2006-09-06 || 5:33 p.m.

|| Brisbane ||

Owen was disappointed when we got off the plane because it's winter in Australia, and winter is supposed to equal wearing his beloved North Face jacket. It turns out winter in Brisbane equals very fine weather for t-shirts and leaning against railings outside the terminal watching Australians milling about in their sunny natural habitat. We try to detect any hemispherical differences: Australians drive on the other side of the street. Vegetation is somewhat different but suspiciously similar to that of San Diego. Further research will be needed.

We go back inside the terminal to psychically summon whomever it is that is supposed to pick us up. We're tired and mussed and in need of toothbrushes. Owen's hair is sweetly mashed up on the side of his head from the position in which he passed out post-Bloody Mary and the first quarter of Robert Altman's M*A*S*H* (note: Air New Zealand = heaven in the skies, friend. Accommodating of tall people, free booze, a delightful choice of movies and video games, space-age uniforms for the flight attendants, bubble and squeak for breakfast, what?). A very cute girl walks up to Owen and asks if it's him. Nadia. She says she knows him by the beard. We stuff our international-airline-approved luggage into the trunk of her car, pushing out space for her paperbacks and forgotten clothing. We mention we're keen on cuddling koalas. We discuss American pests, such as raccoons and possums. Australian possums are much cuter than American ones. This is somehow symbolic.

In Brisbane Owen and I get situated. We order coffee but our requests aren't understood. They mistake Americanos for some kind of pasta dish and iced mochas involve ice cream and whipped cream. I'm not complaining.

We go out to lunch with the enchanting Nadia and Nikola and Amy and Susie and dear Haima, who will be doing the sound for the duration of the tour with Clue to Kalo. Tomato sauce is our ketchup but much much better. We steal Haima's fries. I consider stealing the tomato sauce and keeping it safe in my satchel to bring back to the States as a perpetual reminder that Australia = a bit different, a bit better. See: soda, toast, candy, potato chips, afternoon soap operas.

Our first official Australian show is at the Troubadour. We meet Chris of the Alps in a Sonic Youth t-shirt and cardigan. He feverishly puts together CDs to sell at the show minutes before the doors open and plays a set involving a modified church organ. The crowd is rather young. Owen says he feels like he's living in MySpace. I feel particularly sensitive about just having turned 30. Seaplane plays and we like them a lot; they�re very Pavement-y if you don�t mind my saying. Clue to Kalo then plays while Owen and I are sitting in the audience. Mark makes a point of introducing themselves, Mark Curtis Alan, saying it's for our benefit, and I am offended seeing as I have already memorized their names and faces and general descriptions for perpetuity. They are soulful and lovely and charming. I am excited we will be touring with them.

Owen plays and Brisbane loves him. I note the people in front who are singing along and feel a bit better. When I sing I look at the lights and am just glad I have remembered all the words. I don't know what to do with my hands. I know I will thoroughly love Clue to Kalo when I go off stage after my songs and Curtis gives me a congratulatory hug. We heart Australia.

See also:
Sydney
Adelaide
Melbourne
Auckland
Wellington

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