Melbourne is an international city.  Walking along Swanston Street, the street that cuts through the very heart of the city, past Federation Square, the main rail road station (Flinders Street Station), past the Center for the Arts, and retail districts spread off in all directions.On this street are Hungry Jack’s (Translations: Burger Kings), McDonalds, Starbucks, Krispie Kreme, Kenny Roger’s Chicken, tucked in between fish and chip shops, Chinese noodle stands, and Malay dining establishments.  On the street are people selling roasted chestnuts, bagels, and coffee.

Street performers were out in force.  The young bush boy playing his guitar to some bush song.  A Spanish guitarist played a flemenco song.  An aboriginal played a digeridoo.  A family sang from the back of their car the song “Sleigh Ride” which I found particular ironic as they probably had never seen a sleigh, and certianly not at Christmastime in Australia.

While all of the streets were busy, the crowds seemed to get larger the farther west I went.  The hawkers grew thicker.  The noise and the bustle and little busier.

As I got closer to Melbourne City Hall, I could see why the crowd was so large - the loud speakers blared uncipherable campaign slogans, people chanted words that I couldn’t make out over the din - in front of the large Victorian city hall a protest in favor of same sex marriage was taking place - with a small counter protest right next too it.  Combined with the throng of holiday shoppers, it made the street almost unpassable and very, very uncomfortable.

The throng of people seemed to be pulsating, and seemed to be a living and breathing mass, enmessed in the throws of some strange combination of politics and shopping.

Suddenly, above the din of the crowd came, as strange as it sounds, the sound of a lone trumpet, playing somewhere within the crowd.  It was so sharpe, so clear, so beautiful, it stopped me in my tracks.

Worse, I knew the tune, but couldn’t quite place it.  With the throngs pushing and jostling around me, the song, and the words, came to me -

“People, look east. The time is near 
Of the crowning of the year.
Make your house fair as you are able,
Trim the hearth and set the table.
People, look east and sing today:
Love, the guest, is on the way.”

As I made my way toward the end of the block, and closer to that heavenly sound, the music continued.  The thoughts of home, of faith, of family, and of friends raced through my mind.  Amidst the business and confusion of this life - material wealth, political wrangling, jobs, and social calenders - here on the street of Melbourne, the voice was still calling out - prepare ye the way of the Lord.

As I reached the end of the block - there was the Salvation Army band - high school volunteers really, playing and collecting money from an oblivious crowd.  Dropping some bills into the kettle, I got a hearty thank you from the handful of students there with their instruments as the lone trumpter continued to play.

No, thank you, I felt like saying, thank you from the depth of my world weary soul.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today) 

I like my furnace.  The weather gets colder outside everyday, and still our house feels comfortably warm inside.

I stood in the basement the other day for the longest time and admired our furnace.  I was kind of offering a silent “thank you,” I guess.

It’s not a new furnace.  In fact it’s a rusty old relic.  But, by golly, it looks like a furnace should.  Some of those new furnaces-gray metal boxes-with wires hanging out, look more like computers than heating systems.

No, our furnace is a real furnace with pressure gauge and bleeder valves and an altimeter to tell us how much water is in the radiators.  There’s a multitude of heavy-duty pipes attached at all angles.  Some of them may four or more inches in diameter.  The whole thing is held together with heavy bolts and rivets.

The old boiler, manufactured by the American Radiator Company in Milwaukee, was originally a coal-burner.  The fire-box is big enough for a coal scoop and we’ve found traces of coal dust in out-of-the -way areas of the basement.

Now there’s a big gas burner in there that burns with a blue flame as big as a bonfire.  It’s the furnace’s one concession to modern innovations.

I don’t know now long that old furnace will last.  It may be on the verge of death, or it may keep us snug and warm for years.  You never know.  A guy could tear it out of there and replace it with a modern high-efficiency model but there doesn’t seem much point in it if this one’s still working good.  It is.

New furnaces have an expected life-span of 20 years or so.  Automatic valves, sensors and pumps tend to wear out.  In 20 years, it’ll be time for a new furnace that’s even more efficient and look even more like a computer.

Our furnace may have been delivered on a Model T truck and has no automatic do-dads or pumps or sensors.  I suspect that it’s very inefficient.  I’ll bet it sends waves of heat up the chimney and burns far more gas than it needs too but it works and it is a simple machine.

 There are no pumps, sensor or valves, just a thermostat, a furnace and a bunch of radiators.  Hot water rises in the radiators and flows back to the boiler as it cools.  One pipe into each radiator.  One pipe out.  The system is quiet and reliable.  If not for warmth of the old cast-iron radiators and the intermittent rumble of the burner, you’d never know it was there.

There’s a blend of artistry and science to be found in our old furnace.  There’s a simplicity of design and function that is lost in today’s world of efficiency and planned obsolescence.

I’m not one to get all gushy over a household heating system, but I like my furnace.  I’d like to think it is a lot like me- not too modern or fancy, but dependable and hardworking.

“What took you so long in the basement?” Mary asked.

“I was admiring our furnace,” I explained.

She just doesn’t understand.

On my first trip through downtown Melbourne, it was bit of a sensory overload.  Trams going too and froo.  People everywhere.  The tall buildings interspersed with old Victorian masterpieces.  The dirty majesty of the Yarra River and the hustle and bustle of the international city is Melbourne.I needed a pint.

Right in the corner of the downtown, across from St. Paul’s Angelican Cathedral, stands the oldest purveyors of spirits (aka: bar) in Melbourne, Young and Jackson’s.  Originally build in the 1850’s, it caused a scandal in the 1880’s when a nude picture of a women was imported and installed in one of the second story reception rooms.  The picture, Chloe, is now a tourist destination.

With that in mind, I was looking for a quiet corner to drink a pint and have a moment of peace.

Walking in to Young and Jackson’s was like walking into a quiet repose.  The front had a small café.  There was a staircase that lead to the resturant upstairs, and behind was a long room with couches and tables.  Around a corner was, what I can only believe to be the classic British pub.  A bar with no stools, high top tables, and men quietly watching the Australian vs West Indies play cricket on the televisions.

Walking up the bar, the bartender walked up and said, “What’ll ya have mate?”

“Ah, do you have something pretty dark? And what ever you’d recommend on food” I asked.

“Sure, we got a nice porter right in the bar around the corner, that’ll fix you up right good.  I’ll get you a good meat pie and chips too - best in the city”  The bartender said dodging out from behind the bar and around the corner.

“Where in the h*** are you from?” Said a very load and hostile voice behind me.  Turning with a start, I looked into the face of a dirty unkempt face of the man walking towards me.

“I said, where in the h*** are you from?” said the man menacingly.

“The United States.  Minnesota.” I said, bracing myself.

“Really.  I love you Yanks.  Good people.  My names James.  I hate the city.  Only come from the bush every couple of years or so.  Don’t care much for people.”  With a firm handshake, I gave him my name and proceeded to listen.

“I also hate the smell of the city.  I’ve lived in Melbourne, and Sydney, and Brisbane and Perth and they all stink.  Stink to high heaven.  Why anyone would want to live there, I’ll never know.”  He then went on to discribe, in detail what each city smelled like.  Very graphically.  And while extremely humorous, are also very, very unsuitable to put into print, or ever to repeat.

What was perhaps the most ironic, is this man smelled.  Not your normal bad oder kind of smell, but the kind of smell that made you think he hadn’t showered in the three years he had been in the bush either.

“I would like to see Minnesota.  But your damned country won’t let me in.  Damn felony.  I didn’t mean to hurt the guy.  Let alone almost kill him.  It was an accident.  He shouldn’t have made me mad.  He was beating a woman.  I think.  Anyway, I couldn’t go anyway, what with the felony.  Did I tell you about the felony?”

My food arrived.

For the next fifteen minutes, he regaled me with stories about his felony, his accident, his life in the bush, and some of the jobs he had held (a top chef, a cotton quality manager, etc).

Suddenly, James stopped, and looked off into space.

“Sorry mate, haven’t been right in the head since the deal.”  Was all he said once he came through.

As I finished my meat pie, he regaled me with stories of what a spot Young and Jackson’s had once been only thirty years earlier.  It was a working man’s bar.  Street fighters, hard drinking, loose women.

“I hate what this has become,” he said as he looked around at the motely assortment of people in the bar, “Respectable.”

As I downed the last swallow of the porter from my glass he turned to me and said, “You want to come to a party tonight?  It would be great fun!  My mates are all bikers.  They don’t give a piss for these type of people.  They love you Yanks too.  They may rough you up a bit, but as long as you aren’t an a** or a smart***, they won’t be the s*** out of you.  If you get drunk and pass out, they’ll even roll you into a corner and won’t mess with you or anything!”

“James - that does sound like fun, but I’ve got a few things I need to get done today.  It has been a pleasure. Learned a lot about Australia that I didn’t know.”  I shook his hand, nodded at him very friendly like, and ran very fast to the door.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today in December 1988)

Waiting.

It’s unbearable for a youngster and intolerable for an adult.  Remember when you were a kid and you “couldn’t wait” for Christmas?

Retailers couldn’t wait.  Through the wonder of free enterprise, they began their holiday season three weeks before Halloween.

Mother Nature has been waiting.  She’s flurried a little here and there and frosted a little bit there, but we really haven’t seen her true winter colors yet.

Some of the waiting’s over.  With Thanksgiving this week, the holiday season really, truly and officially begins.

Do you remember back in August, when you wondered if it would ever get cold enough here to snow again?  Don’t worry, it’s headed our way.  Inevitably, winter will come to Iowa.

Tractors are still at work in the fields here.  Homeowners scramble to finish putting up storm windows and other fall chores.  Temperate days are numbered.  City, county and state workers have mixed sand and salt for the winter.  Orange trucks wait silently for a call to arms.  Welders have reinforced snowplows for a winter of hard work.

Squirrels scramble to gather a few more nuts and goodies for frozen months ahead.  The farm dog and the beef cattle are beginning to look shaggy.

Everybody’s waiting.  Waiting for winter and waiting for the holidays.  Maybe that’s what makes this time of the year so special.

This time of the year is like waiting for the other shoe to fall.  When will winter really arrive?  How bad will it be?  Will we be buried by snow?  Or will we be glazed by ice?  How cold will it get?  Ten below?  Fifteen below?  Twenty below?

With two relatively mild winters behind us, we’re likely to be in for a real winter blast.

Those unknowns add to the holiday spirit.  We wonder about gifts.  We wonder which family members and old friends the season will bring to us.  And we wonder if the turkey will be dry.

But two things are certain- winter is coming and the holidays are here.

Since you can’t avoid either- enjoy them.

Don’t wait for it to warm up, take an evening walk in the fresh snow.  Let good companionship warm you on your walk.

Don’t wait for the sun to melt it off, shovel your driveway- then shovel your neighbor’s.  Do it just to be neighborly. 

Don’t wait until the last minute to do your holiday baking, bake a fruitcake now.  Then you’ll have plenty of time to throw it away and give your friends some Archway cookies or some treats from the Dutch Oven Bakery.

Don’t wait until you’re done Christmas shopping to enjoy the holidays.  Enjoy while you shop.    Smile at all the people in line at the department store.  Even if you’re sixth in that line.

Slow down.  Winter wasn’t meant to be rushed.  Neither were the holidays.  Rushing around isn’t going to make the waiting go away, so slow down and enjoy the time.  Chat with a friend. Linger over that cup coffee.  January will be here soon enough without rushing through the rest of November and December.

Begin enjoying tomorrow-with Thanksgiving.  Make it last clear through until New Year’s Day.  Enjoy the wait for Christmas.  Then enjoy the wait for Spring.

If you’ve been waiting for an advice column to appear in this space- here it is.  Enjoy it.  Happy Thanksgiving.

The last Thursday of November dawned overcast and rainy in Australia.  In Melbourne, just another work day.  In the United States, Thanksgiving Day.

After work, a group of co-workers and I went to the establishment next to our building to put down a pit of amber fluid and help me celebrate our nations peculair holiday - a day for nothing but giving thanks.

The bar was closed for a private event, but the owner allowed us to sit at one of the tables under the awnings and drink a pint or two.  As we laughed and joked, I looked longing at the festivities inside.

Long tables filled the bar.  Autumn center pieces flush with American flags were scattered throughout the tables.  Cheerful faces filled the tables as glasses clinked and laughter wafted out onto the streets.  With disbelief, I watched as the turkey was triumphantly carried from the kitchen and all of the sides were passed out to each of the tables.  I could see only four feet from through the window, mashed potatoes, corn, sweet potatoes, gravy - in short all of the trimings.

It was odd to be sitting outside, looking in at the feast and the joy, seperated by only a pain of glass.  As an American, I was looking at what seemed to be my birthrite.  Part of me could imagine that it was my family sitting around those tables, laughing, joking, and feasting.

Later, as I feasted on my own, on king pawns, fresh scallops, and crab…I thought of all of the wonderful things that I had to be thankful for.  My God, my country, my family, my friends, the experiences, the wonderful teachers, the beauty of the world, all of the material wealth.  Truly, there is much to be thankful for.

As I reflected on these things, part of me was brought back to our little farm on the northern plains of Minnesota - back to when I was young and sitting on my grandmother’s knee, learning the words to “America the Beautiful” one cold, snowy Thanksgiving Day.

“O beautiful for pilgrim feet, Whose stern impassioned stress, A thoroughfare of freedom beat, Across the wilderness!”

How many millions, or perhaps billions, or people are like me - looking longingly through the window at what lies beyond.  Not the material wealth, but the freedoms, the rights, the liberties that we take advantage of every day.  To how many people do those things look so very close, but yet, like me, locked out, away from the bouty that lies everyday before us as Americans.

How many of us are like our forefathers - blazing away through the wilderness.  Though today it is less a literal wilderness, but more a wilderness of material excess, selfishness, greed, envy, fear and complacency.  How many of us are trying to build, with stern impassioned stress, a thoroughfare of freedom beat for those around the world, as well as our own back yard, the poor, the disenfranchised, the ignorant, the people yearning to worship, to speak freely, to live lives of purpose.

We as Americans have so much to be thankful for, that one day is not enough.  One day of giving glory to God is not enough.  We must live it and breath it everyday in all that we do.

We are pilgrims in this world, and the work goes on.

From the - normally - warm sunny beaches of Melbourne, Australia - wishing all of my family and friends a very blessed and wonderful Thanksgiving.

 The rock band, the White Stripes have a song called, “Going to Wichita.”  Everytime I hear that song, I think of my first job out of college.

After some angst, I had accepted a job with an ag company based in Minneapolis.  But their idea of recruiting was not to tell you where you would be moving to until the very last minute.

About a week before Easter, and just as I was getting ready to submit my thesis for graduate school, I got the call from the company.

“Congratulations Mark!  Your moving to Wichita to trade Wheat Midds!  Can you start next week?” Said the way to overly perky voice on the other end of the line.

“Great!  Fantastic!”  I said, with some fake enthusiam in my voice, “How about the Tuesday after Easter?” 

“Well…..I think we can try and make that work.” She said, with some confusion in her voice as if saying ‘start the day before Easter or you will rue the day’.  “Well call you back if that is an issue.”

With that, she hung up.

I turned to my professor who was in office with me, and said, with all seriousness, “Where is Wichita and what the heck is a wheat midd?”

Packing up all of my personal belongings in my ‘88 Pontiac Sunfire, I headed north, to the far reaches of Minnesota to spead Easter with my family, then onward to Wichita early the morning after Easter.

Lesson number one about the location of Wichita: it was a long way from the Upper Plains of Minnesota.

Showing up in Wichita, I was met at the door by one of the other merchants, a wiry, intense Texan that showed me around the office (a Czech like me, we still drink a beer whenever we can and is a good and trusted friend and advisor). 

Desk to desk, we moved around the office until I made it to the desk, my desk - with the person that I was too replace frantically trying to do two jobs.  Looking at me - he said, “You want to start today?”

“Sure!” I naïvely said.

“Great, here is your phone, here is your computer, here is your customer list.  Have fun.” (Side note - this callous gentleman remains one of my best friends to this day).

Whew.

I will admit the first weeks went by fast on the job.  I quickly found a place to live right along the ‘Are Kansas’ River (or the Arkansas River to the rest of the civilized world).  The Villa Del Mar (Village by the Sea) was one of the nicest apartment buildings on that section of the river.  And stood alone - literally - on that streatch of the river.

My first phone call to Dad to let him know that I’d started to get settled was a relatively quick one, but gave some of the best advice I’ve ever gotten.

Dad asked, “So, where is your apartment?”

“Its great Dad, it is about four blocks from church, eight blocks from the bars, and about twelve blocks from work.” I replied.

The phone was quiet for a minute, then Dad replied, “At least you got your priorities straight.”

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today in November 1989)

Lest regular readers of this column think that I am culturally stunted and more disposed to attending polka dances and “Ma and Pa Kettle” film festivals then “real” cultural events, let me inform you that I attended a ballet performance last week.

I must admit that it wasn’t my first choice of entertainment.  But at my wife’s insistence we dressed up and went to the Royal Winnipeg Ballet Company’s Ames performance.

Please understand that Mary didn’t drag me there kicking and screaming.  I try to keep an open mind about these things so I went with very little protestation.  Besides, i’ve spent Friday nights doing worse things than sitting in a comfortable seat in a darkened concert hall.

Then the performance began.  It was fascinating.  The next two and a half hours flew by.  All the things that you hear about the strength, beauty, grace and timing of ballet dancers is true.  To this untrained eye, every step was true and every sequence of dance was fascinating.

There were some unexpected things as well.  One number featured only two dancers with tambourines dressed in colorful costumes.  Their smiles and energetic performance showed that ballet can be flamboyant and gay as well as stately and graceful.

In another number, an imposing grand piano was suspended over the darkened stage by a rope and the dancers were clothed in dark reflective leotards.  As they danced to the dark, dissonant chords of the music, flickering shadow and billowing curtains were as much a part of the performance as the dancers themselves.

It was strange and wonderful and unlike anything i’ve ever seen before.

The last number, a dance rendition of Anne of Green Gables, was also beautifully done.  Dance, music and intricate, whimsical sets combined for a touching performance.

I guess what I’m trying to say here is that I’m glad I went and I won’t be so hesitant to try new things in the future. There is life beyond “Ma and Pa Kettle” after all.

But lest you think I’m turning into a snob who prefers the ballet and the theater to the more  “earthy” forms of entertainment, let me inform you that less than an 24 hours after we attended the ballet, my hair was painted green and yellow and standing on end.  I was wearing a shirt that glowed in the dark and my face was painted stark white and I was wearing black lipstick.

“Thank you,” I replied to friends who commented that I looked like the movie and cartoon character “Beetlejuice.”

Our post-Halloween party was a screaming success.  It just goes to show that you can take the boy to culture, but you can’t culture the boy.

Part of moving into a new place, assimulating into a culture, and just plain out settling in is doing the necessary shopping.  Moving half way around the world, this presents some unique challenges, being in an English speaking, westernized society, it makes things easier.That doesn’t mean that it isn’t fraught with surprises.

My first day on the ground, I visited one of the two large grocery store chains that dominates the country, Woolworths, or as it is more commonly referred to, Woolies.

A side note - as I’ve come to discover, everything is abbreviated with a “ie” added to the end of it.  While I’m not Markie yet, I fully expect it to happen, and soon.

Back to the matter at hand.

My first day on the ground, I visited Woolworths - er - Woolies.  It is a nice grocery store.  Learning some tricks from back home, I went only down the fruit, dairy, and bread isles - though they were a bit jumbled.  The fruit was all Australian fresh.  The yogurt of Australian origin.  The reconcentrated mango orange pineapple fruit juice…not sure, but guessing it was fairly close to Australia.

I was set to survive at least for a while, in Australia.

This last weekend, with some of my necessities from home running low, I decided I’d better be more adventurous.  I visited the Pharmacy.

This was more of an adventure.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for your sticks of deoderant.”  I asked the young lady at the counter.

“Yeah, no problem mate, they are just over there.  Though here we call them ‘sprays.’” She replied with all seriousness.  Compared to the US, where there are literally rows and rows of stick deoderant, here there was about four, total, all sprays.

Meanwhile, my hard to find shampoo was front and center on the shelf, the floss tools that my dentist told me were a must were sold by the gross, and my specialty razor blades that were hard to find in the states are the number one seller in Melbourne.

But darned if I could find the Q-tips.

My next stop was the grocery store - not so much for groceries, but because I needed shoe laces, and thinking about my pharmacy experience and knowledge from back home - Woolies had to have shoelaces.

I wondered the store - the aisle with coffee, greeting cards, and canned pineapple.  The aisle with the questionable fruit juice, tupperware, and cookies.  The aisle with mops, toilet paper and Christmas candy.  The area with cookware, Mexican food, and klenex.

I couldn’t find the shoelaces.

In an act of final desperation, I asked one of the employees.

“Sir, could you tell me if you carry shoelaces?”  I asked.

“Well of cause mate!” was the reply.

“Where would I find them?”  I inquired.

“Need to the underwear and socks.”  The employee replied with a confused look on his face thinking, ‘doesn’t this man know where to find shoelaces.

“And where are those?”  I asked.

(Long sigh) “In the freezer section.”  He replied with disgust…I’m sure thinking those ignorant Americans.

I bought a pair of socks too - just in case the next store doesn’t have a freezer section.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today) 

Sometimes we get bored with it all.  Television shows us the glimmering skylines of New York and Los Angeles.  Magazines tell us about sun-drenched shores in the Bahamas and the Mediterranean.  Newspaper travel sections tell us about weekend excitement in Chicago, Minneapolis and Kansas City.

Somehow, good old Boone just doesn’t seem to stack up against such stiff competition.

Last weekend, we hosted some good friends from North Dakota.  On Sunday morning we took them for a little tour of Boone.  As residents, Mary and I started the tour with a ho-hum attitude.  We intended to hit a few of the high points so we could get back home for lunch.

Eric and Nancy, our guests, had other ideas.  They were amazed at the size and beauty of the Des Moines River Valley.  The first glimpse of the Kate Shelly High Bridge took their breath away.  We had to take a second trip out to the bridge because they didn’t have their camera along the first time.

They looked in awe at the streams and cliffs of Ledges State Park.  They fell in love with the grand historic homes along Story Street and elsewhere in town.  They couldn’t believe the size and scenery in Boone’s expansive mchose Park.  They were charmed by the quaint but varied downtown district.

We listened knowingly as Nancy and Eric talked about small town life in North Dakota.  They told how their home town would do practically anything to attain Boone’s population, retail base and services.  They wistfully admired the opportunities available to us only minutes away in Ames and Des Moines.

As the tour moved along, Mary and I became a little more enthusiastic.  We related the bits and pieces of history that we’ve learned since coming to Boone.  We talked about our camping excursions to Ledges and our picnics at mchose Park.  We related what little we know of Boone’s railroads as we watched a lengthy freight train thunder across the Kate Shelly High Bridge.

“We really like living here, ” we told them.

Like most people in Boone, we can and do rattle off a list of reasons why we don’t like living in Boone.  We can and do talk about bad experiences and disappointments we’ve suffered while living here.  Most of the time, you’d think that most people in Boone hate living in Boone.

But we don’t.  And sometimes it takes someone from outside to help us step back and realize that Boone is a pretty great place.  Think about that when you carve your turkey for Thanksgiving.

Speaking of giving thanks, what can you can abut the fantastic weather last week?

Chuck Schwarzkopf at Boone’s Ben Franklin Store tells me that this year he’s had Christmas shoppers in his store wearing shorts and T-shirts.

I’m assuming that he’s not counting those infuriating people who do their Christmas shopping in July.

 Monday, slightly more then one day in Melbourne, Australia, the city down under.  While walking out and about for supper, I decided that I wanted the full colonial experience.  Damn the revolution, I was going English tonight.

Walking down the main bar area of St. Kilda, the famous Fitzroy Street, I walked to the very end to one of the most well known English pubs in Melbourne, the Elephant and Wheelbarrow.

Let me digress for a moment - how do they come up with the name of English pubs?  I mean - the Elephant and Wheelbarrow?  There isn’t an elephant in the wild anywhere near to Melbourne.  They aren’t native to the continent - they aren’t even close.  Do you think it was a couple of drunken Englishmen discusing things that really didn’t go well together?  What other names did they come up with?  The Giraffe and the Trapeze?  The Water Buffalo and the Surf Board?  The Chipmunck and Computer?

Anyway…

Walking into the Elephant and the Wheelbarrow, I was met with the sights and sounds of England - the dark wood, the stained glass, the shaded corners, the meat pies on the tables, the imperial pints of beers in the hands of the patrons, the big screen televisions playing American football, my Minnesota Vikings beating the Detroit Lions….

It was like walking into another world - part England, part Minneapolis.

I walked up the bar, ordered a good Australian beer, and found a seat in front of the big screen.  Taking the first sip while watching Bret Farve - now a Viking, running a play to Adrian Peterson, not a Norwegian, I nodded to the gentleman at the table next to me.

“This is my team.”  He proudly said.

“Which one?” I inquired.

“The ones in purple.  The Minnesota Vikings.  This is American football.”  He proudly pronounced.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“The United States.”  He replied.

“Where?” I asked.

“Minnesota.” He replied.

“Where?” I asked.

With a funny look, he said, “Owatonna, Minnesota, USA.”

“Huh,” I said, “This is my team too, I’m from up near Detroit Lakes.”

For the next two hours, we sat and talked about life in Minnesota, growing up in rural America, and talking about the challenges and joys of being Minnesotan’s away from home.  For him it was his wife and kids, for me, it was my Dad and brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, and friends.

We parted ways as the Vikings ended their trouncing of Detroit with a handshake and good “yeah, it was good running into ya then ya know…”

Thirty-six hours after landing in Melbourne, I had a Tasmanian beer, in an English pub with a Minnesotan watching American Football….

It doesn’t get more Australian then that.