March 30, 2006

From St Kilda, to Sydney, and back again in One Billion Words or less.

“The decision to flee came suddenly. Or maybe not..
Maybe I'd planned it all along...” --Hunter S. Thompson

My, how I've laxed in my correspondance back home. It's been ages since I last posted an update, so I fear this entry might border on novel status, but I'll try to keep it to a minimum for those of you who are adverse to my endless rambles..

When we last left off, our hero was bumming around the sleepy/sleezy town of St Kilda, in search of a big juicy van. His trusty sidekick Kyle doing everything in his power to delay their fantabulous trip up the coast. Well, for those of you who aren't up for a long read*, this chapter ends as it begins. But it's in the details that we find mis-adventure and abuse of wealth beyond imagination....

*If you really aren't up for a read click here for the short version of the story.

After completing my last journal entry, I returned to the pages of Bryson's “Sunburned Country” only to find the succeeding chapters cover Melbourne, the Olympics and even the simple task of ordering coffee (flat white, of course). The bastard had somehow managed to overcome the hardships of time travel (undoubtably through his research in “Short History of Nearly Everything”), and was rifling through my journals to put the finishing touches on his own Australian Experience... This alone I could forgive, but during a chance encounter with Bryson's “Troublesome Words”, he took the joke one step too far, attacking my beloved, logical obsurdity, irregardless. If I ever chance upon Mr Bryson, he and I are going to have words. Several of them.

But no time for that... Since my last post, I've continued my little introspective scuttle, with a couple notable interruptions. The first, shortly after we last spoke, was yet another addition to our little orphan family. My roommates, sorry flatmates, all on temporary visas, did what any group of seasoned travelers would do. They bought a bearded dragon. Right.. moving on. (To be fair, Jimmy is here on a sponsored visa, and Marty is most likely sticking around for a good length of time, but still... a bearded dragon!?) The weeks that followed were hard on everyone. Mark's girlfriend lost her left hand during a little mishap with Zilla (that's the dragon's name, you see), and the bloody thing almost burnt down the whole complex in a fit of reptilian rage. Of course this was what I had expected, but in reality dragons aren't quite what they used to be. The little fella clocks in around 9” long (cough, cough), has no teeth, and lives in, at best, a glorified goldfish tank. There is no chance in hell this dragon is going to breath fire and terrorize the poor townsfolk. If pushed, I figure he might be able to cough a spark, but I'm sure the townsfolk can rest easy. Crickets, however, beware. The poor buggers have no chance. Every feeding reminds me of Jurassic Park, where we fist meet the T-Rex at feeding time. “What happened to the goat?”. Even though I was initially let down by the standards of a current day dragon, he has turned out to be a fascinating little guy. I find myself staring into his glass prison as I would a camp side fire. Not expecting anything grand to happen, but completely content watching this little creature go about his daily life. Welcome little buddy. Best of luck surviving under the care of these misfits. (A moment of silence, if you please..)*

*Shortly after I wrote this (24 hours or so) Zilla made a break for it. When no one was looking he slipped past the guards and disappeared into the streets of Melbourne. Or at least that was the conclusion we all made after a good half hour sweep of the area, until Marty happened to notice the couch had suspiciously started to move on it's own. After a little rough stuff, the inmate was returned to his cell, where he remains to this day. But he's already made a break for it once. He's not to be trusted...

As fascinating as it was watching Thin Lizzy (a more befittting name if you ask me) go about his daily routine, sitting in one place for too long was filling my pants with ants, so (as the quote of the day implies) I decided to flee. The decision was indeed quick, but the destination wasn't quite clear. At first, I proudly proclaimed that I was off to ride the rails on the Indian Pacific, one of the world's longest and greatest trains, headed for Perth. Of course once I looked into the cost of such an adventure (a detail I easily, and oftely, overlook) I turned my attention towards a simpler retreat. Backtracking a step, I decided to return to Sydney, to relive some of the moments that started my love affair with this sunburnt country. Showcasing my uncanny talent for travelling without an intinerary, I booked the next flight out of Melbourne and tried to remember how I had stuffed all my belongings into my backed packs. Within 2 hours I was back in a familiar seat, on my Virgin flight from Melbourne to Sydney.

Let me rest here for a second, and explain one of the reasons I love this country so much. To put it simply, life isn't taken too seriously here. Not that it's a simple country where people ride around kangaroos and drink Fosters like American pop culture might imply. Take any city, Melbourne for example, and it's as thriving, active, and modern, as any North American counterpart. But even with all the hustle and bustle of a major metropolis, people seem genuinely kind and happy, invoking synthetic memories of life in the '50s. One example was offered by Richard Harding, a Kiwi, who spent 10 years in Toronto, and now resides in Syndey (a proper introduction coming later in the story). He found that back in Toronto, if people had to work over the weekend, it was almost worn as a badge of honour. As if you were bragging that the work you had to do was so important that you had to spend all of your free time in the office, on set, or wherever it was you had to be. In Australia, the only thing that was obvious if you worked during the weekend, was that a) you missed a beautiful set on Bondi last weekend, and b) that you're a bloody idiot.

To elaborate, I'll have to skip back a couple pages, before the time of dragons and aire-o-planes. As you might remember, I had found great amusement searching for a van in between stints of extended couch surfing. After half a dozen duds led by the infamous “Kronk”, we crossed paths with “The Cow” (and before you berate me, that is another nick name given to a van, not an overweight woman.). “The Cow” was another early 80's Toyota Hiace (1980, to be exact) that had a lot of the usual problems associated with a a vehicle that had recently celebrated it's silver anniversary , but it had character up the wazoo. I could go on at length of the attributes that drew me to the Cow, but to make a long story short it made our short list, but nothing more. What it did do, was introduce us to the trusting people that call Oz home. Our first kindness came from Clare, the owner of dear Betsie. To give you a little background, Kyle and I had just finished a long and tiring day at the zoo (a story I'll spare you from.. but I will say I wasn't a fan of zooing going in, and I sure wasn't walking out.). Having been a typical hot sunny day, both of us were probably looking a little haggard after stagerring from exhibit to exhibit of persecuted animals. I wouldn't imagine we came across as two trust worthy characters. In fact, I'd go out on a limb and suggest we looked like backpackers with no fixed address, who, by our own admission, were looking to high tail it out of town and disappear up the coast, never to return. Yet with time running short (Clare had to get to a class), we still hadn't run through the gears on old Betsie. Without hesitation, Clare handed over the keys and simply asked that we drop the keys off in her mailbox when we were done. Righttt... yeah, you do remember the whole “gypsy” part of our profile don't you?? Obviously she figured we were decent guys, and that trusting us with her van was a simple decision. And really.. why shouldn't she? It's the way we'd all probably act if we weren't programed by birth to be so suspicious of everyone... But this is a country that is no stranger to criminals... What's the score here? Of course, It turns out we were trust worthy individuals, and her van, and keys, were in their respective homes when she returned. So obviously her trusting nature was appropriate. But Clare wasn't even a born Aussie. She had only lived here for a couple years, and this much had already rubbed off on her. What would it be like to meet thoroughbred Aussies? Would they be any different? Well, I'm glad you asked...

As we were getting ready to pull out for a test drive (my third attempt to navigate a van through Melbourne's streets) I jokingly asked a woman tending her garden to pray for us as I shimmied my way into reverse. We shared a little laugh and gave her the coles notes of our intended travels. Not a long conversation, but I remembered thinking “what a nice woman”, as I proceeded to do a burnout in her garden on our way out . After half a dozen blocks of ground gears and miscellaneous complaints from our 26 year old test drive (my that was a long test drive), we returned to return the good karma, and more importantly the keys, to Clare (although I still say we could have left one free van up on the deal). As we went through our little checklist of “shit that's most likely broken on an '80's van”, we were met by Robert and his son Alister, who happened to be passing by. Seeing that we were poking around the nether regions of an old van (this time I had Kyle, who actually knows what he's doing), they couldn't help but lend their experience and expert tease on the subject of 1980's Toyota Hiace's, which was surprisingly comprehensive. Within five minutes we had a list of things to keep an eye out for, a couple contacts for second hand motors, and even a spare tire from their garage. Then Chris returned to the scene. Turns out Chris, the woman we had met earlier, was the mother of Alister, and wife of Robert. She was quickly followed by a sampling of Robert's private Scotch reserve. And then with the red wine and the cheeses. An hour of increasingly slurred van talk, and Kyle and I found ourselves joining the family for a lovely chook (chicken) dinner. What began as a simple conversation between strangers about van maintenance, led to over six hours discussing everything under the moon. Alister, the son who was around our age, had given us some great advice on the van, and went from showing us his photo album of hunting trophies, to discussing his love for local red wine. Robert, the father, who had originally come across as your typical man's man, surprised us with a touching recital of native poet C. J. Dennis's “Songs of a Sentimental Bloke” http://www.middlemiss.org/lit/authors/denniscj/denniscj.html) completely from memory, and fed me with volumes of local history. I even lent Chris a hand figuring out how to send pictures, through the magic of internet, to her daughter in London. The end of the night came befittingly announced, and much to our amusement, by their pint sized dog Bimi howling at the moon like a coyote. It was an evening chook full of surprises. Unfortunately we were murdered in the end, but all in all, a pleasant night.

A heartfelt thank you from Kyle and myself to the whole Mierisch family. We left with a smile on our face, and warmth in our hearts, and other such sentimental junk. So you see.. people in Australia, just seem genuinely nice. And that's about all I have say about that.

Okay.. so, where was I. Oh right. Sydney. Perhaps this is a good time to take a washroom break. We still have a lot of ground to cover (1050km to be precise).

Go ahead.. I'll wait..

I arrived into Sydney around 9:30pm on the evening of March 23rd. Continuing my defining style of travel, I got into a cab headed for parts unknown.. Unfortunately Parts Unknown was fully booked, so I looked to my trusty cab driver* to suggest a place to rest my weary head. I had of course looked into some hotels before I left (it's not like I left everything to the last minute) in the departure lounge of the Melbourne airport, but unfortunately none of that information stuck, so it was up to my host up front. I remember hearing something along the lines of “The Intercontinental is nice.”. Well then my good man, the Intercontinental it is! While we careen around the streets of Sydney, in search of the hotel, let me explain my previous experience with the capital of New South Wales.

*Something special should be said for Sydney's cab drivers. Something along the lines of: They suck.. I know I shouldn't make general statements like that, but I consider myself a taxi conniseur, someone who seems to enjoy them more than your average joe, so I figure I can fairly assess a city's taxi system. And these guys really don't seem to have a clue. During my first night there, I took no less than four cabs searching for one bar, and eventually had to take to walking in the rain. I even showed one guy a map of where I wanted to go, and he rotated the map several times, as if he needed to get his bearings. Fair enough if we were in one of the Sydney's many suburbs, but my hotel was literally blocks from the opera house. Not sure if you know it, but it's kind of a landmark in Sydney.. make that the defining architectural icon of Australia.

Give or take a millennium ago, my parents somehow managed to take my sister and my self to Sydney for New Years 2000. Unfortunately, I wasn't into witting about my travels back then, so my details are sagging a little with age, but it's easy to say it was a life changing experience for me. One I probably never properly thanked my folks for, in fact, so before I forget: Thanks Mom & Dad. It was definitely the catalyst for a dream that I'm finally fulfilling. Our trip spanned a little over a month, but seemed to cover a lifetime of experiences. Two weeks in the Sydney area, culminating in the Sydney harbour, ringing in the year 2000 with families from all corners of the globe. Nursing a hangover, we watched as the rest of the world came to the same conclusion that we had some 14 hours earlier. Nothing blew up. Planes didn't fall from the sky. ATM's still happily churned ones and zeros into paper currency. And a couple million generators sat idle for the disaster that never was. From Sydney, everyone flew to New Zealand and toured the South Island in a pack of motor homes. In a little over a week, we saw the beautiful countryside that Kiwi's can call home, from glaciers to sandy beaches, and even found time to bungee jump at A.J.Hacket's, the original site of the past time of the deranged (at which, it should be mentioned, I was seriously outdone by Mom. Where I sort of 'fell' off the platform with a whimper, my mom dove gracefully towards certain doom. I'd deny it, but it was all caught on my old nemesis, video tape.) This trip was my first big introduction to world travel, and the beginning of any serious attempt at photography. All of this I thank/blame on mom and dad.

One specific memory of that trip deserves mention at this point, as it should have served as an example of how not to handle one's finances, especially when travelling. (But some things never change..) Seeing as that trip in 2000 was a family affair, I was happy to get a small stretch to stray from the pack and experience some of Sydney for myself. After a day of photographing the usual sites, I found my way to Bondi Beach, and had a memberable couple of days to say the least. Not the least of which, was my time spent at the Swiss-Grande Hotel. When I arrived back then, it was a couple days after the busiest night in the past 1000 years, as far as hotels are concerned, so I was pretty lucky to find a room at all. And what a room it was... King size bed, two tvs (a luxury I never really quite understood), a balcony with an ocean view and all for roughly $90 a night! Or so I somehow managed to trick myself to believe. I guess when I had asked the nice lady at the counter how much it would cost for three nights, I took her response of $270 to mean $270 for the entire stay, not $270 a night, which of course it was. An especailly brilliant move, as I was hardly making a $270/night salary and my financial wizardry hadn't quite conjured up a whole lot of savings. Irregardless (last time I promise), I made it through that trip somehow and learned a valuable lesson.

Scratch that. Returning in 2006, The Intercontinental set the stage for another financial stroke of brilliance. I'm not sure what kind of money my cab driver was pulling in, but I suspect he had a taste for the finer things in life. It's not exactly rocket science to figure out you've landed in the lap of luxury. My first clue was the sideways glances from the doorman. Confirmation came from a mixture of twinkling crystal and fine persian rugs. The desk manager sealed the deal with a look that said “Perhaps you'd be more comfortable in the Motel 6 down the road.”. I won't go into the boring details of dollars and sense, or lack there of, but it's safe to say I've put that old story of Bondi and the Swiss-Grande to sleep (in 320 count thread sheets no less).. But no point in looking back. I treasured that sleep and luxury, and it's safe to assume that from there on out life would get considerably more 'budget'. Either that, or I'd be back home in a month.

The next morning, after a $9 tea and croissant, I swam in the pool, took pictures from the executive rooftop club, and otherwise tried to get my money's worth before they kicked me out and inveitbaly sent a team of cleaners to scrub the room within an inch of it's life. I spent the rest of the morning retracing the same steps I had made back in 2000. Navigating my way through the streets of Sydney, I found a happiness in familiarity that I had never experienced before. The covered patio in The Rocks, where I had almost found the courage to talk to a pretty Sheila at the opal shop (unfortunately the shop was closed, and I still haden't found that illusive courage); Had lunch at the Glenmore Hotel, where the more adventurous palettes among us had tried croc pizza.. or emu.. I don't know, I didn't try it.. I probably had a club sandwhich or something; and countless miscellania that the mind decided to retain. With the rain starting to fall (weather unfortunately common this trip to Sydney) I grabbed a cab and set my sights on Bondi, to once again flaunt my financial genius.

Following a suggestion from a seasoned Bondi veteran, Ben Simons, I swiftly bypassed the Swiss-Grande, and checked into the Bondi Hotel. Set right on the beach, the Bondi offers a slightly cheaper alternative to the Swiss-Grande, and has a lively first floor bar that is hard to ignore (especially at 2:00am). After dropping off my bags, I tried to take a nap (a phenomenon I've never been able to master), then set out to meet up with a former Core-ite, Samantha. After a handful of introductions and a pint full of grog, Samantha, her boyfriend Andrew, and myself, went off in search of dinner. Some aimless wandering through what I believe was the Sydney suburb of Surry Hills (it's a little hard to keep track when there are over 800 suburbs) and we finally settled on Thai at Aree's Resteraunt. With all our plates and bottles emptied, we continued down the road to the Dolphin, a meeting place of the loud and obnoxious. I think all of us were a little tired, and had had enough to drink, so we all retired for the evening. Then Chad called. Chad, for those of you who don't know, is a feller of Welsh descent, who had also worked at Core for a stint. Not a big fan of the Dolphin, but a fan of the Chad, I limped back to the noise factory to meet with him and his lady friend. Within an hour or so, we once again came to the same conclusions and retired for the night. That is, until curiosity led me inside the bar of the Bondi Hotel for one last nightcap. At this point in the night the patrons of the bar were well intoxicated and shaking like idiots to such classics as “Gold Digger”. As much as I love to dance as anyone who knows me well will tell you, I decided instead to check out why Australians are so fascinated with their slot machines. Referred to affectionately as “pokies”, these are not the BAR-CHERRY-BELL slot machines that I've played with passing interest on the way to the poker tables, these monstrosities have about 20 lines, and seem to have a set of incoherent and random rules. Yes! Witch-Locomotive-Kangaroo-Star of Osiris-Monkey Paw! Jackpot? No.. down $20 bucks. I was pretty sure the twit beside me got payed out with the same thing, but fuggit... As exciting as all this was, I finally retired to my room, and hit the pillow for a good night sleep.

Six hours later, I was awoken, not by the wake up call that I had requested, but by the maid (that can't be the politically correct term, can it?). With 15 minutes to check out, I hurriedly threw my gear together and wandered out into the drizzling rain with no real plan or place to stay. Unfortunately all of Bondi was booked for the Saturday night, except for what I'm sure was the maid's (strikeout) custodial engineer's closet, at a whopping $130 a night. After a massive breakfast on a patio overlooking the beach, I returned to my aimless wandering and wondering. Once I was sure that another night in a Bondi establishment was out of the question, I made a jump to Kings Cross (a lovely strip of hookers and junk dealers just outside Sydney's buisness center) to find me a hire car. With my discount for guests of the Swiss-Grande (pretending to stay there has it's benefits) I found myself back at the wheel in a brand spankin' Holden Commodore complete with gps. GPS!? Giddyup... Pulling out of the Avis lot, I entered Bondi Beach to put it through it's paces. I was greeted by a lovely female Australian accent, who kindly proceeded to guide me through the complicated network of suburbs right back to the café I had started at that morning. Great. Well, I'm back in Bondi.. Thanks stupid computer. Realizing gps really didn't have much of a purpose if you didn't have a destination in mind, I started driving blindly along the coast. That day I enjoyed the random little towns and lookouts that lay scattered around Sydney, with my female co driver suggesting little stops along the way. I ended in the middle of nowhere around 2:30am and found myself a cheap motel.