  So, I've decided to create an online journal. Why, you might ask. Well, mainly because I don't want to forget all of these crazy, mildly scary, and exciting adventures I am having here in Australia. I would like to think that my memory will hold out and I will remember six months worth of "good times", but I must admit mental defeat in this case and resort to jotting down my observations -- anyway, ya never know, they could be worth money someday (kidding!).
The other reason for launching this journal-writing endeavour is to share my experiences with you, my mildly interested audience, who was either forced here under pain of death or who simply stumbled across my blog and entered unaware. Yes, I know...in many cases, these stories and observations will be of the "guess ya had to be there" variety and others may bore you to tears, but take heart! I am sure there will be some secondhand tales that will make you titter or might even make you want to hop on a hellish 14-hour long airplane/amusement park ride of a journey (think: rollercoaster) over here to join me.
Whatever the reason for your perusal of these brain barfs, welcome! I only ask that you overlook any spelling and/or grammatical mistakes. Yes, I know that I possess an English degree and, by virtue of that very fact, should write flawlessly. But even English majors have the right to turn off their hyper-critical brains once in a while, don't they?
Now, to the reason for my inaugral title. This past weekend was an excellent example of the type of fine dining that I have been party to since I arrived in Australia. And I am not being sarcastic when I say this...I really do eat much better here than I ever did in Vancouver (hence the extra kilos that I am presently trying to eradicate with sporadic jaunts to the gym). Anyway, on Friday, I returned home from work to join my housemate, Vanessa, and two friends, Tim C. and Jono, in the fine art of creating a meal of cantilone pasta. Now, being the major carbos fan that I am, I have had my fair share of assorted pastas, but I have never sampled anything that comes close to the cantilone. We stuffed these gloriously hollow, cylindrical pasta shells with cheese, spinach, sun-dried tomatoes, onions, and shallots; placed the stuffed cylinders in a baking dish and then proceeded to cover them with a bolognese sauce and more cheese [are you beginning to see where the kilos are coming from?].
We turned off all of the lights in the apartment, lit candles, and put on a Diana Krall c.d. It was all very romantic, without being romantic whatsoever. The following day, I was invited out to experience the Australian festivities surrounding the 21st birthday. Much like the "Sweet 16" craze in post-war America, the 21st birthday in Australia is a time when halls or restaurants are rented out and family and friends are invited to eat, dance, give speeches, and present photographic "this is your life" montages.
This one party, in particular, was unique because it was held at an open-air cafe. Guests could either mingle inside or they could venture out-of-doors and relax on the patio, eating potatoe wedges, nachos, and sandwiches. It was all very relaxed and I spent most of the night just chatting with friends or meeting new people. At one point in the night, the birthday girl's Greek family got up and engaged in some traditional Greek dancing.
As I am extremely "unco" (Australian for "uncoordinated"), and a little bashful to boot, I didn't get up and join in, but it was fun to watch! Sunday was a even more casual. After church, I joined Philippe, my friend from France and fellow Australian adventure-seeker, down at the Wollongong City Beach Harbour. There, we bought takeaway fish and chips (though I declined the chips in an attempt to maintain some sort of figure) and strolled over to The Point where the lighthouse is situated.
We sat on the grass, eating our lunch and fending off these crazy red-eyed seagulls that have mastered the art of trying to look inconspicuous -- inching a few centimetres closer to us at regular intervals, all the while feigning interest in preening their feathers or watching the ocean. Luckily enough, they are less aggressive than the ducks at the Uni of Wollongong's duck pond. The last time Philippe and I met for lunch, we were practically chased around the pond by this prehistoric looking duck-goose (think genetically enhanced duck with huge webbed feet and talons). The other picnickers had a chuckle at our predicament. We, on the other hand, were a little frazzled, having never been preyed upon by any type of fowl. 
