Well, as much as I'm enjoying Australia, their Thanksgivings leave something to be desired. But perhaps they may be excused, because they don't actually celebrate Thanksgiving here. Since there's no oven in the hostel (excepting a toaster oven in which I recently, foolishly decided to make scones), I obviously couldn't roast a bird. And the butcher was out of fish. Which pretty much exhausted my feasting options. Feeling that it was a bit too pathetic to eat a baked potato on Thanksgiving, I ordered a pizza.
The pizza man, some poor landless Italian, was delighted with my pizza, saying it was by far the most edible pizza he had made since coming to Australia (he was rather horrified with the idea of putting chicken and pineapple on pizzas). So I talked with him for awhile. He had a girlfriend in Guam, but he couldn't immigrate there. He didn't seem like a very happy fellow.
I got back to the hostel, and ate my pizza with a glass of marginally nicer than usual Australian wine. My dinner companions consisted of a bunch of drunk Danes, a plumber from Cairns with "I Heart Beer" tattooed on his arm, and an existential German chimney sweep. I kid you not. I don't think I could make that up if I tried. Feeling rather like a character from a Sartre play myself, I went to bed around eight.
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Poor Pumpkin! I think the moody pizza maker and the German chimney sweep would be marvelous characters in a play. And I do wish you could have been here with us for rather noisier but more traditional feast.
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