Foursquare Stalkerazzi: Big Town versus Big Apple

Tonight I found myself explaining to someone what foursquare is. It's always interesting hearing the explanation to people out of the technotard universe, and in this case, the focus was on marketing:

"It's for people to check in where they are, and as the owner of the business, you have data of who was there, who they are, that kind of thing."

Huh.

Obviously it set off all the lovelies present in a panic over privacy issues, before they were reassured that no, it only gets shared with your friends, unless of course you press the glorious Twitter or Facebook button, or decide to keep your settings way way open. I then admitted that actually, I only check in to places that are fairly open and public and full of people if I'm alone, because, you know, stalkers abound.

Which got me thinking about how much more comfortable I've been checking in since I got to New York rather than back in Melbourne.

I joined foursquare a year ago, right before I departed the island shores. In Oz, checking in at Orange Cafe on a Monday night, in a town that I now view as tiny, meant that the other 37 social media whizkids in Melbourne who also had Foursquare, would know precisely where I am. And who knows, might decide to pay me a visit. So unless I was swarming at the MCG for a football match, I kept it way on the down low.

In NYC, everywhere I go has nineteen people already there, trending places nearby. Why wouldn't I spread the love, and keep a record of where I've been for the evening?

Well, because you could get stalked too... Like the evening I had a few weeks ago, when a friend visiting from Melbourne texted me to meet up. I had my phone open, then another text came, then I went to get a drink, and as you do, closed the text to look at something else - and promptly forgot to reply.

Twenty minutes later, while heading outside to meet a friend who had just arrived, who pulls up in a taxi? Yeah, the new kids on the block. Turns out they'd done a total stalkerazzi on me, in NYC.

What do you reckon? Do you change your checkins based on where you are in the world? Talk to me in my comments, oh reader or two of mine.

Hasta la pasta,

Aussie Girl in NYC

Educational Disparities

This weekend was a momentous occasion for me.

Sure, I passed said momentous occasion by sitting on my couch (read: futon) with a glass of Pinot Noir and this month's Vogue (damn, Rihanna is hot, and awesome, and I love her, and I shouldn't read fashion magazines for a reason - in fact why do I read them? I don't actually look at the fashion) because I was too sick to leave the house all weekend - but no, the momentous occasion was not having my first ever Friday night home alone, though that's a pretty big deal too.

No, this past Saturday, in a tiny industrial town in the Victorian region of Gippsland, at a university campus that has been the destination of many half-faxed essays and panicky emails over the last five years - I was awarded my university degree.

Actually, that's degreeZZZ, bitches.

Turns out - and I had no way of knowing this, as the good folk at Monash don't believe in sending you emails once you graduate, which makes me presume they would've had to send me an old-fashioned postal notification of this fact - that my in absentia graduation application was granted - for March 26 or thereabouts. Meaning lucky I hadn't hinged on doing the old cap and gown thing during the April session if I'd made it home for a visit - as clearly the Monash grownups had other plans.

Either way, I'm hoping the cardboard cylinder containing a concoction of blood, tears and chocolate crumbs along with the pieces of paper that will somehow determine my life are on their way to my parents' address in Melbourne. Because after keeping 7-11 in business with that much chocolate and shedding that many floods of tears... well, you'd kinda hope I got something out of it.

Which brings me to the New York translation: Apparently, in this side of town, undergraduate degrees just don't go.

The minute university studies are mentioned, especially for someone above the age of 22 - it's automatically assumed to be a masters. Forget the stress and robbery of adolescence that is VCE; the relentless academic rigor that is Australian universities: All of a sudden, in the big city, your BA is equivalent to whipping out a Certificate II from Sunshine TAFE (though of course not to shun the high educational quality of Sunshine TAFE and environs). Even a lady like me with my BA and BBusCom (read all those letters, please, kiddies), is suddenly missing the M and the A and a whole lot of qualifications.

So, here it is, New York. My fancypants Monash University degreeZZZ will be on their way to these shores momentarily. And I dare you to tell me I need to haul my ladyness back to school for another piece of paper, because that's not happening for a while yet.

Other expats to the shores of the USA, I'd love to hear from you: Have you struggled to translate your Australian or European qualifications to American standards? Leave me a comment below or throw me a tweet @rishegee. 

Where There’s Snow, There’s No Water Restrictions

We’re having a bit of a heat wave here in New York. Heat wave, as in, instead of my usual three-sweaters-and-two-pairs-of-tights-plus-thick –socks-under-heavy-boots-and-puffa-knee-length-parka, I can wear just the odd pair of tights, light jumper and jacket. Incredible, really. The temperature hit double figures today (I still think in Celsius and adamantly refuse to figure out these weird Fahrenheity numbers) and while I was strolling down the street, revelling in the feeling of the wind on my less-than-three-layered skin, I heard the delicious sound of trickling melting snow. Oh, the joy.

This means those big blocks of ice that continue to harass me as I walk the streets with trepidation, eyes down as I navigate my delicate, Australian-pedicured but boot-clad toes through blocks of black slushy disgustingness, are now spreading into muddy puddles that I greet with joy. I gingerly place my industrial-strength boots in each puddle, checking for consistency – after all, they could be the enemy, Black Ice, creator of broken legs (yes, me, in 2004); a harmless, splash-worthy puddle, or the worst: that slurpee consistency that straddles the barrier between good and evil, representing black ice tomorrow morning if the night turns cold, or a lovely puddle to splash in by lunchtime if we get some sunshine. It really is too confusing for me, and this is coming from a girl who is all too familiar with Melbourne’s four-seasons-in-a-day and happy to dress accordingly, sniff the air, and advise tourists.

So this evening, as I was admiring the growing puddles and forgetting to be irritated at the chocolate-slurpee slush, it hit me: all this melted snow would be creating a helluva lot of extra water somewhere. Which would mean that the dams, wherever they are in this big land of concrete that doesn’t showcase a hint of natural resource, kinda like a lady with eyebrows plucked out and painted back on again, must always be full. At least, in wintertime.

Which would explain my flatmates/relatives/coworkers penchant for leaving taps switched on at their every whim, until crazy Aussie lady (that would be me) switches it off by explaining that it “hurts me”. Kinda the way Carrie Bradshaw’s sobbing in her bathroom with the tap running had to be fast-forwarded when my girlfriends and I had a girlie SATC DVD night.

So can someone back me up on this? Do the research and I will nod and say “oh”? Do the natural reservoirs in snowy countries, like, never dry out? Please advise.

This has been, tales of an expat in New York City.