19 June 2007
Pangaea
The invitation to dinner came unexpectedly in the morning e-mail, almost as if the company had risen that morning and realized that we were here. Of course it wasn’t the case, since this had been a quarterly affair, long scheduled.
Paul had flown in from the States the day before and lain comatose until the day started, cold and clear, and gone to the wrong building to start work. He was at Alara Street, downtown, and we were out in Belconnen at the Ministry.
Paul was central to the problem, since he had an access badge, which thus far has eluded me. Martin will have one shortly, and I will possibly have one before I depart. Without the badge, of course, I have to be escorted everywhere, and that makes the meetings awkward at best.
Eventually we were all united, and chatted up a senior official on his needs. It was an entertaining meeting, though the skies appeared ready to open up with chill rain again, and the day stretched before us, stretching into the night, and the social function at the restaurant across the lake and under the shoulder of Capitol Hill.
'Pangaea' is the name given to the single landmass that existed around 300 million years ago, before it separated into today's continents which we travel between with such careless abandon. Here, in Canberra, the word has been given to the restaurant in the Manuka Strip, anchoring the block of little establishments with the neon lights across from the Episcopal church.
Management uses the name to indicate the philosophy behind the menu, which includes international quotations such as veal saltimbocca (veal, sage, leg ham and provolone cheese served with potato mash) or prime eye fillet of beef served with shiitake mushroom, teriyaki jus and wasabi mash.
That is what I was able to find out after summarizing the meeting with the senior official in a written aide memoire, and telling Paul that there were no circumstances in which I could see myself driving after dark. He is ex-FBI, though not a special agent, and seemed perfectly happy to take on the task.
We found Manuka without event, rocketing through the empty streets that only hours before had been filled with the bustle of traffic from the sitting of the Parliament. In the night the spotlights illuminated the great bulk of the new Capital, carved into the hill that dominates that side of the lake.
Paul parked the car by ramming the tires into the curb, which is only natural since he is seated on the wrong side of the vehicle. I find it astonishing that they rent us vehicles, but there must be a business case to it. Emerging from the car, looking around in confusion, we were rescued by the other American in the party, since we were painfully early, which is to say that we were on time.
We were seated in a “L”-shaped alignment of tables that assured that we would not be talking to one another, and that was the way it worked out. Presently the table filled up, and two or three conversations commenced among and between the Australians and Yanks.
On one side, I heard about schools and how one lives in the Capital. One the other, I discovered that Qantas- Queensland Australian Northern Territories Air Services- had actually lost aircraft. The popular story was that the airline never had a crash. Actually, they had three of them. One was so severe that it cost $80 million to fix the $225 million dollar Boeing. It could have been a write-off, but that would have broken the streak.
My feeling was that so long as the passengers all got back on the ground, the record was intact.
The company was sponsoring a “banquette” approach, in which little tapas plates emerged from the kitchen and were inserted into little stainless racks, three plates high. They were composed of cheeses and small bits of chicken, round-rolled things, calamari like tasty rubber bands, and the ubiquitous shrimp tempura.
Floor to ceiling, the bi-fold windows around the perimeter of the restaurant were shut tight against the chill.
The dinner became more relaxed as the wine flowed, and after cycling through three or four iterations of little dainties, the sweet course was presented and done, and sweating from the heat of the room, we were at leisure to depart. When I got back to the room at the hotel next to the bus station, I looked at the calendar. When I woke it would be the 19th, and there would be ten working days until departure.
I thought about the work that needed to be done before I could get out of town honorably and shrugged. I had never failed to complete a task before. If Qantas could rebuild Boeing 747’s in a warehouse out of view of the main airport, I could certainly do something similar.
Ten and a wake-up, and then winter is over.
Copyright 2007 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com