What does an American look like?

"I was once in an elevator in Singapore" the Master of Ceremonies told us "when someone asked me where I was from."
"I'm from America"
"Really? You don't look like an American."

"Since that day," He went on "I've often wondered...what does an American look like? Well if you want to know, take a look around the room. Look at the person standing next to you. That is what an American looks like."

So I looked around the room and saw black people, white people, yellow people and brown people. I looked at the Asian man on my right, the African woman to my left. Young and old, male and female, healthy and infirm. The only thing we each had in common, was that a few moments before, we had been officially pronounced citizens of the United States of America.

We'd been told to 'dress respectfully', which for me meant collecting my good jacket from the cleaners and selecting a tie. One gentleman was wearing a tuxedo, most ladies were in smart dresses, but some were in jeans and one muscular gent, the combat uniform of the US Army. A well-worn combat uniform. I had a chance to observe all this as we huffed our way up the hill from the parking lot to the theater in which the ceremony was to take place. I noticed some people were finding this more of a challenge than others and I wonder if it was perhaps the final test to weed out those not fit enough to be US Citizens.

Once inside, we were met with a scene of mild chaos. People stood in lines chattering excitedly, while cheerful staff manned numbered card tables. Having not read my letter properly, I hadn't realized I was supposed to be in line for table # 1, so I took it as a good omen that by sheer chance, this was the table to where my line led. Once there I was given a blue slip of paper (others had red or white), which dictated where in the auditorium I was to sit. "Come back here after the ceremony," the lady said, "and collect your certificate." I was also given a touchingly dorky little American flag, which I was unable to bring myself to wave, although most other people had no such inhibitions.

Into the theater itself, and my allotted seat where for 45 minutes or so, I watched a much larger American flag projected on a large screen at the front while stirring march music played in the background. This included to my amusement, John Paul Sousa's "Liberty Bell", which may be more familiar as the theme music for "Monty Python's Flying Circus".

Finally the M.C. stepped up and the proceedings began. We started out with a short video showing similar ceremonies around the country and I think it was at this point I first began to appreciate the significance today held. Watching the emotions playing out on the screen, the people crying and laughing, praying and hugging, I'll admit I felt a bit of a lump in my own throat and even though Dear Wife was at the back of the hall with the camera, I wished I'd arranged for a few more people to join us for the ceremony.

There were a handful of speeches next; all blessedly short and for the most part, quite amusing. One guest speaker, a teacher originally from China explained that while he was comparatively well off by the standards of his village, his $7 a month salary wasn't enough to achieve the dream of owning his own car. "I wanted the feeling of speed!"

When he finally made it to the United States a friend gave him a Chevy Impala (a very large, boat-like car) as a gift. "That first day, I took it out on the freeway and put the pedal to the metal. I was doing about 25 miles an hour while all the other drivers blew their horns and roared past me but oh, it was great!"

The M.C. explained that we had 291 people here, from 68 different countries, which he then read out in turn, from Afghanistan to Zambia, while we each stood when heard our own country's name. In the interest of time, he had asked us not to clap until we were done; but when he called out 'Mexico' and almost half the room stood up, everyone spontaneously burst into laughter and applause. Almost the entire theater were on their feet by the time he called "United Kingdom" so I couldn't see who else stood then, but the next person up was my neighbor, from Vietnam.

Finally we were down to business, and with our right hands in the air and flashbulbs popping like the Superbowl kickoff, we repeated the lines which make up the oath of allegiance. I hadn't even realized how far along we were in the proceedings until the M.C. announced:

"Congratulations and welcome, to the newest citizens of the United States of America."

People began hugging each other and crying, and as I shook the hands of my neighbors, even I had to wipe a bit of grit out of the corner of my eye. Who knew it would be this emotional?

Admittedly, the mood was almost spoiled when they played a recording of Lee Hazelwood's saccharine musical diarrhea "Proud to be an American", which had me looking around for a vomit bucket, but soon we were outside taking photos in the sun, each proudly holding the certificates confirming our citizenship.

I hadn't been overly excited about today. To me, becoming a citizen was just another step along the road; like obtaining a driver's license, or renewing my passport. Just something one did. If it wasn't for the fact that after 14 years here, I wanted to be able to vote politicians into office, (and out of it), I may never have taken the leap.

My family didn't suffer any political repercussions from me moving here. I didn't swim any rivers, didn't run through a hail of machine gun bullets, or spend days floating on a raft in the open sea. I simply navigated through bureaucracy and while that may have been trying at times, it was small potatoes compared to what some of these other people had no doubt been through.

So to sit in this room and watch people sitting with tears streaming down their cheeks, or smiles splitting their faces, and in many cases both, I finally realized just what a big deal becoming a United States Citizen actually was.

So if you want to know what an American looks like...click here.

Things to do in Bega when you're broke

There isn’t all that much to do in Bega (Bay-ga) New South Wales, especially on a Sunday. I’d done the usual tourist attractions (walking up the main street, then walking back down again) and that had filled a little under 15 minutes yet the day stretched endlessly ahead of me.

The night had been seemingly endless too, being as it was, one of the coldest I’ve spent anywhere. The youth hostel was cozy enough, small and intimate, with a gas fire in the common room, which easily kept that space comfortable. A “Canadian” couple (Handy Hint: US Citizens abroad can be easily identified by the Maple Leaf patches on their backpacks) had shared their curry and rice with me and chatted pleasantly all evening, or at least until the talk turned to politics and I learned he was a Margaret Thatcher fan. It’s bad manners to insult people who’ve just shared their food with you so I did my best to change the subject and when that didn’t work, headed to the dorm room for an early night.

Even with the extra insulation provided by blankets swiped from empty bunks, it was a cold, cold night and I wasn’t at all sorry when dawn finally illuminated the room and prized myself out to face the day. I’d been in Australia for a couple of weeks now and had been deceived many times by sunny weather. It usually remained cold, even during the day despite spring being well under way and the shorts and t-shirts which I had expected to wear every day, were tucked well down towards the bottom of my pack. After such a night, I was anticipating another cold day so dressed accordingly so I wasn’t at all surprised when this turned out to be the warmest weather I’d had so far. Unfortunately, I was well overdue for a laundry, which meant each of my shirts were a little...ripe and I was forced to keep a sweatshirt on out of consideration for my fellow man.

The pub (singular) opened at 10 and while that’s earlier than I usually start drinking, I was bored out of my brains so stepped indoors for a quick one. Not surprisingly for Australia, the place was already packed. “Look at this fellah” says one character dressed in the Aussie uniform of singlet, shorts, work boots and bush hat, meaning me “He’s dressed for the cold weather!” I explained just why I was anxious to keep my sweatshirt on and this impressed them greatly. In not time I was seated on a stool at the bar, surrounded by a half-circle of locals all fascinated by this rarity – an outsider.

"What brings you to Bega, mate?" asked one.
"A bus" I explained, to a roar of laughter completely disproportionate to the quality of the humor.
"But why Bega? There’s bugger all here!"
"Yeah, I know that now. But it was a place on the map and I’m not in any rush."
"Well, we’ve got the rugby final on the telly this afternoon" explained John the landlord, "You’re welcome to come and watch it here if you like."
As the pub sported a color television, unlike the youth hostel’s portable black and white, this sounded very attractive so after determining that the majority of the people in the pub would be shouting for Canberra, as opposed to Sydney, the favorites, I set off back to the hostel to catch some shut-eye before presenting myself back at the bar a few minutes before kick-off.

The place was packed.

"Listen up everybody" yelled John above the din "This skinny bugger’s a pommie, but he’s alright so don’t give him any shit, OK?"
"Yeah but who’s he rooting for?" (Who is he supporting) came a yell from the crowd.
"Canberra of course" I shouted back, thankful that I’d done my homework earlier. Unfortunately, Instead of the approval I was expecting, this garnered a howl of derision. As I was to learn; in the 3 hours I’d been away, the Canberra fans had all left, presumably to watch the game at home and the place was now wall to wall Sydney supporters.

"Just you and me rooting for Canberra" John told. "But no worries. There’s free steak sandwiches in the back room so help yourself." If there’s one word that backpackers love it’s 'free' particularly when relating to food and/or drink and I was soon stuffing my face.

The game started out promisingly enough, with Canberra taking an early lead so John and I made sure to get our shots in early. Good job we did too, because there was precious little reason to crow in the second half. Sydney came out swinging and by the time the final whistle went, had delivered a trouncing of legendary proportions. Despite the incessant ribbing, I stuck it out to the end and was still protesting that Canberra were preparing for a late surge right up to the final whistle.

You can drink a lot of beer during an Australian rugby game, particularly when everyone around you is getting into the spirit of the thing, and I have to admit, I put away my fair share that afternoon. However, I was on a backpacker’s budget and a day of drinking wasn’t really in the financial plan. As the bar finally began to clear, I approached John with more than a little trepidation.

"How much do I owe you John?" I asked pulling out my wallet.
"No worries mate" he responded cheerfully without looking up from the sink where he was rinsing glasses. "All taken care of."

I never did determine if he’d given me my drinks on the house, perhaps as a show of solidarity for me sticking with his beloved Canberra despite everything; or if one of my other new friends had picked up my tab. Either way, I felt a lot of gratitude as I wobbled my way back to the hostel.

That night I chatted to the uh Canadians who had spent the day at an animal sanctuary, watching kangaroos, koalas and other native Australian species. They weren’t impressed when I said I’d spent the day in the pub.
"I think it’s important to spend our time here wisely" he said, a little sanctimoniously "We decided we want to see as many Australian animals as possible before we leave"

He had a point. Although by the time I departed Australia several months later, I’d seen all the animals they had, and none of them in cages. Even better, I'd spent a day in the natural habitat of that rare and delightful species Australius Egregius.

I think I came out ahead.

Canberra

I’ve used these pages more than once to recount my progress as a fledgling mountain biker. After a lot of work this summer I’m finally reaching the stage where I can ride uphill for quite a long time and occasionally even reach the top. However, in the spirit of full disclosure, I have to explain that my first experience with a mountain bike came some (clears throat) years ago when I rented a bright yellow steed from Canberra Youth Hostel. (Where?) Canberra, Australia of course. Canberra. It’s the capital. Oh, go look it up.

Not that Canberra has mountains you understand, although it does have a couple of steep hills (the Youth Hostel is atop one of them) and one very long, drawn out slope leading to the Capitol building. This got longer and more drawn out when the gear cable snapped near the bottom and I had to complete the climb in the highest gear. The bike had 36 gears in all, which would have been around 33 more than I would have needed anyway but as it was, I had to content myself with 1 for the rest of the day.

Which all in all, wasn’t such a bad deal. With the exception of the aforementioned two hills and a slope, Canberra is more or less flat. Built over several decades through the mid twentieth century, (like Sydney Opera House, the design was chosen by competition) Canberra is by definition, a "planned" city and like most planned cities, it’s indescribably dull.

Oh, it’s pretty enough. And practical. It’s easy to get around, the roads are wide and uncrowded and the parks are really quite delightful. But that doesn’t prevent it from being dull. If you’re looking for a wild, crazy, drinking all day, partying all night kind of place, then Canberra isn’t it. In fact, despite spending an entire day cruising the streets on my bright yellow chick magnet, I never saw a single pub (which is my personal definition of hell). Now, as we all know, you can’t take a herd of politicians and lock them away from their families for weeks at a time without giving them a few places to undo their top buttons, but if said places are available to the hoi-polloi; then I didn’t come across them.

I did however, spend a lot of time going from public building to public building, like a good little tourist. The first port of call was the ANZAC memorial; a tribute to the fighting men and women of the Australia & New Zealand Auxiliary Corp whom the British used as cannon fodder during WWI. The building was impressive enough but paled in comparison to the view, which soared across the geometrical lines of the city to the parliament building some 4 miles away. Having a Y chromosome, I was also fascinated by the collection of antique aeroplanes.

The National Art Gallery next, free due to refurbishments, which was good because the vast majority of it was way over the head of an uncultured slob like me. Recently, I’ve been making an attempt to teach myself to draw again, and it’s slow going, but I think half the skill of these artists is to figure out how to get someone else to pay exhorbitant sums for the tripe they produce.

On then, to the parliament building; originally designed in 1913 as part of the aforementioned competition, but not completed until 1988, just a few years before I was there. What impressed me the most was the symbolism deliberately included in the design. For example, every color in the scheme, from the red gravel of the forecourt to the pale green of the seats represents the colors found in the Australian environment. Even better, the entire building is built into a hillside, with the roof sitting at around of the height of the original landscape. There is also a public walkway across the roof and these are both to show that the government does not sit ‘above’ the people, but that the people are above the government. A certain president whose party took a drubbing in the US elections last night could learn a lot from the Aussies.

The view from the roof was spectacular although I might have appreciated it more had I not made the poor choice of shorts and T-shirt, which were proving to be hopelessly inadequate for the early spring day. I must have been shivering because a little girl tugged on the leg of my shorts leg and asked me "Aren’t you cold?"

"Nah", I lied, "I’m British, I don’t feel cold." But the goosebumps may have given me away.

Back downstairs and off in search of some light refreshments. I didn’t find any, which considering Australia’s affection for the amber nectar, was astonishing. Locals have since told me that bars and nightclubs do exist in Canberra – one just has to know where to look. Sadly, I did not know where to look and after pushing the bike around the lake of a beautiful, but deserted park, (where for the record, I saw my first wild parakeets) I had to be content with wandering around a supermarket, purchasing groceries for that night’s dinner. Food in Australia is cheap when compared to Britain and as I was booked into the hostel for several nights, I came away with a rare haul.

Remember how I said the Youth Hostel was at the top of one of the few hills in Canberra? And remember how I said the gear cable had come loose, locking me into top gear for the day? Well here’s a tip kids, write this down.

If you have to ride to the top of a steep hill, on a bike which has only one, very high gear, and you have four heavy bags of groceries to carry up there with you…

Make sure you’ve at least had a couple of beers before you start.