Uncle! (On the Walkabout Stuff)

Blistered tootsies!

Blistered tootsies!

I’m pretty sure that I need to go to sensitivity training.  My friend, Clara, walked around this afternoon with blisters.  I first suspected there was a problem as we were leaving the house. Here’s where the “sensitivity” part comes in:   I then made her walk the entire length of the Royal Botanical Gardens (first on the harbor side, then the interior…for full effect of course), I then thought we’d take the ferry to Watsons Bay and walk to the lighthouse.  Seems that wasn’t going to happen. But of course she’s going to Bondi.

It was there that I had the first clue she was in trouble.  The nonchalant disposal of a band aid from her foot.  The limp she thought she was disguising.  No.  Clara was not going to be doing the Bondi to Coogee walk with me, but certainly she’d be able to walk the length of Bondi Beach…twice.  Right?

Well, I’m starting to see the pattern of my masochism.  Jill originally brought it up in Bangkok.  But it wasn’t until I had my fair-skinned, blonde friend Clara out again in the noonday, southern hemisphere summer sun, with blisters, that she called me both mad and an Englishman.  I have searched for a compliment in that oath but have been unable to find it.  “Are  you sure you don’t want to walk to at least Bronte?  Theres’s a great cemetary on the way.”   Clara!  Please.  Your language.  This country is more civilized than we’re used to.

So.  In the heat of the day we escaped to our breezy little flat in Darlinghurst.  After “disco naps” we caught the happy end of the ladies that have tea at the Victoria Room and then went to see a most disturbing, but beautifully acted and briliantly directed play at the Griffen Theatre.  It was especially fun because we are living in the house of the woman that directed it.  Doubly fun is the fact that she and her family are living in my house in West Hollywood right now! Over dinner afterwards we could not stop discussing “Dreams in White.”

Clara enjoyed the acting.  I found the story, and its depiction, a little too close to home for my taste.  God knows how close I’ve come to murdering white trailer trash, or just calling them family.


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