish universally accepted by mums, kids, and disgruntled grandfathers alike. That is the chip.

So now you can sleep easily knowing that you’ve got the right of it, whichever country you come from. That is, until the debate over American chips and English crisps (which actually ARE the same thing) begins. But instead of delving into that fryer of hot oil, we move on to pomme frites.

Those of us not schooled in Quebec invariably find it difficult to order in a French restaurant; the menu, while appearing to be in English, uses an array of French words which have no English culinary translation. Words like chiffonade, julienne and hors d’overs have always been French, but then there are dishes like ratatouille, boullibasse, and cassoulette garnished with condiments such as remoulade, aioli and paté that appear on the page, with accent marks that stealthily sully your menu into another language entirely while you’re listening to your waiter rattle off the other haute specials (you’re pretty sure he used ç several times), and though you nod, you’re at a loss to understand what’s actually IN any of them. So, you play it cool, and you kindly ask the nearest bus boy what exactly is such-and-such, and how is this prepared, and if that contains fish. After you ask a few questions, he’ll grow impatient, and when you, as politely and coyly as possible, inquire as to what pomme frites is he’ll give you a look that clearly indicates how much of an imbecile he thinks you are.

[throat clearing noise of contempt] “Hollandaise is a milk sauce similar to a béchemel sauce, madamoiselle.”

“Ah. And it says the steak comes with…”

“Hari coverts and pomme frites, monsieur.”

“Erm…”

[more condescending throat clearing] “Green beans and french fries.”

“Ah,” you say, relieved at something you can at last recognise. But, while in your head you are picturing a New York Strip with steakfries (or chips, if you’re on the other side of the Greenwich meridian), what’s on your plate come mealtime is more like a sculpture sprinkled with a crossbreed of funyuns and pickup sticks. These my friend, are pomme frites.

While chips and fries have some striking differences, they are more or less brothers in the world of the fried potatoe. They retain the same basic spirit. Not so with the pomme frite, which is less like a french fry and more like a rogue onion ring. It is even thinner than the American french fry, sometimes even as small as a shredded string of the stuff flash fried, thoroughly dried, very lightly salted, and doused in white vinegar. It is usually served in a wax paper cone at a bar or on top of a cut of red meat like a wig meant to soak up sauce red with either blood or wine. That is the pomme frite.

Last but not least, we come to the final culprit of the deep-fried potatoe debate: the potatoe wedge. In America this little guy is just another version of the french fry, just another shape to add to the pantheon of crinkle-cut, thick-cut, and waffle-cut, but to the rest of the world, the potatoe wedge isn’t just a shape. It’s a completely different breed of cat. In any roadside dive along Route 66 you have the simple choice: regular fries or chili cheese fries? This is something completely unheard of to the rest of the world. To them, the question is: french fries or potatoe wedges? A new concept to you? Let me explain the difference.

This is the potatoe wedge, a triangular version of it’s square predecessors with one definitively round side. It is thick and hearty and still reeks of potatoe, it is not salted, though it is often peppered, and it is always twice-fried, giving it a darker and more textured exterior. It is served piping hot on a plate with an assortment of dipping sauces as an appetizer to be shared, and it is always eaten alone. That is the potatoe wedge.

And then of course there is the home fry vs. hash brown debate, the sweet potatoe vs. yam battle, and the latke vs. galette war, as well as the numerous disagreements between potatoe variations (bubble and squeak or bangers and mash?). However we choose to impart the wisdom of the fried potatoe on our proteges, it will not be just for taste. The wonder of that tiny mass of nutrients (which, when paired with milk provide all the essentials) goes beyond colour, shape, and name to a realm where we can rest assured the potatoe will not be soon forgotten. Long live the potatoe.

Every country has their version of the minimart. In Houston it was the Stop’N'Go, in Crested Butte the True Value, in Los Angeles, the 7eleven, in Tokyo the AmPm, in Sydney the Night Owl. Well, in Brisbane it’s the Golden Casket. It’s rainy, and I’ve got twenty minutes to kill before the next bus, so I decide to look for a magazine, not to buy (becaue Australian magazines are rubbish) but to browse and kill some time, when I happen upon this.

Hark! I yell in the middle of the tiny convenience store. It’s JPG Magazine! I am surprised, you see, because these magazines are already incredibly hard to find in the states. You can pretty much only find them at secret Barnes & Noble stores, or by ordering a subscription online (which isn’t worth it since they only come out with about three a year). But JPG is an ideal page-flipping magazine to browse while you’re waiting in an aeroport because it’s a magazine made entirely of pictures, with the occasional photographer’s story in there. So I pick it up and read about lensbabies (every issue talks about lensbabies) and Holgas (every issue talks about holgas) and whiz past the section on street fashion without a second thought. Then. Stop. Full stop. I run into this.

Not just a picture. A tiny little package of C4 right in the middle of a magazine I’m thumbing in a Golden Casket behind a man wearing a plastic bag like a hat who smells of used mouthwash. I recognise it. Like, I really recognise it, not that “ooooh I know I’ve seen that somewhere” but in an instant I know not only exactly where and why that picture was taken but what camera took it, what time of day it was, and how many times the photographer probably had to try before he got one without any cigarette smoke in it. I know because I’ve been there.

It’s in the “Destinations” section (go figure) and in one glance I knew it was a picture from Tokyo. It’s a walkway under the JR Yamanote line just by the Yurakucho station. But it’s more than that. It’s a tiny remnant of industrial Tokyo as it was two generations ago before they all felt the need to look 20, blow 4G on a suit and smell like a soap shop even in 35º heat. You can’t hold a conversation much less order in any discernible tongue from any of the tiny stalls and milk-crate tables that line the walkway because the subway noise from above clatters into your ears every four and one-half minutes to fill your entire brain with the sound of shifting steel and anxious commuters. Walking under that bridge is like walking through a time capsule.

It’s also a border. The line divides Ginza from Hamamatsucho. Ginza says, “Keep your filthy, discount priced electronic hands off of our main strip and don’t you dare touch my Itoyama,” while Hamamatsucho says “We will if you will, and try not to let your holier-than-thou elitism spread to our BIC, okay?” The walkway is a no man’s land between the neighbourhoods, but it’s also a refuge from both worlds. On one side the unattainable high life the Japanese so often seek, on the other the obsessive technology they can’t get away from. The walkway is a sanctuary where old men sit and talk and smoke and drink and avoid work for as long as possible.

And the coolest part of all wasn’t that I recognised the picture, or that I had walked through its gateway on several occasions during my commute to Tamachi, no. See, when you see a landmark like the Tokyo Tower or like Senso-Ji or like anywhere in Odiaba, you know it’s Tokyo. It’s the same as seeing a picture of Times Square, or of the Empire State building. Yeah, you’ve been there, but so has everyone else. It’s an icon. This walkway is not an icon of Tokyo. It’s a nothing. A nowhere. A tiny, insignificant corner of a busy city that’s two steps to the left different than the places around it. You can’t read about it in a tour book, you just have to stumble upon it, like the lady who sells basil from her front door, or that architecturally impressive (and apparently private) middle school. You see, the best part of all was that I understood one little space out of a gigantic fucking city all on my own. I didn’t just see the top ten list, or follow the tour guide. I actually knew the city. I was really there.

11,550 kilometres (7,200 miles) couldn’t do it. 7 months living out of a suitcase couldn’t do it. Only eating pasta .072% of the time, 67% less often than usual, couldn’t do it. Only kind-of speaking the local language couldn’t do it. I thought I was going to get out of my half-year period abroad without once getting homesick. How wrong I was.

So what did it? What, after 24 weeks of homesickness-free time had passed, made me finally wish I was back home? It was a robot. This robot:

Dances with Robots (from the Flickr)

Okay, I’m pining for a robot. Specifically KSCR’s free-wheeling, head-losing, Justice and Cut Copy-loving, foot-loose and girl scout-stalking Revolutionary Robot that I missed. I haven’t seen it in years, since I was an intern in the days when Richard was GM and Nicole could still persuade me to don that tattered cardboard costume in 30-degree Los Angeles heat. The days when it was just me, Tim, Jeff and Aisah manning the table, when Steve still showed up, days when we were surrounded by more buttons than we knew what to do with and wearing our matching shirts, which we didn’t yet get for free. I fell in love with USC’s radio station that moment, and now continents away I still spent all summer wishing I was back in that dumpy, rat-infested studio to air my weekly shows and marvel at our polaroid schedule.

And then I saw it, the video of the dancing robot. Until that moment, I was the last person to wear the robot. It’s head was different. It came with shiny silver pants held up with suspenders (still eight sizes too big for me). It’s head was a spray-painted lampshade with a facehole I was too short to see out of. You had to wear it with gloves. And while the new and improved (and shinier, I see) robot looks just as uncomfortable as the first, I couldn’t help but wish I was inside that robot again.

Let’s face it, it’s not about promoting ourselves, or perfecting our brand, or making sure we have 24-hour programming. It’s not about booking the greatest live acts and getting everyone on programming board or in new north or across the street that science centre to notice us. It’s about music. It’s about a bunch of kids who got in a room and loved music so much they wanted to play it every hour of every day for everyone else that loves music too. It’s about fun. Because music is fun. And we are a fun station. It’s sad that no one knows about us, but it isn’t the end of the world because we’d be lying if we said we did it for the world. We do it for us. For music. And that’s what makes it good.

KSCR, I miss you terribly. I want to come back home right now and make a fool of myself in front of Tommy Trojan for you. I’m sorry I abandoned you. You know no amount of time or distance could change how passionate I’ve always been about music, and no inter-office scuffle or intra-staff antics could ever dim my adoration for our quirky and endearing station. I will come home. And I will never again forget how wonderful an asset you were. Are. Will be. See for yourself.

100 things you didn’t know about me:

Ten Favourite Authors

1. Norton Juster

2. Douglas Adams

3. Gabriel Garcia Marquez

4. Mark Twain

5. Lewis Caroll

6. David Sedaris

7. e.e. cummings

8. Bryce Courtenay

9. Orson Scott Card

10. J. K. Rowling

Ten Favourite Movies

1. Amelie

2. Diarios de Motocicleta

3. Tortilla Soup

4. Goal! The Dream Begins

5. Ever After

6. Monty Python and the Holy Grail

7. Stranger Than Fiction

8. Snatch

9. Trouble in Paradise

10. My Neighbour Totoro

Ten Least Favourite Foods

1. Celery

2. Turkey Tetrazzini

3. Capsicum (Green Bell Pepper)

4. Pimento Cheese

5. Milk

6. Fettucini Alfredo

7. Honeydew Muskmelon

8. Runny Eggs

9. Tuna

10. Imitation Wheat Noodles

Ten Travel Books You Should Read

1. Mark Twain - The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn

2. Jack London - The Call of the Wild

3. Jules Verne - Journey to the Centre of the Earth

4. Paul Theroux - Dark Star Safari

5. Bruce Chatwin - In Patagonia

6. Dave Eggers - And You Shall Know Our Velocity

7. Elizabeth Gilbert - Eat Pray Love

8. Homer - The Odyssey

9. Norton Juster - The Phantom Tollbooth

10. Jean Craighead George - My Side of the Mountain

Ten Favourite Pasta Shapes

1. Penne Rigate

2. Cavatappi

3. Orecchiette

4. Pappardelle

5. Lumache

6. Campanelli

7. Spaghettini

8. Ravioli

9. Orzo

10. Cappeletti

Ten of My Hobbies

1. Photography

2. Cooking

3. Sailing

4. Yoga

5. Guitar (and other instruments)

6. Writing

7. Travel

8. Camping

9. Conte Crayon

10. Football (soccer)

Ten Things I Dread

1. Vomiting

2. Degenerating my hearing or vision

3. All my teeth falling out

4. Regrets

5. Cockroaches

6. Losing friends

7. Repetitive stress injuries

8. Poorly mixed concerts

9. Amputation

10. Allergies

Ten Greatest Words Ever

1. inevitable

2. evocative

3. typify

4. appall

5. eradicate

6. moot

7. albeit

8. erroneous

9. laudable

10. visceral

Ten Vacations I Want to Take

1. Patagonia - motorcycle the Andes through Chile and Peru following Che Guevarra’s route

2. Mainland Asia - backpack through Thailand, Cambodia, Laos, Nepal, Tibet

3. Cays Islands - island hop by kayak in Belize

4. LA to Vancouver - road trip up the PCH to the Pacific NW and the interstates back down to the desert

5. Greece - sailing the Mediterranean through the Italian and Grecian islands

6. Silk Road - retrace the silk road by foot through China into Russia

7. The U.K. - I’d like to go back to England yes, but I’d really like to see the Irish countryside and the Scottish cities of Glasgow and Edinburgh

8. Western Europe - bicycle tour through the Iberian peninsula to Italy

9. Eastern Europe - winter spent in Zurich, Prague, St. Petersburg, Vienna, and Berlin

10. Scandinavia - from Iceland to Sweden, Finland, and Norway to the Netherlands

Ten Favourite Smells

1. Clean skin

2. Fresh linen

3. Cappuccinos

4. Gingersnaps

5. My pillow

6. Bookshops

7. Kittens

8. Ripe peaches

9. Teak wood

10. Just before it rains