Apr 9, 2020 3 min read

Right before I entered self-imposed house arrest, I flew off to Australia with some of my mates or friends – in your boorish American vernacular. It was an amazing trip, but as the threat of COVID-19 neared, we were afraid we weren’t going to make it back.

I was forced to suck on Soothers, Australian throat lozenges procured at a 7-11 in Melbourne, on the plane ride home, because my chronic dry cough was freaking people out. I’ve had this cough for 20 years, but – suddenly – people noticed.

A day after I came back, Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson announced to the world they were infected with novel coronavirus. When I returned to work, every single person asked me if I was partying with Tom Hanks. I was not. He was 500 miles away from me.

For the record, Tom and I don’t hang.

But I digress, like I do. I have been reminiscing about my trip. Most of it.

I did about as much as you can do down under.

I touched the Sydney Opera House. Yes. I had my hand on it. That way, when I see pictures of it, I can say, “I touched that.” I toured two museums. I hiked along the beachfront, scrabbling over rocks and hoofing it over hot sands, from Coogie to Bondi.

I played with kangaroos and koalas. I swam with sea turtles, and saw a real Tasmanian devil. He did not spin around like a tornado. The Looney Tunes lied to us.

In the village of Kuranda, in Northwest Queensland, I met my foe. In Birdworld, or, as I now know it, “Enemy Territory.”

There are some very beautiful and exotic birds in Birdworld, Amazonian macaws, lorikeets, galahs and an endangered cassowary. I saw an Emu, a giant bird that looks like a dinosaur. Its legs are particularly saurian. The aforementioned legs are like sturdy tree limbs. I stood pretty close, but kept my eyeballs out of pecking distance.

Birdworld advertises: “Don’t be surprised if a feathered friend takes a ride on your shoulder.”

They should advertise: “Don’t be surprised if a feathered fiend (note the missing R) tries to eat your head.”

As advertised, a parrot perched on my shoulder. Suddenly, I was Captain Jack Sparrow. Johnny Depp must have a stunt double, because having a parrot on your shoulder isn’t as easy as it looks. The bird’s talons clutched my shoulder and dug into my back, scratching and clawing his way toward the top of my head.

Once he reached a comfortable spot – for him, not me – he attacked my head, which, ironically, was crowned with a Pittsburgh Pirates baseball cap. This particular parrot was not a Pirate fan. He went after the hat with ferocity. He ate my squatchee, the fabric covered button on the top of the cap, mistaking it for a seed or nut.

On this trip across the world, I learned that I’m not fond of having tropical wildlife on my person, but that’s just me.