I have just finished reading a delightful book.
It's called, "In A Sunburned Country" by Bill Bryson.
It is about a trip that he took to Australia. It is part history, part anecdote and a whole lot hilarious!
Here's a sample:
"Australia is the home of the largest living thing on earth, the Great Barrier Reef, and of the the largest monolith, Ayers Rock (or Uluru to use its now official, more respectful Abroiginal name). It has more things that will kill you than anywhere else. Of the world's ten most poisonous snakes, all are Australian. Five of its creatures- the funnel web spider, box jellyfish, blue-ringed octopus, paralysis tick, and stonefish- are the most lethal of their type in the world. This is a country where even the fluffiest of caterpillars can lay you out with a toxic nip, where seashells will not just sting you but actually sometimes GO for you. Pick up an innocuous cone shell from a Queensland beach, as innocent tourists are all too wont to do, and you will discover that the little fellow inside is not just astoundingly swift and testy but exceedingly venomous. If you are not stung or pronged to death in some unexpected manner, you may be fatally chomped by sharks or crocodiles, or carried helplessly out to sea by irresistible currents, or left to stagger to an unhappy death in the baking outback. It's a tough place."
Now, lest you think the author dislikes the place, as you read on, you find he loves everything he discovers in Australia. Well, almost everything. He was not too fond of the hotel staff in Darwin, and figures even though they don't want to become an official state of Australia, that they should be denied the privilege on principle until they straighten out their attitude.
I have always thought I should someday like to see a cricket match with a knowledgable person so I could learn how this game is played. It only seemed polite to do so. It's embarrassing to be so completely ignorant of such a popular sport. Here is his description of cricket:
"Imagine a form of baseball in which the pitcher, after each delivery, collects the ball from the catcher and walks slowly with it out to center field; and that there, after a minute's pause to collect himself, he turns and runs full tilt toward the pitcher's mound before hurling the ball at the ankles of a man who stands before him wearing a riding hat, heavy gloves of the sort used to handle radioactive isotopes, and a mattress strapped to each leg. Imagine moreover that if this batsman fails to hit the ball in a way that heartens him sufficiently to try to waddle forty feet with the mattresses strapped to his legs, he is under no formal compunction to run; he may stand there all day, and as a rule, does. If by some miracle he is coaxed into making a misstroke that leads to his being put out, all the fielders throw up their arms in triumph and have a hug. Then tea is called and everyone retires happily to a distant pavillion to fortify for the next siege. Now imagine all this going on for so long that by the time the match concludes, autumn has crept in and all your library books are overdue. There you have cricket."
Well, I feel that I have been properly introduced to the game, and just as properly feel I can now absolve myself from the obligation to learn anything more about it. It is clearly a completely daft, even silly sport. I'll cross it off my "to do in this lifetime" list.
But levity aside, he can poke fun of Australia like a family member, because he loves the place, and rarely misses an opportunity to wax poetic about it.
I highly recommend the book. He made the country come so alive, I almost feel like I have been there myself.
Read it!