Quaint Local Customs (1/3)
anonymous
April 9 2009, 12:40:09 UTC
Alfred sits in the taxi as it drives through downtown Sydney, staring absorbed out of the window at the skyscrapers around him. Australia’s turned around from his seat in the front (that in itself had been weird, Alfred thinks to himself- who sits in the front of a taxi?) and flashes him a wide, expectant grin.
“So, mate?” he says cheerfully. “Whatcha think?”
Looking at him, and then out the window, and then back at him again, America’s eyebrows pull a little closer together in a pensive expression. “It’s…a little…different to what I expected.”
“…Fair Dinkum? Nothin’ wrong, I hope?” He looks a little deflated.
America assures his friend and host with quick waves of his hands and shakes of the head. “No, no, no! It’s great and everything, I mean, really!” He takes his camera in hand and looks out the window again, slightly forced smile on his face. He smiles the entire day as they climb the Harbour Bridge and meet Kiku with some of his people outside the Opera House and they traipse through the streets past shop windows glittering with the latest fashions.
As they eat McDonald’s burgers on a bench and watch the busy city traffic pass by, Alfred finally tears his eyes away from the purple… things turning his meat a violent shade of lilac and swallows, bracing himself. “Hey…Australia?”
“Mmm?” he replies through a mouthful of carrot and beetroot.
“…Where are the kangaroos?”
Australia’s laughter echoes through the store and out into the street, but Alfred doesn’t get the joke.
-
“Strewth, Al- you sure as ‘ell weren’t telling a tall one when yer said yer could ride, eh?”
America grins and nudges the horse into a gallop, kicking up clouds of red dust as Australia thunders beside him. This is more like it. Although he doesn’t do as much riding as he used to back in the good old days of the Wild West, it isn’t hard for him to get his head back into the right mindset. There’s just something about the Australian desert- the Out-here, wasn’t it called?- that reminds him of Sheriffs and Indians back home. Except more red. And without the legal firearms.
And with kangaroos.
That night, after they set their tents up in the shade of a couple of gum trees and tie their horses, Australia lets out a long sigh and lies back looking up at the stars. There’s something about him that seems almost painfully alive as he grins and flicks his eyes over to the American sitting next to him in the light of the campfire. His good mood is contagious.
“Don’t getta do this much ‘nymore, yer know?” he remarks, crossing his legs and getting comfortable, his dog resting his head on his stomach. “Not ‘nough time- too many official things ta do an’ all that. Gotta keep the country runnin’.”
Alfred hums in agreement, rummaging through his bag, suddenly remembering something. He emerges with a packet of biscuits and a handful of marshmallows and a triumphant grin, but Australia just cocks one think eyebrow and looks at him blankly.
“Smores?” America offers, incredulous. “You don’t know? Even Japan and Italy and Germany knew!”
“…Think I heardav ‘em. From one a yer movies, ‘reckon.” Australia doesn’t seem all too enthused. “Something like damper or scones or what?”
Glancing at the blackening rolls of damper-bread and the rock-hard scones warming on sticks in the campfire, America looks at him in pity. So long a time with England has obviously retarded Australia’s tastebuds, like poor Canada with his maple syrup. Filled with renewed gratefulness to the Revolution and his founding fathers for saving him from England’s cooking, he shakes himself and thrusts the ingredients forward.
Quaint Local Customs (2/3)
anonymous
April 9 2009, 12:44:59 UTC
“Er…Why’re you moving your roll away from the tree? What if it rains?”
Chuckling to himself, Australia just shakes his head in amusement. “…What if it rains?” He slides his roll a little further to the right in the dirt and imitates him, laughing softly. “’S not safe under a tree, Al. Gums shed their branches, an’ I dun wanna end up flat.”
Alfred peers a little nervously up at the shape of the tree above him and then shuffles next to Australia in his sleeping bag. “…I thought I saw something,” he cries suddenly, still with his neck craned skywards. “I saw something.”
Australia purses his lips, glancing up and then giving his friend a serious look. “Well,” he replies matter-of-factly as he scratches his chin, “…have yer eva hearda Drop-bears?”
“…Drop-bears?” Alfred repeats.
“That’s right. Drop-bears. Neva seen ‘em? Just like ‘em koalas.”
America relaxes.
“-‘Cept they’ve got fangs as big as anythin’, an’ metre long claws. Yeah. Nasty li’l buggers. Don’t worry, though- they only go fer tourists.”
America tenses again. “You’re joking, right?”
Australia just looks at him without so much as a ghost of a smile, and suddenly he’s not really sure. Not sure at all.
“They sit up there, placid as anythin’ in the Gums, right? An’ then, when yer just startin’ to nod off…WHAM! They drop onta ya like that,” he makes a violent hand gesture, “an’ it’s all over. Go straight fer th’ jugular, those fuckers.”
Why is it that the wide open space of the Outback just seemed to get a little darker and closer? Alfred snuggles deeper into his sleeping bag, only his wide eyes visible. Bluey yawns and Australia gives him a scratch. “Just a fact a life, really. Can’t do anythin’ ‘cause they’re an endangered species an’ all,” he adds almost regretfully. “Now Bunyips, now they’re a differen’ matter all together-”
There’s a sudden almighty THUD from beside them as something crashes to the ground mere metres away. Alfred squeals in a fashion he will continue to assert later was perfectly manly just as the dog erupts into a storm of barking. Even Australia jumps with a curse.
“Bloody hell!” He jumps up and fumbles in his jacket for his torch. “What was that?”
“It’s a Drop-Bear, isn’t it!? Shit- do I look like a tourist?!”
Australia scoffs and tramps towards the source of the sound. “Course it’s not a bloody Drop-” He stops, a body lying face down in the dirt perfectly illuminated by the ring of light. For a second, America almost thinks it’s Tony, fallen out of his spaceship. On a bad hair day. If Tony had hair.
“’S just a koala,” Australia says, poking it with his boot. It jumps up, angrily chittering. It’s certainly a very aggressive looking one. Not at all like the happy ones you see on television, but then again, those koalas probably hadn’t just dropped out of the sky face-first onto the ground. “Aren’t yer a cute little fella?”
It hisses at him. He frowns. “Now, you stop that language right now, yer wanker. We’ve got guests.” More chitters, and then Australia picks it up by the scruff of the neck. “What? You apologise right now!”
“You know, Australia?” Alfred mentions later as they lie back down again, campfire burnt down to coals. “…Canada talks to polar bears.”
“…Poor crazy bloke. Must be the cold,” Australia mutters, turning over and going to sleep.
Quaint Local Customs (3/3)
anonymous
April 9 2009, 12:54:38 UTC
“You don’t wanna try one?”
“…No.”
Don’t let it be said that America’s a fussy eater. He’s not. He can stomach things of almost all colours, sizes and consistencies- one walk down any supermarket aisle in the US proves that.
Alfred, however, draws the line at bugs.
“Aww, com’ on ‘merica!” the other coaxes. “Honeypots! They’re just ants!”
That, he thinks as stares on in disgust at the Australian picking up the bulging, wriggling creatures, is exactly the problem.
“Jeez. Bush Tucker’s fair game, Alfred. Ain’t you ever hearda Witchetty-Grubs?”
He winces. “…Have you got some more scones?”
-
They’re back in Sydney on Alfred’s last night. Their bosses have finished talking shop in Canberra and after a stiff and formal dinner at an upmarket Japanese restaurant together, the four of them have made their way back to their hotel.
All of a sudden, they’re back in civilisation again. It’s a disorienting feeling, and America gets the feeling that behind his host’s charming smile, he’s taking the change in atmosphere a little more wistfully than he is. So he agrees to Australia’s invitation to duck down to the pub for a drink or two. “While the boss ain’t lookin’,” he says under his breath conspiratorially.
Shortly after they sit and drink pots of cold beer with the rest of the after work crowd, and Australia makes a few passes at the local barmaids who all seem to know him well enough, and then, strangely enough, the footage on the television in the corner of the room switches to a familiar sight.
“Hey, you guys watch football?” Alfred cries, a little talkative from the beer. He looks closer, and the television indeed shows one of his people running to make a touchdown.
Australia watches with him transfixed until the teams change. “What?” he blurts through his beer. “They’re runnin’ off th’ pitch! What the hell?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
The Australian splutters for a moment, but can’t seem to be bothered explaining. “…jus' not footy.”
They sit there for a while, sipping their drinks as a calm descends over them. Then, Australia starts to snicker. “At least yer American bastards aren’t playin’ ‘Premiere League’, or what ever shit that bastard England calls Footy.”
America booms out a laugh in response, and the sounds of their merriment fill the bar for a moment of cross-cultural bonding at Arthur’s expense.
“That’s God’s own truth,” America crows, grinning and raising his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
-
Fail!anon redeems herself?
Did you know?
Australians get into the FRONT seat of a taxi.
Australians have beetroot on their burgers. Even in Maccas.
Contrary to popular belief, there are no kangaroos in suburban Sydney.
Cooking damper on a campfire is what every kid does on camp. Damper is basically water, flour and a bit of milk if you're lucky. It tastes better than it sounds.
Watch out for those drop bears folks. ...as a side note, wouldn't it be great if Australia's koala just randomly dropped from the sky?
Honeypot ants are ants which store sugar in their bellies as a kind of sweet syrup. They actually taste pretty nice. Witchetty-grubs are a kind of maggot. They taste kinda nutty, but look pretty disgusting.
Re: Quaint Local Customs (3/3)
anonymous
April 9 2009, 14:04:44 UTC
Oh lord this is WONDERFUL.
(Could I prevail upon you to do a Can/Aus/Can as well? You're a machine. And what a wonderful text adaptation of Aussie verbalisms. :D *plans trip to visit cousin in Sydney*)
*was TOTALLY just about to request Australia/Canada as well*
This was so awesome. Them horseback riding! America obsessed with smores (undestandably, since they're AWESOME) and being squicked out by the bugs. And Australia telling him about drop-bears, lol.
Also, you have made me crackship polar bears/kaola bears. Which means now I want to write interspecies bearporn, because I'm the sort of person who can't leave their crackships alone. Nice going.
/grump
Seriously loved the whole exchange with the koala, Australia telling it off and then being oblivious. Awesome stuff.
Re: Quaint Local Customs (3/3)
anonymous
April 10 2009, 00:42:44 UTC
I...I...Oh God. I love you. So much. I've done the Drop Bear and Bunyip thing. I don't get American Footy. I love Damper (lots o' honey and butter and all hot from the coals and mmmmmmm...). I've been asked where the roo's are and I always sit in the front seat of the taxi and get confused because no one does in American movies. DX I've had insects...though not always willingly. (Flies flying into your mouth anyone? GAH.) And. Most importantly, your Australia is...just how I would imagine the country. Talking to animals and what not and then calling Canada weird for doing the same. XD And yes. It would totally be hilarious if the koala did just...fall. XD AND I AM TOTALLY THIRDING OR WHATEVER THIS CANADA/AUSTRALIA REQUEST. XD (P.S. My brother and a mate once got a whole group of foreigners, mostly Americans though, to believe that a Tassie Devil ate his mates mum. Grabbed her while she was hanging out the washing and well...it's a little traumatic really. XD)
Re: Quaint Local Customs (3/3)
anonymous
April 14 2009, 07:02:31 UTC
This Aussie!Anon LOLed. A lot. And I think one of the reasons it's as awesome as much as it is, is because I could relate to a quite a bit of it. XD I mean, Holy Shit, the beetroot (one of my favourite things - too bad it stains), the drop bears, the bunyips (I always picture yowies - you know, the ones with the toys inside them? - when I think of them), bush tucker, but the end, with the footy; I UNDERSTAND COMPLETELY. The situation, not the footy, I mean.
You bloody-well rock, Anon. Let it be bellowed to the sky.
Re: Quaint Local Customs (3/3)
anonymous
July 10 2009, 14:34:21 UTC
This. This is fricken awesome. Oh Al, you turist, you guys are so fun to mess with.
Just um... the beetroot thing? Well unless it's at different Maccas, they don't actually have em on burgers anymore. No clue when that happened, and if it's all stores, but I know the one I work at def doesn't have it.
Re: Quaint Local Customs (3/3)
anonymous
May 1 2011, 09:46:27 UTC
I have always found it weird that in movies and TV shows, Americans and Brits never seem to get into the front seat of a taxi. I now have that feeling of "oh, so I was the one that was weird".
“So, mate?” he says cheerfully. “Whatcha think?”
Looking at him, and then out the window, and then back at him again, America’s eyebrows pull a little closer together in a pensive expression. “It’s…a little…different to what I expected.”
“…Fair Dinkum? Nothin’ wrong, I hope?” He looks a little deflated.
America assures his friend and host with quick waves of his hands and shakes of the head. “No, no, no! It’s great and everything, I mean, really!” He takes his camera in hand and looks out the window again, slightly forced smile on his face. He smiles the entire day as they climb the Harbour Bridge and meet Kiku with some of his people outside the Opera House and they traipse through the streets past shop windows glittering with the latest fashions.
As they eat McDonald’s burgers on a bench and watch the busy city traffic pass by, Alfred finally tears his eyes away from the purple… things turning his meat a violent shade of lilac and swallows, bracing himself. “Hey…Australia?”
“Mmm?” he replies through a mouthful of carrot and beetroot.
“…Where are the kangaroos?”
Australia’s laughter echoes through the store and out into the street, but Alfred doesn’t get the joke.
-
“Strewth, Al- you sure as ‘ell weren’t telling a tall one when yer said yer could ride, eh?”
America grins and nudges the horse into a gallop, kicking up clouds of red dust as Australia thunders beside him. This is more like it. Although he doesn’t do as much riding as he used to back in the good old days of the Wild West, it isn’t hard for him to get his head back into the right mindset. There’s just something about the Australian desert- the Out-here, wasn’t it called?- that reminds him of Sheriffs and Indians back home. Except more red. And without the legal firearms.
And with kangaroos.
That night, after they set their tents up in the shade of a couple of gum trees and tie their horses, Australia lets out a long sigh and lies back looking up at the stars. There’s something about him that seems almost painfully alive as he grins and flicks his eyes over to the American sitting next to him in the light of the campfire. His good mood is contagious.
“Don’t getta do this much ‘nymore, yer know?” he remarks, crossing his legs and getting comfortable, his dog resting his head on his stomach. “Not ‘nough time- too many official things ta do an’ all that. Gotta keep the country runnin’.”
Alfred hums in agreement, rummaging through his bag, suddenly remembering something. He emerges with a packet of biscuits and a handful of marshmallows and a triumphant grin, but Australia just cocks one think eyebrow and looks at him blankly.
“Smores?” America offers, incredulous. “You don’t know? Even Japan and Italy and Germany knew!”
“…Think I heardav ‘em. From one a yer movies, ‘reckon.” Australia doesn’t seem all too enthused. “Something like damper or scones or what?”
Glancing at the blackening rolls of damper-bread and the rock-hard scones warming on sticks in the campfire, America looks at him in pity. So long a time with England has obviously retarded Australia’s tastebuds, like poor Canada with his maple syrup. Filled with renewed gratefulness to the Revolution and his founding fathers for saving him from England’s cooking, he shakes himself and thrusts the ingredients forward.
“So you’ve never had them?”
The other shakes his head.
“…Australia- you haven’t lived.”
-
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Chuckling to himself, Australia just shakes his head in amusement. “…What if it rains?” He slides his roll a little further to the right in the dirt and imitates him, laughing softly. “’S not safe under a tree, Al. Gums shed their branches, an’ I dun wanna end up flat.”
Alfred peers a little nervously up at the shape of the tree above him and then shuffles next to Australia in his sleeping bag. “…I thought I saw something,” he cries suddenly, still with his neck craned skywards. “I saw something.”
Australia purses his lips, glancing up and then giving his friend a serious look. “Well,” he replies matter-of-factly as he scratches his chin, “…have yer eva hearda Drop-bears?”
“…Drop-bears?” Alfred repeats.
“That’s right. Drop-bears. Neva seen ‘em? Just like ‘em koalas.”
America relaxes.
“-‘Cept they’ve got fangs as big as anythin’, an’ metre long claws. Yeah. Nasty li’l buggers. Don’t worry, though- they only go fer tourists.”
America tenses again. “You’re joking, right?”
Australia just looks at him without so much as a ghost of a smile, and suddenly he’s not really sure. Not sure at all.
“They sit up there, placid as anythin’ in the Gums, right? An’ then, when yer just startin’ to nod off…WHAM! They drop onta ya like that,” he makes a violent hand gesture, “an’ it’s all over. Go straight fer th’ jugular, those fuckers.”
Why is it that the wide open space of the Outback just seemed to get a little darker and closer? Alfred snuggles deeper into his sleeping bag, only his wide eyes visible. Bluey yawns and Australia gives him a scratch. “Just a fact a life, really. Can’t do anythin’ ‘cause they’re an endangered species an’ all,” he adds almost regretfully. “Now Bunyips, now they’re a differen’ matter all together-”
There’s a sudden almighty THUD from beside them as something crashes to the ground mere metres away. Alfred squeals in a fashion he will continue to assert later was perfectly manly just as the dog erupts into a storm of barking. Even Australia jumps with a curse.
“Bloody hell!” He jumps up and fumbles in his jacket for his torch. “What was that?”
“It’s a Drop-Bear, isn’t it!? Shit- do I look like a tourist?!”
Australia scoffs and tramps towards the source of the sound. “Course it’s not a bloody Drop-” He stops, a body lying face down in the dirt perfectly illuminated by the ring of light. For a second, America almost thinks it’s Tony, fallen out of his spaceship. On a bad hair day. If Tony had hair.
“’S just a koala,” Australia says, poking it with his boot. It jumps up, angrily chittering. It’s certainly a very aggressive looking one. Not at all like the happy ones you see on television, but then again, those koalas probably hadn’t just dropped out of the sky face-first onto the ground. “Aren’t yer a cute little fella?”
It hisses at him. He frowns. “Now, you stop that language right now, yer wanker. We’ve got guests.” More chitters, and then Australia picks it up by the scruff of the neck. “What? You apologise right now!”
“You know, Australia?” Alfred mentions later as they lie back down again, campfire burnt down to coals. “…Canada talks to polar bears.”
“…Poor crazy bloke. Must be the cold,” Australia mutters, turning over and going to sleep.
-
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“…No.”
Don’t let it be said that America’s a fussy eater. He’s not. He can stomach things of almost all colours, sizes and consistencies- one walk down any supermarket aisle in the US proves that.
Alfred, however, draws the line at bugs.
“Aww, com’ on ‘merica!” the other coaxes. “Honeypots! They’re just ants!”
That, he thinks as stares on in disgust at the Australian picking up the bulging, wriggling creatures, is exactly the problem.
“Jeez. Bush Tucker’s fair game, Alfred. Ain’t you ever hearda Witchetty-Grubs?”
He winces. “…Have you got some more scones?”
-
They’re back in Sydney on Alfred’s last night. Their bosses have finished talking shop in Canberra and after a stiff and formal dinner at an upmarket Japanese restaurant together, the four of them have made their way back to their hotel.
All of a sudden, they’re back in civilisation again. It’s a disorienting feeling, and America gets the feeling that behind his host’s charming smile, he’s taking the change in atmosphere a little more wistfully than he is. So he agrees to Australia’s invitation to duck down to the pub for a drink or two. “While the boss ain’t lookin’,” he says under his breath conspiratorially.
Shortly after they sit and drink pots of cold beer with the rest of the after work crowd, and Australia makes a few passes at the local barmaids who all seem to know him well enough, and then, strangely enough, the footage on the television in the corner of the room switches to a familiar sight.
“Hey, you guys watch football?” Alfred cries, a little talkative from the beer. He looks closer, and the television indeed shows one of his people running to make a touchdown.
Australia watches with him transfixed until the teams change. “What?” he blurts through his beer. “They’re runnin’ off th’ pitch! What the hell?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
The Australian splutters for a moment, but can’t seem to be bothered explaining. “…jus' not footy.”
They sit there for a while, sipping their drinks as a calm descends over them. Then, Australia starts to snicker. “At least yer American bastards aren’t playin’ ‘Premiere League’, or what ever shit that bastard England calls Footy.”
America booms out a laugh in response, and the sounds of their merriment fill the bar for a moment of cross-cultural bonding at Arthur’s expense.
“That’s God’s own truth,” America crows, grinning and raising his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
-
Fail!anon redeems herself?
Did you know?
Australians get into the FRONT seat of a taxi.
Australians have beetroot on their burgers. Even in Maccas.
Contrary to popular belief, there are no kangaroos in suburban Sydney.
Cooking damper on a campfire is what every kid does on camp. Damper is basically water, flour and a bit of milk if you're lucky. It tastes better than it sounds.
Watch out for those drop bears folks. ...as a side note, wouldn't it be great if Australia's koala just randomly dropped from the sky?
Honeypot ants are ants which store sugar in their bellies as a kind of sweet syrup. They actually taste pretty nice. Witchetty-grubs are a kind of maggot. They taste kinda nutty, but look pretty disgusting.
Yeah. American football confuses us. D:
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(Could I prevail upon you to do a Can/Aus/Can as well? You're a machine. And what a wonderful text adaptation of Aussie verbalisms. :D *plans trip to visit cousin in Sydney*)
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This was so awesome. Them horseback riding! America obsessed with smores (undestandably, since they're AWESOME) and being squicked out by the bugs. And Australia telling him about drop-bears, lol.
Also, you have made me crackship polar bears/kaola bears. Which means now I want to write interspecies bearporn, because I'm the sort of person who can't leave their crackships alone. Nice going.
/grump
Seriously loved the whole exchange with the koala, Australia telling it off and then being oblivious. Awesome stuff.
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Kangaroos. Smores. Drop-bears.
Perfect.
I was loling the entire time X3
...I can just see America all excited about getting a chance to make friends with kangaroos.
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Lovely story~!!
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You bloody-well rock, Anon. Let it be bellowed to the sky.
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Just um... the beetroot thing? Well unless it's at different Maccas, they don't actually have em on burgers anymore. No clue when that happened, and if it's all stores, but I know the one I work at def doesn't have it.
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