Odyssey in Oz: Day 2: Slou Arrives!

On Day two of this grand adventure, Slou arrived! It was raining (still!), so we mostly stayed inside and colored (okay, Slou colored while I scrolled the internet). 

We had dinner that evening with a friend I had previously met in Dallas. He walked us to a pub down the street and we ate on the roof top--while it rained. I ordered chicken snitzel and made it a "parmi," which basically just means it was chicken parmasean served over fries. 

We decided that since it was still raining and we needed to keep Slou up for a few more hours, that the two of us would go see Star Wars after dinner. The lady at reception told us to take the train and the theatre would be easy to find. "All right," we agreed. "If I can figure out the subway system in French and Italian, how hard could be in an English speaking country?

REALLY REALY COMPLICATED, APPARENTLY. 

First, we had to FIND the train station. Once we did, we had to figure out how to buy tickets. There were a lot of options, so we just picked "City" since it was in the largest font. Getting through the gates was tricky enough, but then we had to figure out which playform to get on! 

We kept checking maps, but they were all in pink and for the bus system. We couldn't locate a detailed orange train map, and walked around in circles, as only confused tourists can do. After pointing and saying "Oh! A map!" the fifth time, we gave up on maps entirely and submitted ourselves to the staff only window off in the far corner. A nice older gentleman was just coming out of the office wearing his bright orange (for trains!) vest, and was able to point us to platform 2. 

We breathed a sigh of relief and boarded the train. Not that that was hard enough, we then had to find our way out of the train terminal. The station we departed from had nice big signs saying "Way out," but of course we couldn't find any such sign at this, the movie theatre platform. We again wandered in circles with increased panic-induced adrenaline until another orange-vested lad pointed us toward a very hidden exit. 

We made our way to the theatre and explored the lobby/arcade/mezanine/whatever until we found the line for purchasing movie tickets. LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT PURCHASING MOVIE TICKETS. Apparently the seats are assigned, so Slou had to swap her ticket once I got to the ticket counter so we could sit together. 

Now, you'd think this would have been ENOUGH to struggle through, but no. The ticket line then fed directly into the snacks room, where picking out popcorn was a nightmare. Let's just say that a slap-happy Slou, a ditzy candy-striped girl behind the pop corn machine, and a lot of unhelpful signage led us to hop around in a panic for a full five minutes. 

FINALLY, we make it into the theatre, but if you thought we could go right in and sit down, ha! The cleaning crew is still at work and won't let us in despite the minute hand ticking closer and closer to 8:00. We meet a eccentric fellow waiting along with us. This was his second viewing and he was quite interested in helping us properly pronounce "g'day!" He claims he was a rock star who performed all over the world. This is now my second near-celebrity sighting of the trip. No Hemsworths or Fat Amy yet. 

We finally got to sit down and enjoy the movie. Well, I did. Slou fell asleep so who knows how much she actually saw. 

Thank the Lord we made it our back to the hostel at the end of the night. It was quite an exciting day two, and we are now fully aware of how much we need to avoid the trains. And movie theatres. So much for assuming travel in an English-speaking country would be easy!

Odyssey in Oz: Day 1: The Sydney Bridge Climb

Day 1: Sydney Bridge Climb

An Austrian named Claus, a Singaporean we called "G," three English grumps, a Fin, a couple of Sweeds, and a girl from Texas. Together this group climbed 440 feet to the top of the Sydney Bridge. In the rain. Did I mention it was raining? It was raining. 

The Sydney Bridge Climb has to be the most well organized tourist experience I've ever been on. Think Disney world, complete with funny outfits, foreigners (although in this case, I'm one of them), and extrodinarily pricey photo ops. 

They begin by outfitting us in our gear: onesie suits, rain pants, harnesses, hats, hankercheifs, headsets. We do a practice climb, where we experience the ladders and assure our leader we're fully capable. We take one last stop for water and then we're off! Walking first across two wooden planks, 49 meters high and 250 meters long until we reach the botton the bridge's arches. We then ascend the real ladders, four sets of them, one of which guides you right through lane seven and eight of the highway. The summit is reached by a path of slightly inclined steel planks, bolted to the original structure of the bridge. As we reach the top, the wind (and don't forget, the rain, too) reaches about 60 kilometers/hour. I grabbed the handrails more than once to keep from blowing over. I even spread my arms--"I'm the king of the world!"--and giggle when G understands the reference. We stop for several photo ops along the way, all of which come out terribly, but I pay for anyway, (don't forget, it's raining!) until finally reaching the top. Lexi, our tour guide, explains that the bridge was built during the Great Depression, taking eight years, but only sixteen lives, which is incredible when you realize the men worked up there without safety wires, helmets, or scaffolding. It was just them, the wind, and the Good Lord's mercy. No thank you. 

The descent is slicker, but the rain stops, so we can finally look around without squinting. They finish us off by stripping us back to our street atire and collecting our souvenir dollars. 

The veiw at the top is stunning, and the feeling of being so high and so exposed is phenominal. I felt as secure as I do on the ropes course at camp, but completely out of body. As I write this, sitting in a cozy pub finishing off a margharita pizza slice and listening to the man next to me describe the greek system at his son's American university (a topic his drinking mate is not too interested in), I cannot believe I am here. The flight, wandering the city, climbing the bridge. The only explanation of why today feels so long is that the day had extra hours in it--which, as a matter of fact, it did. So it's now 4:30am Dallas time (9:30pm Sydney time), and I think I'm ready for another hot shower, some m&ms, and a good, long night's sleep. Finally. 

Slou joins me tomorrow, and I very much look forward to sharing this experience with her! Let's hope it doesn't rain again. 

Odyssey in Oz: Day 1

Day one started at 10:30am Saturday morning in Dallas as I rode to the airport. My flight to LA was smooth and eventless. Upon landing, I grabbed a cab and headed to my brother and sister-in-law's house, where they were having a photo shoot. For the shoot, my brother had to repeatedly pet the dog and water some succulents, and then it rained. This is as close I got to seeing a celebrity.

After dinner, they dropped me back off at the airport where I made it just in time to my international flight. There was a series of wrong terminals, wrong kiosks, and forgotten items, but eventually I was snuggled into my seat and ready for the long haul.

I'm quite grateful it was too dark to see out the window until only a couple hours before landing. That ocean is BIG, you guys. The meals weren't terrible, and movie selections were fine, and the nice old man next to me--who may actually have been the actor who plays Professor Proton from The Big Bang Theory, although what he was doing all the way back in row twenty-five I don't know--helped me unstick my seat at about 7am (Dallas time) so then I was finally able to sleep for about forty-five minutes at a time.

We chased midnight across the ocean, but finally caught up with dawn around 9am Dallas time. The clouds broke so I watched the ocean and just when I thought it would never end, we saw land! Landing in Sydney required circling the entire city, so I got to see the whole city from a bird's eye view.

Getting through customs was a breeze, and hopping a shuttle to the hostel was even easier.

After storing my luggage in a locker, I headed out to wander! Starting in The Rocks, I made my way through Circular Quay and the Sydney Opera House. The Opera House is as spectacular as you'd think, but--it's beige! Who knew? Silly Disney had me convinced it was white.

Lastly, it was back to the hostel to check in, shower (which was glorious), and nap. Wanna know what came next? It involved a lady named Lexi, an Austrain with a bubbling of enthusiasm, and a Sinaporean we called "G!"

Time to Leave: Heading Down Under

The spring of my junior year of college, I got to travel. You could call it a study abroad program, but it was mostly just me wandering around Europe. I got to see picturesque places like The Colosseum.

I got to dip my toes into exotic water like the Adriatic Sea.

And I got to build a snowman in the Alps of Switzerland.

When I touched down on US soil in 2009, I promised myself I'd leave again. But life got in the way. I needed a job, a car, a dog. I had to pay bills, pay dues, pay time. Next thing I knew, six years had gone by, and I was still here.

Last spring, I watched a friend as she traveled solo for four months, and while I wasn't able to join her at the time, she inspired me to get up and go. Soon, I thought. And then over the summer, we said goodbye to a family friend, and I was reminded how short life really is--how you can't waste one moment. Now, I thought. It was time.

I often make decisions based on who I will be as an eighty-year-old women. Will I regret that dance? that class? that call? A friend once said, "Think about who you want to be in ten years, and make the choices today that will help you become her."

I'm seeing thirty quickly approach. I cannot--will not--let my adult life slip away without my permission. I will not wake up at forty-five and wonder where my youth went.

It's been to Europe. And now it's time for it to head down under.

So, I'm leaving. I'm packing up a backpack, stashing some cash, and heading out the door. Leaving a sitter for the dog and a to-do list for my job. For four weeks--four short, but lucky weeks--I am heading down under. To see a part of the world so different than my own.

Australia and the US have a lot in common--history, size, culture. But there's so much that's different. There's so much I don't know. There's so much to discover.

I'll hop over to New Zealand, too. There won't be enough time to see enough of either country, but I've got to try. I'll end in Fiji, mostly because I'm not convinced an island that pretty really exists. I've got to see it with my own eyes.

I hope to God that this won't be the last big adventure I get to take, but I also won't put it off any longer. It's been six years. I'm due again for a little leaving.

Follow me on my trip through this blog--I'll update as often as I can with anecdotes, photos, and itineraries. But if you don't hear from me, know this: the world is big and life is short and you've got to do everything you can to see as much of it as possible as soon as possible. Don't wait for the right moment. Don't wait for the stars to align. For your bank account to be full. For your calendar to open up.

Just go. Get out there. Leave.

Tough Life Choices

"You can do this." Liz looked down, letting out a long, slow breath. She thought about what this would mean. It went against her very core, but it had to be done, and there wasn't anyone else who could do it for her.

She thought about everything that led her to this point: the migrant workers, suffering under grueling conditions; the hours she spent preparing, the knives she'd sharpened to make it possible.

Nothing prepared her for feeling this way. She'd been a happy kid. She had a pleasant childhood. Her family got along--well, as much as any family can. She went to college, had a good job, had a dog.

But this? This was never part of the plan. She wasn't supposed to have to deal with it. She'd assumed she'd get to keep enjoying her pleasantries.

She sighed.

No, it wasn't supposed to come to this. She eyed the prongs in her hand, poised, ready for the kill. She wasn't going to like this. But it had to get done. Her life was on the line, and she didn't have a choice.

"You can do this," she said, again, as she plunged the sharpened tool and stabbed the first bite of lettuce.

That One Time When It Took Me Two Years To Buy A Car

If you've had the pleasure of encountering me in the last two years, then you've had pleasure of hearing about how I have been in the process of purchasing a new car. The conversation probably went something like this:

You: Hey, Liz! How's it going? What's new?
Me: HI IT'S GREAT I'M BUYING A NEW CAR AND I'VE BEEN SAVING UP FOREVER AND THAT'S WHY I'M ALWAYS BROKE AND NEVER GO OUT BUT I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT I WANT AND--
You: (slowly backs away)

 Hey, by the way. Did I mention I was buying a car?

'Cause I am. And I did. And here's how it went:

Me and my first love. March 2005. 

March 2005
Me with my new (used) car! I am 17 years old and just discovered the hidden 6-CD changer under the passenger seat. This car has special features like leather seats, a sunroof, cruise control, and a cassette tape  player. THAT'S RIGHT. #Winning






June 2012
Fast forward several years. I'm flying down I-44 in Oklahoma City at 75 mph (approximately 20 mph faster than any other car on the road, because Oklahoma) when my car breaks down. Forty-eight hours and five hundred dollars later, I think to myself, Maybe it's about time to think about a new car.

June 2013
On a particularly plain afternoon--ALSO THREE DAYS AFTER STARTING A NEW JOB HELLO STRESS--I hear my car once again make a noise. Green Gatorade is gushing out the underbelly of my car into my crisp new garage. Seventy-two hours and nine-hundred dollars later, I think to myself, Maybe it's about time I think about a new car.

August 2013
After marinating on this blog's suggestion of budgeting, I start saving up for a new car. I figure out how much I can afford for a car payment, and decide to start paying myself that much per month so I will have some cash to put down on a car next time mine decides to break. Not that I had any clue what a real car payment looks like. APR? Oh well. Dave Ramsey would be proud.

June 2014
Knowing I am twelve months from saving enough to buy a car and that I will buy a slightly used 2014, I begin my test drives. I narrow down my list of possibilities:

Nissan Pathfinder (too bulky and not that cute).

Toyota Highlander (too Mom-ish. But the new interior shelf and purse-holder? Drool.).

Jeep Grand Cherokee (come to Mama!).

BMW X3 (It's kinda like, "you were almost able to afford a real Beamer. Here's a gold star for your effort. Now get out.").







Let's be honest, the Jeep is the only SUV I was really interested in. I promised myself I wouldn't buy another car until there was one out there as pretty slash prettier than my Infinity, and the Jeep is the only one to measure up.

March 2015
I find approximately forty-two Jeeps I want to buy. I take one home for a one-night stand, but I know it's too much money so I end up giving it back. I drive out of state to view two other vehicles but ultimately wimp out.

April 1, 2015
By God's good graces and some generous donations from various family members and friends, I meet my savings goal and begin the search for a car, of which there are none. Literally. Anywhere in the country. After months of research, decision making, mind changing, and test drives, I now know exactly what I want, and there are exactly zero gently used vehicles in the country that meet my specifications. I can feel the money burning a hole in my pocket and no one will let me spend it.

April 15, 2015
I think I've found it. Against my ego, I search the Carmax website, and there it is. It's in Georgia, but it's the right color (okay, it's my verysecondchoice right color, but I'm too excited to worry about it). It has all the fancy features I want. It has crazy low mileage. It's a little pricey, but I can come to terms with that. It has the bigger, V8 engine, and as much as my tree-hugging self scoffs at the extra gas I'll be guzzling, my ego is revving. I make the call.

April 20, 2015
I have one more day to change my mind. The car will ship out tomorrow, and if I don't find anything better today, my deposit will turn into commitment. I take one last look. Cars.com turns up nothing. Sewell.com turns up nothing. No dealer has emailed me. It's 10:45. One last look at Carmax.

Crap.

I make another call.
I talk to the wrong salesperson.
I'm in trouble with the first over an issue of split commission.
There are more phone calls.
Am I running out of time?
The inquiries come back positive.
No dings.
Panoramic sunroof.
Heated steering wheel (What?! Yes, this is a thing).
No scratches.
Clean history.
It was born in Hawaii. A-LOW-HA!
They might pick up the other car a day early.
Please don't be running out of time.
I get passive aggressive texts.
I'm unsure.
Did it go through?
I leave voice mails.
I call again.

And then.

It's done.

The perfect car has found it's way to me. I made a last minute switch, but I'm so glad I did. For less money, and handful more miles, a smaller engine, and the absolutely first place color choice, I've got the right car.

I'm so grateful for everyone who listened to me as I worked through this process. To my friends who supported my months and months of anti-social behavior so I could save money. To my parents for being excited for each new car I found and went to see. For my grandmother for her generous donations that made it possible for me to afford more than I should. For the endless supply of sources on the internet that piece-by-piece explained the process to me. For the guys at the bank for patiently explaining loans to me. For the salesmen who kept up with me and treated me respectfully. For the salesmen who were real pains in the butts so I'd know that their car wasn't meant for me.

And finally, a big thank you to my first car.

For taking me on countless adventures, detours, and road trips.

For keeping me safe through sun, rain, ice, snow, hail, and tornadoes.

For shuttling my friends and I through our formative years.

For being the only home I never had to pack up and leave.

And for lasting until I was ready to say goodbye.

I sincerely hope you don't end up with ISIS.

This concludes my chapter on "How Liz Bought A Car All By Her Big-Girl Self". Now, would someone help me figure out how to turn this thing on? #RemoteStart

New car. May 2015. 

Fire's Catching: A Look at Mockingjay in the First Person Present

This week at the Unwriter’s Blog, we’re going to discuss a hot topic of writing. But to do so, we need to first take a trip to District 13, where Katniss Everdeen has learned of a rescue mission.

“Finnick and I try to station ourselves in Command, where surely first word of the rescue will come, but we are barred because serious war business is being carried out. We refuse to leave Special Defense and end up waiting in the hummingbird room for news” (174).

This weekend, the long awaited penultimate installment of the Hunger Games films opened: Mockingjay—Part 1! I’ve been looking forward to seeing this movie for as long as everyone else, and it was everything I could have hoped for!

I’ve been a longtime fan of both the books and the movies, and especially so since the books are written in the first person present point of view. This means the story is told from Katniss’s point of view as she’s living through the story. Any action scene or event that we readers get to see, we see through Katniss’s eyes. And this choice—the author, Suzanne Collins’s choice—to tell this story through Katniss’s eyes only, presents quite the conundrum in this month’s blockbuster film.

You see, in one pivotal chapter of the series’ third book (Spoiler alert!), Katniss sits in District 13, awaiting word that a rescue mission to free Peeta and the other victors held captive in the Capitol has returned successfully.

 “Making knots. Making knots. No word. Making knots. Tick-tock. This is a clock. Do not think of Gale. Do not think of Peeta. Making knots. We do not want dinner. Fingers raw and bleeding. Finnick finally gives up and assumes the hunched position he took in the arena when the jabberjays attacked. I perfect my miniature noose. The words of ‘The Hanging Tree’ replay in my head. Gale and Peeta. Peeta and Gale.”

The book, staying true to the first person point of view, keeps us with Katniss as we watch her anxiety build, as she tries to distract herself, waiting for the mission’s return. The movie, however, shows this scene in action since it’s such a wonderful opportunity to create tension for the climax of the movie—not to mention to use a bunch of special effects. So how did they pull it off, knowing that it wasn’t told in the book?

Simple. Katniss watches.

We need to perceive this story through her eyes, so the only way to show the scene in all its Hollywood glory, is to let Katniss watch it unfold as well. It’s how Hollywood adapts point of view to the big screen.

But it begs the question of the importance of point of view. My initial interest in seeing the Hunger Games movies (beyond being a total fangirl), was to see how they were going to present the story through Katniss’s eyes. For example, in the first movie, there’s an excellent scene where Katniss is stung by tracker jackers, a vicious wasp-like creature whose venom create frightening hallucinations in those who are stung. The movie does an excellent job of staying in Katniss’s point of view by warping the cinematography to show what her blurred and delusional vision must look like. It’s a beautiful expression of first person on screen. But movies don’t normally have the limitation of one point of view, so they get to jump around whenever they like. They can show the hero training and then jump over to the villain’s lair to see them plot their attack. By keeping the protagonist in the dark, viewers feel tension and suspense. But when a story is told in first person, we never get the opportunity to see the villain, or any other subplot, play out. To make sure they had their final action scene, Mockingjay’s screenwriter’s had to bring Katniss into the room so we could keep the story in her point of view.

It makes perfect sense for Mockingjay—Part 1 to bring Katniss into the scene to watch the rescue mission. But it wasn’t in the book. And it wasn’t in the book for a reason. What, then, does that tell us about telling a story in first person?

In short, it means that Collins wants us to love Katniss more than any other character. It means that despite the temptation to write the scenes we love to write—action scenes—this is still Katniss’s story, and our job is to watch Katniss live through it. It becomes more important to watch Katniss become anxious and stressed than to break away from her eyes and see the rescue mission. It becomes more important to watch her distract herself. Find out what she’s willing to do on her end to ensure the rescue is a success. It becomes more important to feel Katniss’s emotions with her, than to feel Gale’s conflict, Bogg’s determination, and Peeta’s gratitude. It ensures that we know that Katniss is the center of the story.

Collins is willing to sacrifice the thrill of the rescue to secure Katniss’s place in our minds. She’s willing to give up the chance to show emotions from other characters or a chance to see what the Capitol currently looks like. Because Katniss can’t know. She can’t know what’s happening in the Capitol or what Gale is really thinking.

We want to know. Anyone who swoons over Gale or has fallen in love with Peeta wants to be there, rescuing him. But Collins won’t let us. She’s willing to upset us to keep the integrity of her story alive. She’s willing to let Katniss look whiny, selfish even, to protect her story.

As writers we need to embrace this same commitment to our story. We all have complicated stories to tell. We all know the backstories, the side stories, the subplots. We all have opportunities to show parts of our story that would be really exciting. But the question to ask ourselves is—is it necessary? Is the scene vital to our story? Or is sticking with our character more important? What are we willing to sacrifice to keep our story focused?

The answer to that question must trump any desire you have to show off those scenes that might taste delicious, but add only empty calories to your novel.  

“It must be midnight, it must be tomorrow when Haymitch pushes open the door. ‘They’re back...’” (175).