Two weeks. We had just two weeks to get from New York City to Orlando, Florida. Along the way we were to visit Niagara Falls, Gettysburg, Washington, D.C., Virginia Beach, Key West, and the Everglades. My friends from Australia would fly into Wisconsin just before Independence Day, and then we would all depart for New York on July 5.
There was no way to know it at the time, but as I planned out the stages, booked airline tickets and made hotel reservations, this tour down the East Coast would come to represent the very best - and worst - of what it means to travel away from home. I was to have an absolute blast with my Australian friends, bar a near disaster about halfway through. But first, I had to start at the absolute basic level. I had to pick up my friends at the airport. Easy, right?
I had a simple job. I had to be at Madison's Dane County Regional Airport at 8:45 p.m. One would have thought that by now, I would be getting better at leaving. Not true - every single chore associated with setting up a farm in order to leave on vacation was turning out to be anything but uncomplicated. Menial tasks, preventative maintenance, the simple act of stockpiling dairy supplies - a day shot here, hours gone there. Meanwhile, the deadline approached with the ferocity of a runaway freight train.
Anyone who has ever tried to leave his or her business - even for a short time - knows that feeling of dread associated with not having enough time to get it all done. It is a sentiment impossible to convey to those who have not been there.
Needless to say, I was running late. Even by recklessly disobeying the law, there was no way I would make the drive from Monroe to Dane County Regional in less than 30 minutes. I sent an innocuous-sounding text message to the Aussies and hoped for a flight delay, "Hey! I just arrived and am looking for a parking space. Where are you?" Of course it was rubbish. The East Beltline was torn up with road construction and traffic was at a standstill. Above the jam, jets on final approach were descending toward the airport, as though mocking me.
When I finally arrived, I parked and made my way to the terminal, moving as quickly as possible while still trying to appear cool. "Hey Dan!" I stopped dead in my tracks. There they were - Andrew, his wife Belinda, and their two boys Lachlan and Mitchell, aged 14 and 12, respectively. It had begun.
When engaging an Australian, you feel a connection. Despite that we live on opposite ends of the earth, there is a correlation. We have similar morals and outlooks on life, we speak the same language, and the cultures are fairly analogous. There are, however, subtle differences that make the experience unique and memorable. Almost immediately, these seemingly nonexistent discrepancies came to light:
Lachlan remarked in his Aussie brogue, "I swear, no one in your country can pronounce my name right." His is actually a fairly common Aussie name, and is pronounced "LOCK-lin". He added, "Whenever anyone looks at my ID they say, 'Latch-LAN'." He made a big show of drawing out the A's, making the butchery of his name sound truly wretched.
Since it was now approaching 9:30, we opted for a quick fast food meal at Culver's, in Madison. As we gathered around the table and awaited our food, Mitchell planted himself directly at my side. I would have a great deal of fun with Mitchell over the coming weeks. Our conversation went something like this - keep in mind that I am talking to a distinctly Australian 12-year-old:
Mitchell: "Hi, Dan. What did ya order?"
Me: "A burger, fries, and a shake."
Mitchell: "Those are called chips, not fries. What kind of shake?"
Me: "Peanut butter cup. It's my favorite, want a taste?"
Mitchell made a face. "You Americans put peanut butter in everything; yuck."
Me: "No, we put bacon in everything." I spooned out a sample of the ice cream, making sure it was laden with peanut butter chunks. "Here, want to try it?"
Again, Mitchell made the face and turned away, "I don't like peanut butter, especially not in my ice cream."
I held the spoonful closer. "You've never even had peanut butter ice cream. Here - just try it. Unfortunately, it's not going to kill you."
That, I've found, is the single most effective way to get Mitchell to try something. By lamenting that he's actually going to survive a new experience, I can get him to very happily jump in with both feet. I should have been a psychologist; if only working with cows was this easy.
He took a bite, obviously having prepared himself for utter abhorrence. He thoughtfully processed the new flavor, swallowed, and reached for more. This was a new experience - peanut butter is not a big item in Australia, particularly peanut butter ice cream. By the end of the trip, Mitchell's dessert of choice would include a peanut butter shake.
I would also get him to try other non-Australian anomalies like waffles, s'mores, a root beer float, and even raw oysters and sushi by this same method.
Their trip to America was destined to be epic.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
There was no way to know it at the time, but as I planned out the stages, booked airline tickets and made hotel reservations, this tour down the East Coast would come to represent the very best - and worst - of what it means to travel away from home. I was to have an absolute blast with my Australian friends, bar a near disaster about halfway through. But first, I had to start at the absolute basic level. I had to pick up my friends at the airport. Easy, right?
I had a simple job. I had to be at Madison's Dane County Regional Airport at 8:45 p.m. One would have thought that by now, I would be getting better at leaving. Not true - every single chore associated with setting up a farm in order to leave on vacation was turning out to be anything but uncomplicated. Menial tasks, preventative maintenance, the simple act of stockpiling dairy supplies - a day shot here, hours gone there. Meanwhile, the deadline approached with the ferocity of a runaway freight train.
Anyone who has ever tried to leave his or her business - even for a short time - knows that feeling of dread associated with not having enough time to get it all done. It is a sentiment impossible to convey to those who have not been there.
Needless to say, I was running late. Even by recklessly disobeying the law, there was no way I would make the drive from Monroe to Dane County Regional in less than 30 minutes. I sent an innocuous-sounding text message to the Aussies and hoped for a flight delay, "Hey! I just arrived and am looking for a parking space. Where are you?" Of course it was rubbish. The East Beltline was torn up with road construction and traffic was at a standstill. Above the jam, jets on final approach were descending toward the airport, as though mocking me.
When I finally arrived, I parked and made my way to the terminal, moving as quickly as possible while still trying to appear cool. "Hey Dan!" I stopped dead in my tracks. There they were - Andrew, his wife Belinda, and their two boys Lachlan and Mitchell, aged 14 and 12, respectively. It had begun.
When engaging an Australian, you feel a connection. Despite that we live on opposite ends of the earth, there is a correlation. We have similar morals and outlooks on life, we speak the same language, and the cultures are fairly analogous. There are, however, subtle differences that make the experience unique and memorable. Almost immediately, these seemingly nonexistent discrepancies came to light:
Lachlan remarked in his Aussie brogue, "I swear, no one in your country can pronounce my name right." His is actually a fairly common Aussie name, and is pronounced "LOCK-lin". He added, "Whenever anyone looks at my ID they say, 'Latch-LAN'." He made a big show of drawing out the A's, making the butchery of his name sound truly wretched.
Since it was now approaching 9:30, we opted for a quick fast food meal at Culver's, in Madison. As we gathered around the table and awaited our food, Mitchell planted himself directly at my side. I would have a great deal of fun with Mitchell over the coming weeks. Our conversation went something like this - keep in mind that I am talking to a distinctly Australian 12-year-old:
Mitchell: "Hi, Dan. What did ya order?"
Me: "A burger, fries, and a shake."
Mitchell: "Those are called chips, not fries. What kind of shake?"
Me: "Peanut butter cup. It's my favorite, want a taste?"
Mitchell made a face. "You Americans put peanut butter in everything; yuck."
Me: "No, we put bacon in everything." I spooned out a sample of the ice cream, making sure it was laden with peanut butter chunks. "Here, want to try it?"
Again, Mitchell made the face and turned away, "I don't like peanut butter, especially not in my ice cream."
I held the spoonful closer. "You've never even had peanut butter ice cream. Here - just try it. Unfortunately, it's not going to kill you."
That, I've found, is the single most effective way to get Mitchell to try something. By lamenting that he's actually going to survive a new experience, I can get him to very happily jump in with both feet. I should have been a psychologist; if only working with cows was this easy.
He took a bite, obviously having prepared himself for utter abhorrence. He thoughtfully processed the new flavor, swallowed, and reached for more. This was a new experience - peanut butter is not a big item in Australia, particularly peanut butter ice cream. By the end of the trip, Mitchell's dessert of choice would include a peanut butter shake.
I would also get him to try other non-Australian anomalies like waffles, s'mores, a root beer float, and even raw oysters and sushi by this same method.
Their trip to America was destined to be epic.
- Dan Wegmueller of Monroe writes a column for the Times each Tuesday. He can be reached at dwegs@tds.net.
