Tsunami in Waikiki

The tsunami sirens wailed across Waikiki, slicing through the usual tropical stillness. We were warned: one hour until impact. A massive wave, triggered by the sixth-largest earthquake ever recorded, was racing across the Pacific toward the Hawaiian Islands.

It was eerily quiet. The usual soundtrack of the beach strip — splashy beach music, kids shrieking with joy, the occasional ukulele — had been silenced. No one was swimming. No one was sunbathing. The only sound was the sharp, repetitive voice of the Honolulu Police, loudspeakers crackling warnings: stay off the beach.

Even the birds had vanished. Not just the usual city birds, but the eccentric flock of roosters that roam Oʻahu like they own it — gone. Across the road at the Honolulu Zoo, the birds left behind were screeching in protest, their calls sounding more like alarms than songs.

Up on the highway, a steady stream of brake lights blinked through the evening as cars inched toward higher ground. The roads were packed. Our beach — Waikiki — was now all over international news. The surreal part was: we were standing in the middle of it.

I thought about Thailand. I thought about Japan. Places that understood what it meant when the ocean suddenly went quiet.

We had just joined the queue at Starbucks when the first emergency text hit everyone’s phones simultaneously — a jarring, robotic alert: TSUNAMI WARNING. ESTIMATED ARRIVAL: 3.5 HOURS.

In that split second, I wasn’t sure what to expect. My first instinct — conditioned by recent headlines — was that it might be an active shooter warning. Relieved to find it was “just” a tsunami, I looked around to see everyone reading the same message. We were all suddenly in sync.

The barista casually advised us to head to higher ground. So did a local behind us in line. We took the hint.

We headed back to our hotel on foot — a slow walk down the strip, keeping an eye out for bottled water “just in case.” But most shops had already shuttered, including the ever-present ABC Stores. Tourists were frozen mid-stroll, their eyes glued to their phones. Earthquake. 8.8 magnitude. Pacific Rim.

People weren’t panicking, but they weren’t relaxed either. A man told a nearby group to move inland. The locals had a calm urgency to them — not dramatic, but serious. It was the kind of tone that cuts through even the most sun-drenched holiday denial.

At the hotel, the receptionist smiled brightly and said, “You’ll be fine — just stay in your room. At least above the second floor.”

Back in the room, we prepped like cautious amateurs: filled the bath halfway with water, packed a go bag, showered, charged the phones. We messaged loved ones to say we were safe — and we were, technically. But anxiety is its own kind of wave.

I worried for the locals. For the unhoused community living along the strip. For the roosters. And for the animals at the zoo just across the road. Surely someone had gone to help evacuate them?

Down in the lobby, just hours before the wave’s ETA, I noticed the furniture had been cleared. Only the heavy shell-and-glass coffee tables remained. The building’s two grand entrances opened straight onto the old beach. I imagined a fast-moving swell surging through one and out the other like a tide pool — a best-case scenario, really.

Each time the emergency alert buzzed again — echoing across phones, streets, and sirens — the tension climbed.

Tsunamis, I’ve learned, aren’t always the cinematic walls of water Hollywood would have you believe. They can arrive in surges, quiet then violent, with unpredictable strength and timing. They don’t always hit and leave; sometimes they come in pulses. All night long.

But that night, something strange happened.

A massive hurricane — spinning just south of the Hawaiian islands — disrupted the ocean’s flow. The swirling air pressure acted like a natural shield, dulling the power of the incoming wave. Nature protecting itself.

The tsunami came, but with less force than feared. No roaring wall of water. No catastrophic surge. Waikiki was spared.

But the memory lingers. That electric, quiet-before-the-storm stillness. The collective vigilance. The humbling feeling of standing in a place famous for its beaches, and wondering whether those very waves would rewrite its shape by morning.

From Top Hats to Lockdowns: Goulburn, Then and Now

Flashback to May 1921. It’s a crisp evening in the heart of Goulburn. The streets hum with quiet sophistication. Men in top hats stroll with women draped in elegance, dressed to the nines. The town is alive with pride, purpose, and a sense of occasion.

Fast forward to May 2024. I found myself wandering into the Goulburn Tourist Information Centre, chasing a thread of that old-world charm. The man behind the counter, generous with his time and stories, shared just the kind of historical insight I was looking for.

One place, in particular, caught my attention: the Old Mill Tavern, a charming mock Tudor building nestled beside a green park. Its windows now dark, a 'for sale' sign hanging on the door, it was clear the tavern had seen better days.

Peering through the glass, I felt someone behind me. It turned out to be the current owner—or rather, the seller—who caught me in my moment of curiosity. Instead of shooing me off, he kindly invited me in. We stepped through the quiet, echoing halls of what was once a thriving gathering place for Goulburn’s social and business elite. Movers, shakers, bikie gangs (allegedly), and international tour groups had all passed through its doors. Even corporate guilds from across the region once considered it a must-stop destination.

Yes—Goulburn used to be a place people went to. On purpose.

But like so many businesses in 2020, the Old Mill Tavern didn’t survive the pandemic. Lockdowns, travel restrictions, and the sudden evaporation of bookings hit hard. The regular rhythm of visitors disappeared overnight, and with it, a piece of Goulburn’s spirit.

And yet, standing in that empty building, surrounded by history and potential, I couldn’t help but think: Goulburn could be the Baby England of the Southern Hemisphere. The architecture, the history, the setting—why not?

It’s all still here. Waiting.

Whales harassed by jet ski in Shellharbour

I recently visited Shellharbour as a tourist and was privileged to view humpback whales from the coastline. But for the whales seeking sanctuary in this harbour during their southern migration, I found that their space is not always respected. This is my experience.

It's early October, and a contingent of long lens photographers are beginning to gather at Bass Point in Shellharbour when I arrive at the Reserve. They clearly know each other, with the mood cheerful.

Large cameras sit atop tripods. Camp chairs on a grassy hill facing the shimmering ocean are occupied. A photographer is chatting to a lady about wind direction and I'm eager to eavesdrop. I have heard that whale watching can be an exercise in persistence, but I get word that a whale is out there and I catch my first glimpse.

I do not have to wait long to witness my first breach, as my binoculars train on an energetic calf twisting and backflipping high into the air, coming down with a splash. It is exciting, exhilarating, an unscripted yet showstopping wonder of nature.

The calf continues to play and gradually moves away under water with its mother. I move along too, diligently following some photographers down the hill, as they happily answer my whale questions. I am on the rock shore line when the calf pops up again. Cameras start snapping like papparazzi.

A Jet Ski type watercraft moves rapidly from the direction of the marina towards the whales a distance off Bass Point. I wait for it to stop to respect the exclusion zones, which authorities define as 100 metres or 300 metres for a whale with calf. The Jet Ski does not stop for either of those metrics. 

The Jet Ski, with one passenger, moves quickly to within metres of the whales, a calf and its mother, as both riders pull out mobile phones. The Jet Ski circles and then moves away and then circles back as a whale breaches, missing the Jet Ski, and the vehicle circles again, arguably tormenting these creatures, and unmistakably breaking the law as it is defined. 

The NSW National Parks and Wildlife Service define harassing and chasing of whales as illegal activity that should be reported. I watch in disbelief, and wonder about the whale mother's stress levels.

I am unfamilar with whale behaviour, but I overhear a bystander comment that the continuous splashing and lunging is likely the whale trying to establish a boundary. It is explicitly uncomfortable to watch, as I look to the marina expectantly for the arrival of some type of marine authority who I imagine monitor their waters in the harbour, on a long weekend during school holidays, during a whale migration, who could speed over to provide some sanctuary to these whales. Protected whales.

Commendably, around me, the photographers are clicking away, taking footage, recording evidence. There is commentary from many bystanders that suggests this is a frequent occurrence with some Jet Ski riders. All are capturing the licensing details, discussing the extent that the law is being broken. For my part, I helplessly video and audio the incident on my mobile phone. 

An event that needs capturing, evidently, as I later discover the reporting system can rely on bystanders recording and reporting a minimum of 30 seconds of footage of harassment, including vehicle licensing.  

Back in my home town, I consider the importance of enforcement when it comes to marine life protection laws. Can more be done to protect humpback whales? Because as I watched that Jet Ski return to the marina, it struck me that the rider wore the confidence of someone who regularly torments marine life. A good argument for on the spot enforcement of laws for those lack basic common sense in those situations, or respect for marine life, or the law.

Elizabeth Neil is a freelance writer who travelled to Shellharbour as a tourist.

Corporate Themepark America: A Rant

If there’s one thing guaranteed to fire up my blogging jets, it’s brushing up against self-absorbed, Corporate America—Themepark Division, in this case. It doesn't happen often, given that I neither live in the U.S. nor work in the corporate world. But sometimes, the stars align and I find myself right in the thick of it.

On the Simpsons Ride at Universal Studios Hollywood, Homer cracks a line: “They won’t stop until they take your last dime.” It’s a joke, but also not a joke. He’s entirely right.

I recently went online to buy two tickets to USH. Let me tell you, American theme parks see you approaching with your modest little wallet and immediately dispatch a giant SUV to meet you at the virtual pay gate. The SUV then transforms into a gleaming red, white, and blue Transformer, which rips the wallet from your hands, salutes the flag, and vaporizes your bank account.

How much did one ticket cost, you ask? More than $500 AUD? Yes. Yes, it did. Try AUD$540 per person. For one day.

Now, to be fair, we opted for the tickets that include one free Express Pass per ride—because if you’ve flown halfway around the world, you don’t want to spend your one day queuing for 90 minutes at a time. 

Then came the inevitable upsell: for an extra $50, we could upgrade to unlimited Express access. And yes, fine, we clicked ‘yes.’ Because we don’t do this every day, and USH knows that. They know the psychology of the long-haul tourist, and they absolutely bank on it.

But here’s the thing: the price isn’t the problem. I get it—these places cost money to run, and no one expects a bargain at a major theme park.

My issue is this: at no point during the entire purchase process does Universal Studios Hollywood tell you the price is in U.S. dollars. Not on the website. Not in the payment window. Not even in the email confirmation. 

It’s implied, sure, and we assumed as much—but you only really find out when you check your bank statement. It’s a deceitful, scammy way to run a business. But that’s Corporate America: if you didn't explicitly ask whether the shark was going to bite, they assume you consented to being eaten.

And it’s not just the shady pricing. It’s the cultural myopia. To Corporate America, nothing outside of the United States exists. It never crosses their radar to display prices in local currencies or even mention the possibility of foreign customers. Because to them, there is no “outside the U.S.” Unless you’re shipping them cheap labor or coffee beans, you’re not part of the equation.

Anyway. I'm fine now. I’ve decided I’ll just ride the Simpsons Ride on loop all day and set a world record for most spins. They won’t stop me.

Oh—and bonus anecdote: while we were at the park, there was an actual earthquake. A real one. So that was exciting. Glad we weren’t stuck underground. Or on the Transformers ride. That would’ve been poetic

Feeling Homesick in California? Laguna Beach Might Just Be the Cure

You could drop your finger almost anywhere on a map of California and land on a place that's become part of pop culture since the 1960s. Laguna Beach is one of those spots.

Tucked behind a winding canyon road and nestled between Crystal Cove State Park and the Pacific Ocean, Laguna Beach is a coastal enclave that was once quiet and unassuming. Then came the 2000s and Laguna Beach: The Real Orange County — the MTV reality show that launched the town into global fame. It followed the lives, romances, and drama of rich local teens, making the town a backdrop for youthful aspiration and beachside glamour.

But despite its celebrity, what struck me on a recent visit was something entirely different: Laguna Beach felt like home — home being Australia. If you’re feeling homesick on a Californian trip, here are five reasons to head south of Los Angeles and find a little slice of Oz in Orange County.

1. The Weather

Southern California’s climate mirrors the east coast of Australia in summertime — warm days, not overly humid, and comfortably mild evenings. Rain is rare, and while that’s a plus for sunshine chasers, it also means the region flirts with desert-like conditions and occasional extreme weather. Still, for a homesick Aussie, the sun-drenched days feel just right.

2. The Vibe

Laguna Beach oozes that laid-back, beachside charm you find in coastal Australian towns. Cafés spill onto the streets, locals wander around in relaxed attire, and the general mood is unhurried. It has an element of Mediterranean chic, without any pretension — think white arches, Mediterranean rooftops, and eucalyptus trees swaying above the sidewalks. Somehow, it just feels Australian.

3. The Landscape

Reaching Laguna Beach involves a drive through low coastal canyons — dry, scrubby, and sun-soaked — the kind of landscape every Aussie recognizes from childhood trips to the coast. The hills are dotted with muted-toned mansions, many perched on stilts, facing the Pacific like lions soaking in the sun. They’re designed with Mediterranean flair: terracotta tiles, arched windows, and balconies that cling to cliff edges.

The roads carve through gulleys lined with hardy desert plants, eucalyptus trees, and dry grasses. And just like many of our best Aussie beaches, the final stretch to the coast feels like a hidden reward at the end of a bushland drive.

4. The Eucalypts

There’s no mistaking the scent. The sharp, nostalgic aroma of eucalyptus fills the air. Their leaves gather in gutters, their shade cools the streets, and their presence — visually and aromatically — completes the illusion. It looks like Australia. It smells like Australia. If you close your eyes for a moment, you might just forget where you are.

5. Fish and Chips by the Beach

No Aussie beach visit is complete without fish and chips, and Laguna doesn’t disappoint. Picture this: white lounge chairs on the sand, shaded by soft umbrellas; cafés with pale yellow tablecloths and planters full of hardy native plants; the gentle clink of cutlery as diners enjoy their meals under fairy lights strung across boho boutiques. Even a knight in shining brass armor stands guard outside one shop — because why not?

Just across from the beach, a candy store offers mountains of taffy in vintage barrels, next to cafes serving grilled seafood, cool drinks, and — yes — fish and chips. It’s the ultimate comfort food for anyone a little too far from home.

A Stroll Through Town

Wandering the streets, you’ll spot a mix of architectural styles — from Swiss-inspired wooden buildings with white shutters to Mediterranean villas with ivy-covered walls and terracotta roofs. Big wooden planters line the footpaths where car parks once were, now full of café tables and fairy lights.

Umbrellas in red, yellow, and blue flap gently in the breeze, while boutiques sell neutral-toned clothing and handmade accessories. The street lights are delicately styled, almost Victorian, and the sidewalks are shaded by those ever-present gum trees.

Down on the Beach

A long wooden boardwalk runs the length of the beach, where rules strictly protect pedestrians from rollerbladers and cyclists — a rare but welcome regulation. Volleyball nets lie dormant, likely waiting for a weekend crowd. The sand is pale and soft. The waves, at least today, are calm. An offshore island provides a playground for birds.

The lifeguard tower stands like a piece of ornate sculpture — a whitewashed beacon with blue trimmings, overlooking the water. Looking south, the coastline curves to reveal a headland dotted with hotels and swaying palms.

Final Thoughts

Laguna Beach might not be the Australia you left, but it’s the kind of place that understands the rhythm of beach life — relaxed, understated, beautiful in its own way. Whether it’s the scent of eucalyptus, the taste of salt on the air, or the familiar crunch of chips by the shore, it offers a comforting echo of home. And sometimes, that’s all you need

A Glimpse of “Jamala” – A Little Tour Recap

I recently took a tour of Canberra’s National Zoo and Aquarium’s famed Jamala Wildlife Lodges, and from the moment I stepped into uShaka Lodge I was completely charmed.

Before the tour officially began, I wandered through uShaka, taking in the stunning African-inspired interior—rich in detail, with artefacts either ethically sourced from Africa or specially commissioned for Jamala. The vibe? Think Disneyland’s Adventureland meets The Lost City, with a healthy dose of high-end design flair.

Walking past a glowing firepit and two towering lion statues flanking a staircase, I half-expected to see Indiana Jones hunched over a weathered map, plotting something thrilling and wildly under-researched. (No photo, just my imagination.)

As we exited uShaka to begin the guided tour, I gave one last look at the wall that also houses the aquarium’s shark tank—which, impressively, managed to almost be upstaged by the ambiance of this African dreamscape.

We were whisked away in proper adventurer fashion (read: a comfy minibus), led by a guide with Indy-level charm and wit. Thankfully, she steered us clear of giant rolling boulders and snake pits. First stop: the Tiger Jungle Bungalow.

Epic moment—one of the tigers was snoozing on the balcony, his massive paws pressed against the floor-to-ceiling glass, stretching and yawning like an oversized housecat. 

Next, we arrived at the Giraffe Treehouses, stopping at the gate to feed the wandering fallow deer with carrot and celery snacks. Once inside, the treehouses lived up to Jamala’s reputation for exquisite design—chic, immersive, and absolutely committed to its stylish animal print aesthetic. Outside, the giraffes were calmly munching on treetop treats.

The tour went for about an hour and was well worth the time. Great experience. 

view of Jamala” tour - did a lil write-up. On entry, I was immediately charmed by the uShaka Lodge (pic), on a tour of Canberra’s National Zoo and Aquarium’s famed Jamala Wildlife Lodges. 

Prior to the tour, I poked around uShaka (pic), admiring the stunningly detailed African inspired interior design, with artefacts ethically sourced mainly from Africa, or commissioned for Jamala. It’s giving Disneyland’s Adventureland meets The Lost City meets extremely stylish design. 

As I walked past the firepit and two giant artefact lions bookending a staircase, I could have sworn I saw Indiana Jones leaning over a desk with a giant map, plotting a terribly exciting but very inadequately considered plan (no pic, happened in my imagination). 

On the way out of uShaka as our tour commenced, I glanced at the wall that our guide mentioned co-houses the aquarium’s shark tank, which, unusually, had to compete for my attention in this African dreamland. 

We were shuttled in true Indiana Jones style (okay, minibus), and I noted our tour guide had Indy’s charm and wit, and I quietly entrusted she was not going to drive us into the path of giant rolling boulders or a hissing pit of pythons. Our next lodge was the tiger Jungle Bungalow! 

Epically, one of the tigers was snoozing on the balcony with its giant paws resting on the floor to ceiling window, stretching and yawning in classic cat mode (pic). Here I am with the sleepy striped one (pic). That’s probably his TV remote (pic). 

 We then headed to the third lodge on our tour, where we were greeted at the gate by and fed the roaming fallow deer healthy snacks of carrot and celery, and then we entered the Giraffe Treehouses (pic).

Again, the design and detail! Jamala are masters of extremely stylish animal print decor. The giraffes were outside, feasting on tree snacks. 

A Modern Wanderer at the Antiques Fair

While vintage shopping has become trendy among younger generations—many of whom are turning away from fast fashion due to its ethical and environmental pitfalls—I’m not convinced antique shopping is quite on their radar just yet. But maybe it should be.

I recently attended my first antiques fair, and it felt like stepping out of modern consumerism and into something slower, quieter, more thoughtful. At an antiques fair, everything decelerates. It’s less frantic shopping spree, more watching an old movie through a 35mm slide viewer. Buyers nod appreciatively, linger over items, debate, deliberate, appraise, and compare. Though "comparing prices" becomes interesting when the items in question are hundreds of years apart. Imagine trying to weigh up two iPhones—one from 2023 and one from, say, 1830.

The experience goes beyond objects—it’s a social event threaded with stories. Buyers and sellers swap tales about the pieces, their origins, and the families they came from. I became something of an antique fair eavesdropper, learning by listening. One man told me about his 15th-century Normandy cabinet, now repurposed to store evening drinks and model aircraft. 

I admired a Victorian mahogany writing slope—complete with compartments for quills, ink, and whatever one stored in 1860—and wondered aloud if the seller could throw in a free ergonomic assessment for a home office setup.

Antique fairs exist in a completely different headspace from modern consumerism. They’re not tailored to quick purchases, budget constraints, or the allure of new tech and contemporary furniture. There’s no grabbing things off shelves based on a glance at the price tag. 

And while today’s consumer might squint at a tag to check where something was made, it rarely deters them if the product fits their immediate need. Then, once it breaks or wears out, it’s replaced—again and again—until, presumably, we evolve past toasters and bread just cooks itself.

But antique fairs? They offer a different rhythm. There’s a certain romance in the story cards that accompany the items: describing their origin, era, use. It makes you want to research more, dig deeper, care more. 

My personal strategy as a first-timer? Watch, listen, and then, inevitably, fall for something pretty I know nothing about. Not the best approach, especially in this scene. But it’s an honest one.

Take, for instance, the pale blue salt-glazed ale jug I almost bought—a stunning early Victorian piece, circa 1850. It was beautiful, but after a quick Google search, I realized it was overpriced and outside my set budget. I walked away, a little sad but wiser. Research is invaluable, whether you’re a newcomer or seasoned collector.

On the upside, I did walk away with a charming gold spoon that sparked joy—and fit my budget. Is it durable enough to stir my coffee? Probably not. But it’s pretty.

I also met a man whose son clears out old estates. He told me how many vintage and antique items now end up in landfill. It made me think: maybe we should all attach little story cards to the things we love—important, sentimental, or just whimsical. So, if they survive us, they have a chance to be admired, discussed, and rehomed at a fair like this someday.

Because if there’s a story card, I’ll read it.

The niche world of the antiques fair

While vintage shopping is certainly in fashion among younger crowds, who eschew fast fashion for its often unethical manufacturing practices and lack of sustainability, I’m not sure antique shopping is on their radar, just yet. I recently went to my first antiques fair and found it left the modern consumerist society and its relentless pursuit of things in the dust. For the sake of preserving history, you could give antique fairs a go. 

Things are at a different pace at an antiques fair. Everything slows down. It’s like watching an old movie through a 35mm slide viewer. The buyers appreciate items with approving nods, deliberate, debate, does an appraisal of products, checking and comparing prices with a competitor’s store – although sometimes comparable items are circa hundreds of years apart, which I guess would make it a bit complicated if you were trying to buy a new iPhone circa 1830. 

The buyers delve deep into the history with the seller, and share stories of similar items held within their families. I guess you could call me an antiques fair eavesdropper. I met a man who owns a 15^th Century cabinet from Normandy that he uses to store his evening beverages and showcase his model aircraft. I admired a Victorian mahogany writing slope, with a spot for your quills and ink and a storage area for whatever they stored in 1860, and I wondered if the seller would throw in a free workplace assessment to get me set up at home. 

An antiques fair is not the headspace of the modern consumer or indeed one with an increased cost of living, and many who like contemporary furniture, state-of-the-art goods and other quick and dirty (and low-priced) products of questionable quality and resilience. We are so used to cheap products being seized off shelves with a fleeting glance at its price, with a quick selection of which colour to purchase.

I bought a spoon.

The consumer may check where the product was made on the tag, but no great concession is really made on that account if the product is what the consumer wants or needs. And once that product expires, a new one will replace it and the cycle will continue forever until we are no longer absorbed by the endless pursuit of consumer goods and shopping for the sake of it, or until toasters are no longer required and bread just cooks itself.

Antique fairs are definitely a niche, but there is something to be said for the romanticism perhaps of the story cards attached to antique items, that describe the piece, its origin if known and when and why it was in use, and it encourages, at least for myself, more research into the history. 

My starting strategy at the fair to cypher the antiques buyers and sellers code was to watch and learn and then see pretty things I know nothing about and buy them. A consumerist strategy that is ill-advised at an antiques fair, but it’s an honest life, and an honest strategy. I certainly did not go into it intending to buy a stunning pale blue early Victorian (1837-1901) salt glazed ale jug circa 1850, but when in Rome. More on that later.

There were not a lot of clocks, which was disappointing as I come from a long ancestry of collectors of time tellers, and evidently (someone told me at the fair) there are many stories of clocks discontinuing working when their owner operator passes. Perhaps that person had a special way, knew how to work the dong, had the midas touch.

I’m not sure what I was expecting but it was not a heavy supply of antiques of English Georgian, Victorian or Edwardian origins. The western consumer in me speculated what I could possibly do with a Georgian silver plated tea urn circa 1780, a Victorian silver plated biscuit sachet maker circa 1880 or a brass candlestick circa 1870, but I maybe missed the point. It is preserving history, not buying a thing that I need. As it turns out, I googled the pale blue Victorian jug as I was walking around and found it to be really quite overpriced and over my set budget so it didn’t come home with me. Research helps enormously, whether you’re a newby or have been in this game for years. 

A top tip for newby collectors is if you see something significant to you that sparks joy (and is under your set budget), buy it. I saw a charming delicate gold spoon that was reasonably priced and I bought it. Sparked joy. Not sure it’s tough enough to swivel my morning coffee, but it looks pretty.

I also met a man whose son runs a business clearing out old estates who told me about the increasing volume of vintage and antique pieces that are consigned to the garbage dump. With that in mind, I would say attach a story card to all your possessions that are important, sentimental or whimsical to you, so they can be discussed at an antiques fair in the future. If there is a story card, I will read it.

Floriade 2022: Canberra’s Paris Fashion Week for Flowers

It’s that time of year again — when an epic public event in Canberra bursts into bloom and turns garden beds into catwalks. Floriade 2022 is here. Think Paris Fashion Week, but for flowers. And yes, the tulips are absolutely serving looks.

Canberra’s iconic spring flower show transforms the city’s lake centre into a month-long spectacle each September and October, with millions of blooms on display. Locals emerge from their winter hibernation, while tourists descend en masse to witness this blooming runway of seasonal trends - from classic tulips to fringe florals making their debut.

I arrive on a grey Saturday afternoon, but the overcast skies do nothing to dull the brightness ahead. The flowers are ready to smell, and so are the cheerful volunteers, doubling as walking info kiosks. There's no official sign declaring it, but the unspoken rule is clear: take photos — lots of them.

Right at the gate, tulips are perched in tough steel wheelbarrows — proving once again that they’re the supermodels of the flower world. As the saying goes, tulips would look good even in a garbage bag. No blue sky required — their joy shines through on any canvas.

The star of the show? Tulips -  the Dior of the flora world. They're everywhere: popping from bunches, bursting from beds, overflowing from wheelbarrows, and printed on every kind of Floriade merchandise imaginable. Around them, a pretty supporting cast of pansies, poppies, hyacinths, and daisies bring depth and colour to the ensemble.

I make a pit stop at a cute teal-and-white café caravan, grabbing a coffee and sitting under giant black-and-white striped umbrellas. The soundtrack? What I assume is Australian country music — foot-tappingly good. From my seat, I catch a view of a tulip-lined walkway that doubles as a runway between the garden beds.

The flowers are the models, the garden beds their catwalk, and the red gravel paths their red carpet. Who needs Paris when you have this?

And this runway is busy. A woman sprints back to her tripod to snap a photo without herself in it. A family of ten poses in full colour-coordination (or lack thereof — bright seems to be the unspoken dress code). Teenagers take selfies. Adults take selfies. If dogs were allowed in, they’d be strutting through the beds snapping selfies too.

Instagrammers and fine art photographers alike lean in close for the perfect shot. First, a macro of a bloom. Then one with the Ferris wheel in the background. Then again, from another angle. Click. Adjust. Repeat. One child gets too close and is swiftly intercepted by a parent delivering a full-scale botanical lecture.

There isn’t an angle or lighting condition left unexplored. I can’t help but wonder how many of these already-striking flowers will be digitally altered before their Instagram debut. A little more contrast, a touch more saturation — as if nature needs filters. But hey, if it helps the local tourism industry, who am I to judge?

And while all this happens in Canberra, across the globe at Paris Fashion Week, Victoria Beckham drops her Spring 2022 Ready-to-Wear collection. Coincidence, or is there a whisper of Canberra tulip-core in her palette?

Because colour sells, and tulips know it.

It's that time of the year again, when an epic public event in Canberra displays the latest collections in runway shows to the public, influencing upcoming backyard garden trends for the approaching flower season. Floriade 2022. It’s the Paris Fashion Week for flowers.

Canberra's annual spring flower show at Floriade showcases millions of flowers in bloom. It's the time when locals come out from their wintertime Jerusalem artichoke patches and tourists bus in en masse to the city centre to see the latest collections, which run for a month across September/October.

It’s a Saturday afternoon, and the ready-to-smell flowers greet me as I walk in one of the gates, as do the friendly volunteers, while also fulfilling their role of walking information and advice bureaus. While it is not explicitly posted at the gate that advises the house rules, it is strongly encouraged that you take endless photos wherever possible.

At the gate, there are tulips mounted in tough steel wheelbarrows, but it’s true what they say about tulips; they can look good in a garbage bag or a wheelbarrow. It’s overcast but these flowers do not need a blue sky setting to be the centre of attention. Indeed, the inclement weather has done not a thing to dull their joyfulness.

All the famed flowers are here. Tulips - the darling, the Dior of this assembly of florae – is the star of the show, bursting colourfully from bunches, wheelbarrows, garden beds and across all the merchandise of bags, clothing and anything else you could imagine, very ably accompanied by the equally pretty supporting troupe of flowers.

Before wandering around, I grab a coffee from a delightful teal and white café caravan and sit at their tables that are sheltered by giant black and white striped umbrellas. I hear what I determine is Australian country music that has my foot tapping as I watch one of the tulip runways near me that runs between the garden beds. 

The tulips are the perfect models, the garden beds are their catwalk, and the red carpet makes way for a red gravel runway. Who needs Paris Fashion Week when you have Canberra’s Floriade? 

And this runway is busy! A young woman runs back to her spot in front of the tulips and other blooming assortments before her professional-looking camera equipment featuring tripod snaps a photo without her in it. A family of ten poses in front of some the gardens. Some have come in their favourite vibrant colour, some are dressed up, there are no rules to be followed with colour coding, but it seems brighter is a widespread choice. Teenagers take selfies. Adults take selfies. Everyone is taking selfies. If dogs were allowed entry they would be prancing through the garden beds and then taking selfies.

Fine art enthusiasts and Instagram devotees get right up close and personal to the delicate models on their stems with their iPhone, and then do another shot with the ferris wheel in the background. And then do it all over again until the shot is precise. Close-ups, distance shots, analysis of the colours, the textures, fine scrutiny of the structure of the stems (okay, that was a child who then received a lecture full of disappointment from his mother).

There is not an angle or perspective that wasn’t explored on that runway, and I wonder how many of the striking blooms were digitally altered before their debut on social media to friends appearing more contoured, more vibrant. I think back to the day, before smart phones, when we just stopped to smell the flowers rather than photograph and edit them for social media. They don’t need more contouring or airbrushing, but I guess it doesn’t hurt local tourism.

Meanwhile, over at Paris Fashion Week, Victoria Beckham's Spring 2022 Ready-to-Wear Collection has dropped, and the fashion designer has been seen around that town in fashion inspired by...tulips from Canberra's Floriade perhaps? Colours sells, and tulips know it.

Even cowboys watch the setting Hawaiian sun

It’s sunset on the world-famous Waikiki beach. Is it Monday, or a Thursday, I don’t know. Out on a concrete jetty, local teens are gathered in large groups down the end before individually flinging themselves off the seawall into the ocean below into a giant swell or as it breaks on the rock wall. 

Like the activities of teens anywhere in the world, the practice looks relatively unsafe. Their friends help them clamour up the wooden planks on the seawall so they can do it again.

A blue sign with white writing lists the beach rules. No boozing, no tents, no annoying tourist behaviour, that sort of thing. 

There is a preacher across the road preaching, reading from the Bible. He is being drowned out by the crashing of the surf on the shore and against the sea wall. This week is a super full moon which comes with very prominent tides and swells.

Up on the beach, a young man in mirrored sunglasses and orange swimming shorts jumps onto his tattered red hammock that is perfectly roped between two robust palm trees. Like a cowboy jumping on the back of his mount, he is ready to ride off into the sunset. He has no spurs but there is a pair of sandals neatly placed at the base of one of the trees. He kicks the ground to send the hammock into a low swing. The trade winds will keep it going. Did I mention he is wearing a black cowboy hat?

It’s windy tonight and sea breezes are already working the beach. The persuasive palm trees along this stretch of sand dutifully sway for all the hammocked cowboys and the tourists, their soulful influence mesmerising all beach comers and beachcombers. Their coconuts heavily fortified to avoid any accidents that would make a tourist’s stay in Waikiki even more unforgettable.

It may well be a controlled psychological effect, but I hear a gentle melodic ukulele everywhere I go in Waikiki, or it might be the ukulele shops I have spotted along the strip that sell the popular Hawaiian musical instrument.

On the jetty a trio of teenagers from Oahu are filming for their YouTube channel. That morning they decided to ask strangers to give them money for completing challenges as requested by the strangers for payment, so they could earn enough money for airfares to neighbouring Maui the next day. They are dripping wet, as they have each just jumped off the jetty for USD$5 each. They are USD$40 short of their target when I ask them.

There are all sorts on the beach – some wrapped up in their own romantic love story, oblivious to other tourists, some sitting alone, some with others, some chatting, some sitting together quietly. The fading blue hues change to yellows and pinks as the sun plays hide and seek behind low clouds and all heads turn its way. It’s strange when you think that all healthy eyesight advice tells you not to look at the sun and then you hit a certain time of the day where you are encouraged to look at the beautification of the sun while it disappears.

The sun is playing peek-a-boo now, challenging the photo taking capabilities of hundreds of iPhone users on the beach. There are tourists watching from their balconies right along the strip. Lots of selfies, lots of photos. 

As the sun peeps out for its final decline, many a tourist’s hands reach up to pretend to embrace or cup the sun in the palm for photos, like a giant interpretative sun dance. And then it is gone and many leave the beach for other activities, and the Maui trio walk off and head into Subway. They will all likely be back tomorrow.

Coles and IKEA recruiting through creative promotions

I have gotten into the spirit of ‘consumerism through children’ with the latest of Australian retailer, Coles', collectable series, which is promoting its new Harry Potter range. 

The Coles Magical Builders are cardboard cut-outs of all the characters from the Harry Potter and the Fantastic Beasts cashcow empires, with the catch (for grown-ups) is you have to assemble them yourself. They come separately swathed in tiny tough cardboard flatpacks with instructions for their assembly on a tiny piece of paper. It’s like miniature IKEA. The instructions are impossible to see and also not terribly helpful but I am also impressed that they produce so little paper wastage.

With a resolve to demonstrate that I have the dexterity and cognitive function of a six year old, I decided to put one together. As it turns out, only tiny fingers can pop out the tiny cardboard fragments of arms and legs and owl wings and wizard beards. 

As ever with activities that are designed for children, I generally require child supervision to work out how to troubleshoot, but not on this occasion! I stabbed those diminutive suckers out using a sharp kitchen knife.

I’m guessing Coles aren’t considering my requirements in their customer base. Speaking of IKEA and companies that know their base, the Swedish megabrand have recently put “career instructions” inside their IKEA products that are labelled “how to assemble your furniture” in a push to recruit people who use IKEA products, which resulted in thousands of applicants and a whole bunch of people were hired who liked and used IKEA products. Hire your brand’s current customers and ambassadors  – good idea. What would also be a good idea would be to put in these boxes ‘how to actually assemble your furniture – like, some actual instructions”. Anyway.

So perhaps, with that in mind, and with the ol’ tradie shortage around areas of Australia that aren’t currently undertaking emergency disaster restorations, Coles perhaps should be looking for future tradies and engineers through this current tiny cardboard promotion. 

If you can assemble the tiny Ron Weasley character without the instructions (or even with the instructions) and you’re only seven, of if can assemble it to put Dumbledore’s head on his knees (but deliberately), then you have just won yourself a fast-tracked carpentry career. Very fast-tracked. Faster than a speeding Japanese superman bullet train. Anyway, there’s some foods for your thoughts, Coles. 

Cinema advertising and the leading genres in movie blockbusters

If you spend a while in the foyer of a major cinema you’ll notice that the movie-making industry really applies itself to the cause of persuading you to buy things, and its efforts are quite productive. 

The ice creamery promotes peace, love and ice cream, with a deeply held predilection that you just buy the ice cream. I feel the need, the need to buy ice cream (an artistic depiction of an iconic Top Gun quote for the two people in the world who may have not seen the cult classic).

The good old fashioned games machines work the room entertaining young children as they contest game after game. People are buying popcorn in ten litre buckets overpowered with butter on the inside and movie marketing on the outside. Even the cinema advertiser advertises itself on a wall monitor. It’s the hustle. 

Some patrons stand back, deep in group negotiations, staring at the electronic boards assessing movies times, personal schedules, movie lengths. They are doing maths. Maths is hard and fraught with danger and should be rewarded with popcorn. Cinemas know this. Two people bolt through the foyer with popcorn. They are late for the start of their movie, but they at least have popcorn, and considerable balance and coordination.

And then the foyer falls quiet. Quiet enough for a moment to hear distant reverberations from cinematic enthusiasm and you can feel the aftershocks through the floor if you are close enough to the action. A cinema foyer is an entertainment gateway and an advertiser's dream.

A movie has finished! Patrons trickle out, gesturing with vast hand movements and excitedly recreating and refashioning portions of the movie script. It undoubtedly was Top Gun: Maverick. Someone alert Tom Cruise; the fans have gone wild. Don’t worry – I think he knows.

His movie has just clocked over USD$1.1 billion of box office sales. It currently sits at the 29th highest grossing film of all time, but likely to crawl higher up that list. Since opening globally in May/June this year, his movie has 51% share of the U.S domestic and worldwide markets, which means folks are heading out in droves to see Tom and his planes.

I feel the need, the need to see this movie.

In movie blockbuster terms, you could reason that  the action genre (encapsulating tales of utter and colossal disaster and Thor) would hold supreme, with the highest gross film of all time (Avatar), the Jurassic series, the Avengers and all manner of other super heroes and now Top Gun in its stables. But this isn’t the case. 

 

Market share for movie genres from 1995-2022 shows that adventure has actually been the number one genre, followed by action, drama  and comedy.

The adventure genre is heavily dominated by distributors Walt Disney and 20^th Century Fox, who are both unrelenting in exploiting their legendary cash cows that include Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, Spider-Man, Hunger Games, Toy Story, Pirates of the Carribean. 

However, at the mid mark of the 2022, it is indeed the action genre (57% of market share) that is leading the pack in blockbusters, with adventure (19%) straggling in its wake. Maybe it’s more Covid-19 fallout, with less adventure movies being made during the last few years. 

Alas, for your noting, if you are thinking of directing an educational movie, please know it traditionally earns 0% market share. Maybe lob some fighter planes in there and email Mark Ruffalo to see if he’s available for a cameo.

Bath in Somerset - rubber duck not included

Bath, Somerset, England.
An ancient city dressed in honey-coloured Georgian elegance, steeped in Roman history, and proudly listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It’s the sort of place where the past isn’t just preserved—it’s parked on every street corner like a politely stationary time machine.

Hop-on-hop-off tourist buses weave through the city, and if you find yourself on the open-air top deck during a downpour, you’ll notice something delightfully practical: plug holes. Yes, real drains to stop rainwater from pooling like—well, like a bath.

I’m fairly certain all open-top buses have them, but the quiet delight of noticing this in a city literally named Bath felt like the sort of accidental poetry that stays with you. Sadly, no rubber duck floated by.

Before you even arrive in Bath, you must pass through Somerset, the county that surrounds it. It's comprehensively lovely—quintessentially English in the way postcards promise. 

Picture rolling green hills, a lattice of hedgerows, and vast pastures. People have been calling this area home since the Paleolithic era (think Fred Flintstone), followed by the Celts, Romans, and Anglo-Saxons—each leaving a footprint in the soil or stone.

A short hop away, Cheddar Gorge offers not just stunning scenery but serious archaeological cred. It’s home to Cheddar Man, the UK’s oldest complete human skeleton, dating back to 7,150 B.C. (No, not made of cheese, in case that crossed your mind). 

Meanwhile, Glastonbury—home to the famously muddy music festival—sits on what’s known as a "dry point," meaning it's one of the few flood-free bits of ground in the area. Irony noted.

Back in Bath, the Royal Crescent stands as one of the finest examples of Georgian architecture in the country—a graceful arc of 30 terraced houses, all uniform yet grand, and listed as Grade I, which in UK terms means: do not mess with it.

Across town, the Roman Baths offer a glimpse into ancient spa culture. In Roman times, a day wasn’t complete without a good steam, a communal soak, and perhaps a bit of philosophising about empire over hot water. It was muscle recovery meets mindfulness—a wellness trend about two millennia ahead of its time.

The city’s spa tradition hasn’t gone cold. In 2021, Bath was added to the UNESCO list of Great Spa Towns of Europe, celebrated for their natural mineral springs. One wonders about the modern infrastructure behind it all—filtration systems, maintenance budgets, the quiet toil of keeping ancient rituals hygienic.

Also worth noting: Uranus was discovered here. Yes, really. In 1781, local resident William Herschel spotted the planet from his backyard using a homemade telescope. It remains one of the more awkward astronomical announcements in history, but his Georgian house now serves as a museum, so everyone wins in the end.

Bath is a short train ride from London, but don’t make the mistake of trying to squeeze it into a day trip. There’s far too much to soak in.

 

Harrods - and that time they sold lions

Today the writing challenge is heading to one of the most celebrated department stores in the world, Harrods of London. It might not strictly meet the brief of places of historical significance, and I appreciate any concern you might have on the matter, and any confusion or inconvenience caused, but Harrods has a long history. And it’s my blog. Also, disclaimer, Harrods is absolutely my favourite. 

In term of shopping centres, it doesn’t get any more exclusive that Harrods, which has voted itself the “world’s most famous department store”, and who can disagree with the GOAT. 

The largest department store in Europe, it is the land of opulence and luxury, lavishness and magnificence, with more than 300 in-house departments in store, and 100,000m2 of fancy handbags, Prada gold clubs and all of the other fabulousness they stock on their shelves. They probably don’t call them shelves; that is too…..Sainsburys. They probably call then product royal mantels, or something. 

Harrods came from modest little beginnings, as everything must do at some point. In 1832, a wee London East End grocery store was established and named after its owner, Mr Harrod. Mr Harrod developed a business portfolio and had some stores about town, that sold various items for which Harrods is now synonymous, but on a much less grander scale. 

The site on which Harrods stands now became a key asset for Mr Harrod and sold perfumes, stationary, medicines and fruit and vegetables. It was not unusual to bump into Sigmund Freud or Oscar Wilde at the checkouts, with Freud psychoanalysing your shopping basket and determining that your Id is well and truly in charge of your grocery list.

Harrods was first to introduce an escalator, because you can’t have Mr Freud wasting all his thought time trying to negotiate stairs when he’s busy psychoanalysing customers. Speaking of psychotic, in the early days, Harrods used to also sell cocaine. In 1916, it used to sell a kit containing cocaine, morphine, syringes and needles, as a present to send to friends on the front in the war. 

And at one point, the store used live snakes to guard expensive jewellery and also introduced the selling of exotic animals including panthers, alligators and lions. Which is awful and extremely random but also so very Edwardian era. In more uplifting news, Harrods has a chip shop in its food and beverage enclave. 

It also has a fabulous souvenir gift store. I own one of Harrods signature items, a shiny olive green tote bag that they sell to the innumerable tourists who pass through the checkouts. I also own a grey one. I’m a sucker for this sort of stuff and have never met a London souvenir that I have not fell instantly in love with in a very serious way. I’ve got three pens that look like the London Buckingham Palace guards, and you press their fur hat to click the pen open. Adorable.

And here’s a cool thing. The new head honcho pastry chef at Harrods is an Aussie. Philip Khoury started working there in 2018 and in December 2021 he was appointed the boss of all things sweet tooth. What a gig! 

In this time, he has begun pioneering plant-based dessert, which he calls the “last frontier” of vegan cuisine, rethinking the traditional eggs and dairy based model as the holy grail of exceptional desserts. Apparently kicking out dairy from the recipe allows other flavours to pop. 

This is interesting, as the global plant-based food market is expected to reach $USD70 million in the next five years, and certainly is projected to double in the UK in that time. Presumably this is a calculated move by Harrods to play in the USD$7 billion plant-based food market (up from USD$5.5 billion in 2019) as consumers are more and more aware around issues relating to food sustainability and nutrition of the products they are consuming. And with up to 300,000 customers a day at its peak, Harrods has an influential role to play.

And if you are lucky enough to visit the beautiful, gargantuan money spinner that is Harrods, and need somewhere to park the Ferrari or the Vauxhall Astra, there is a single carpark nearby that you can buy for a cool £85,000, which is ostensibly about £84,995 more expensive than other parks in the area. 

It comes with a fob, CCTV, a water supply (unclear if they mean a tap, or an Agean Sea type body of water), and a 960 year lease. Yeah, I give the Ferrari engine three months before it blows, let alone 960 years. Or you can just take the Tube like the rest of London.

Egypt - and the big pyramid scheme

Today in my writing challenge of places of historical significance I’m heading to Egypt – which is exciting I guess, but I’m a little confused as to why I chose it. Do they have anything old antiquey, or ancienty? I guess I can take a look to see what I can find but, the last time I checked, they just had those giant Ikea triangles scattered around Giza.

Okay let’s hit up those wonders of Ancient Egypt, the tombs built for three different pharaohs – Ronald McDonald, Hamburlar and Grimace. I present to you… McDonald’s Cairo! Just kidding. 

There is currently no evidence, in prevailing archaeological theory, that Giza’s 4,500-year-old Pyramids, sitting on the ancient necropolis, are memorial structures for the three kings. But they look remarkable, and I feel like the view is unimprovable. The Pyramids look like they would have been an almost supernatural achievement for people to build thousands of years ago, but if really could not have been that hard because there is now one at a hotel in Las Vegas. 

“Being in a pyramid is like being on the internet. It’s full of people worshiping cats, writing on walls and using odd symbols” – The Internets

In Ancient Egypt, the Leader of the Central Government was the pharoah. There were about 300 of them over Egypt’s long history. He was in charge of the yearly rise and fall of the Nile, the fertility of the soil, the keeping of peace, and the fortunes of the army, and was also high priest of all temples, commander-in-chief of the army and head of state administration.

It’s a bit like the current French Government, where Emmanual Macron is charge of national defence down to who is going to fix a Normandy village’s potholes. But the pharoah mostly had minions to do all the work for him. In carvings the pharoah is portrayed as colossal - larger than life - which is to convey a message that they were important and powerful.

We know a lot about the everyday Ancient Egyptians. They lived beside the Nile River, some were poor, some were rich. They worked as farmers, clerks, government officials, craft workers, soldiers, traders, priests. They were foodies. They played games - possibly an early Nintendo, they sang songs - potentially did some rapping, and told bad jokes. They were religious. They made gorgeous building for their gods and made the gods offerings. They believed in life after death and taxes. They travelled. They traded and went to war with other countries.

They were family folk. They loved some of their neighbours, but not all of them. They used makeup and wore different hairstyles. Some were schooled and could read and write. Some went into the family trade. Sometimes they got sick with a toothache, broken bones, malaria and called in the doctor. They rarely lived more than 40 years. They shopped, they fished and hunted. They had pet dogs and cats and gazelles.

How do we know all this? Well not too many of them had Instagram so it’s largely through hieroglyphs; their ancient written and drawn communication method that some people have learnt to read. One day, in thousands of years, someone is going to come across an old Apple iPhone with a cracked screen and think, well they should have carved their thoughts onto a real wall rather than a Facebook feed, because this thing is broken and additionally rechargers haven't existed for 1,500 years. But I digress.

The way to read hieroglyphs was actually forgotten about for 1,000 or so years before Napoleon of France invaded Egypt and the Rosetta Stone was found, which described how to reach them and hieroglyphs were discovered again.

In Ancient Egypt times, people would place everyday and objects in their tombs that would be useful in the next life. If you were poor it might be some pots, but if you were Elon Musk it would furniture, weapons, food, jewellery, a few Teslas and Twitter.

Often they were looted, but some were so well hidden they are preserved to this day – like the pharoah Tutankhamun’s. 2000 of his possessions were in there, many made in gold, including his solid gold death mask (which sounds like something from the disco era). Tutankhamun was not even an important pharoah so we can only imagine what the powerful pharaohs had in their tombs.