A different Saturday

I love Saturdays with my husband.

Fresh-made coffee served by him or me in bed, (depending on whose turn it is), steaming cups held in chilly hands, blankets pulled up to our chins as we chat about life, love, and other mysteries.

On this Saturday, we left the bed and put our empty cups on nightstands while he went outside to do bloke things...cleaning his work shed, sorting out his work ute from the week...and I made breakfast of eggs, sausages, and toast. We also watched an episode of NCIS, our favorite American television program that we have purchased all five series in DVD, then off to more chores and a shower each.

Steve surprised me this day with a break in our routine. "Let's go to the Show."

The Ballarat Spring Show is equivalent to a "Fair," where there are rides, tons of junk food, a smattering of sheep, cows, pigs, and poultry to observe, and vendors selling wares in a building covered by a tin roof. Steve entered a drawing for tools, I purchased a few candles that smell deliciously of "Australian Bush," and we both agreed on purchasing five samples of myriad flavors of fudge. We watched woodcutters chop their way through hard gum tree trunks in record time with their more than sharp axes while listening to a local band play on a nearby stage.

I was reminded of outings made with my children to the much bigger Clark County Fair in Washington, and the great times we had over the years. I think they would be as amused as I with this very much smaller version. On our way out of the small grounds where the "show" is held, we bought sweet corn on the cob, one each, brushed lavishly with melted butter and copiously salted. I couldn't finish mine, and handed it over to Steve, who had devoured his in nano seconds.

On our way back to the "Disco" as Steve has dubbed our Land Rover, the black sky gave way to pelting rain. It was late afternoon, and my thin man was hungry.

So we headed to an English-style Pub that we'd heard a lot of positive things about but had never visited. The Bended Elbow looks nondescript from the outside, but going inside was sort of like going back in time. It's all polished dark wood and brass fixtures, dim lighting, and in the entrance there is a wide, ornate stairwell rising to the upper floors on the right. A bridal party was there and photographers were making their way down to the lower level to scope out the best place to take pictures as we arrived. In front of us was a three-cornered bar with beer on tap and lots of wine to choose from...the dining areas are on the raised perimeters.

As Steve asked the barmaid if we should wait for a table, I stood in a corner, well away (I thought) from male wedding revelers who acted very silly at the bar. The man with his arm around his buddy and who kissed the buddy's shaved head found me, standing alone in the corner. Another of his friends stood in front of me and then kicked his legs up and out sort of like a can-can girl, then dissolved in giggles. I couldn't help but laugh, he looked so stupid. The kissing bloke and his mates wandered toward me in my corner. I smiled, amused.

"Hey, you wanna go with us?" he asked.
"Not really," I answered.
"No, I mean, really, it would be fun. Come on, come with us to the (cricket) ground," he persisted.

I was very amused by this time, and could hardly hold back my guffaws. "No," I said with a huge smile, wondering if he'd remember this conversation tomorrow. "I don't think I want to."

"Why not?" he asked, befuddled. "What else do you have planned for this glorious day?"

I smiled in relief at my husband emerging through the group of about 12 blokes all chorusing "come with us!" Steve looked amused as well, as he could see the twinkle in my eyes.

I took Steve's offered arm, pointed to the dining area, and said, "I'm going over there with my husband."

"Oh," was the response.

But that's not the end. After we sat ourselves into a booth and picked up the menu, a bloke came to our table and asked if we were ready to order. I looked at him, and a little irritated, I told him that we JUST sat down, could he give us a few minutes. The "waiter" dissolved into giggles like an adolescent girl. He was a drunk reveler pretending to be a waiter in a place where there is no waiter. In a pub, you decide what you want, go to the counter, and order.

But at the time, I didn't understand that. I thought we had a drunk waiter. I was ready to leave, because I thought that if this was an eatery that had drunken waiters, I didn't want to stay, and for all I knew I could order salad and end up with fish. But my Aussie husband saw it for the lark it was, and explained it to me. Harmless, I suppose. The "drunken waiter" and his friends left, we ordered our meal in a normal manner, and actually enjoyed it once the revelers were gone.

This was another experience of America versus Australia. In my previous life I may have balked a bit going to a "pub," but I have learned that to Australians and the English, a pub is just a different sort of restaurant. With different sorts of people.

Emphasis on "different."