The Sydney 10

I have to find a way to catch up with the present. It has been too long since Sydney and I did not take good notes my second week. And frankly, I just cannot write about this vacation anymore. I am resorting to a top-10 list to sum up my final days.

10. Coogee/Bondi Beach (10.13.2005) – The sun came out Thursday after a few cloudy days so we headed to the South Sydney beaches. Two trains and a bus ride brought us to Coogee. A cool, lazy beach. A string of bars were right across the road. We threw the football around and did nothing of consequence. A bus ride (we should have walked) took us north to Bondi where we had a great dinner – my first quality steak in the longest of times. The Bondi night life could have been better – we were blocked from some of the bars because we were wearing sandals. Ridiculous for beach-side watering holes.

9. Bengals game at Cheers Sports bar (10.10.2005) – I had not watched an American sporting event for over six months. The Bengals were 4-0 and the darlings of the young NFL season. Prime time game in the states meant the game aired at a reasonable time in Australia – 10:30am on Monday morning. The morning started with the 18-inning marathon between the Astros and Braves. We moved to Cheers, which is a swank, multi-level sports bar in the Central Business District. We laid $50 on the Bengals and drank cold pints. The intro featured Chad Johnson, blazed up in his uniform and spouting the sweetest trash talk I have ever heard. I thought I might have a stroke. Heads turned to watch the loud mouths yell at the television at 11am. The game was good and the Bengals were driving to win before a killer fumble ended the game. We recovered quickly.

8. Rocks Pub Crawl/Date night (10.12.2005) – Tony and I went on a pub crawl through the historic Rocks district. We visited three notable pubs and strolled through the narrow, crowded streets. Our guide was Canadian, which we thought was a little weak. We learned some of the seedy Australian history and sipped on ales and pilsners. Big drinking culture in Australia. Monique came by that night and was convinced Tony and I were con men. She asked the front desk for my room number but my name was not registered to the room. Neither was Tony’s (his first name is ‘Earl’, but he goes by his middle name). By the time she got to our room, her skepticism was through the roof. I opened the door and was greeted with ‘Who are you guys?’ We were thoroughly questioned. She caught me in a stupid lie. It took two hours of groveling to make things right.

7. Big Saturday (10.8.2005) – I called the girls that I had met the previous Sunday at the Rugby Final. They directed us to the Hilton Hotel. The bar there was fantastic – probably the best one we went to all week. Soaring ceilings, dark wood tables and a classy brass bar. The bar wrapped around into a courtyard. Open air. There were beautiful women. The rugby girls were sweet pickles. The crew moved on to Kings X. We could not get into the first bar so Tony and I set off on our own bar crawl which ended, as always, at the Empire Hotel. Much rejoicing.


6. Hunter Valley Wineries (10.14.2005) – Tony and I had tried to go on this tour Wednesday but we missed the bus. Completely my fault. They pushed our tour to Friday. We envisioned a youthful tour with numerous stops at a variety of wineries and an emphasis on rowdiness. Then we got on the bus. The lineup was me, Tony and 15 old ladies. Good times. The ride through the valley was winding and pretty though we didn’t see any of it because we were so damn tired from our relentless schedule that we slept the entire time. A quick stop at a nature preserve allowed close encounters with kangaroos and emus. The theme of the tour was centered around wine appreciation, not irresponsible drunkenness. Still, it turned out to be real decent. We learned a lot about tasting and smelling and interpreting wines. The women took us in – we were their prodigal American grandsons. They slipped us extra glasses of wine to keep us properly lubricated. At lunch I ate kangaroo and emu – probably the same ones I had petted earlier. Nobody likes kangaroos in Australia - they are like rats. We drank bottles on the way home. Just enough rowdy.


5. Soup Plus/Cricket Match (10.15.2005-10.16.2005) – Soup Plus is a great jazz bar. $60 at the door gets you and your date a 3-course meal and seats on the second floor loft to see the show. The 3-piece band was sharp and the singer was better. He was a poor man’s Harry Connick Jr. I was flat impressed. I felt guilty because he was better than this place. The bar had a patio, which offered a look up at imposing structures and reminded you that you were in the big city. Always a nice touch. Cricket match, attended the following day, was on the list for novelty sake. It was the Australian national team v. the World All Stars. The stadium was only half full, which surprised. But the fans that braved the trip made the day. Groups of guys would dress up in a theme – tennis players, drag queens, pimps. They had rehearsed cheers. Some fans brought full coolers of food to last them the whole day. There was a lot of drinking. Which is probably necessary because the game itself is a bore.


4. Katoomba (10.10.2005) – A two-hour train ride took us to Katoomba, a bohemian/hippie town that rests on the edge of the Blue Mountains. It was good to get out of the city. It was Monday and we had hit the clubs hard for 3 straight days. House music was still pounding in our ears. We walked through the town to the symbolic entrance to the Blue Mountains, marked by the ‘Three Sisters’ – 3 vertical rock formations that stand close together in remarkable precision. After a good dinner, we hit a bar with a juke box. It was heaven to our ears. And we were not rejected because of the sandals on our feet. We played pool and met quality locals. We needed this night.

3. Blue Mountains (10.11.2005) – Tony and I signed up for an adventure tour. We hopped on a bus with 8 others (a really fun group) and headed into the mountains. The morning was filled with abseiling (the same as rappelling) lessons. The group roped down a sheer 20 meter wall of sandstone, right at the top shelf of the Blue Mountains. You could see through the valley enclosed by the mountain ranges. After a quick lunch, we descended into the belly of the mountains, winding down a steep hiking path. Near the bottom we squeezed into our wet suits to prepare for the canyoning portion of the tour. The wet suits were bright blue. Coupled with our bright yellow safety helmets, we looked like extras in a Beastie Boy video. I pretended I was a super hero and yelled into the sky at the falling meteor I was going to stop. Spirits were high. We jumped knee-deep into the icy water and began snaking through the canyon. The water way was narrow so we had to go single file. The rock formed a spooky hallway that shot straight up into the sky. The sun filtered through the rocks and trees, here and there. Every few hundred feet, there would be a drop in the path and you had to vault yourself in the air and plunge into the water below. Thankfully, nobody cracked open their skulls. The water was violently cold but the wet suits held. At the end of the watery path was a waterfall that dropped directly down into a pool, 40 meters below. This was the climax. We abseiled down this slippery rock face. I was a rookie and it showed. I could not get footing and I swung all over the place – slamming into the rock while water gushed over top of me. But I made it. We all did. It was exhilarating. The guides were great and the group even better.


2. Sounds on Sunday (10.9.2005) An Australian woman (is there a better word for a female? ‘Girl’ sounds too condescending; ‘Lady’ sounds too formal; ‘Woman’ sounds technical for some reason) I met in PNG put me in contact with her brother. He is a bartender/DJ in Sydney. This would be the second time she gave me good information – the first being the skydive place. I called him and he put us on the guest list at the Greenwood Hotel. It was an early-evening event so we took a cab over around 6:30pm. We were back in the same cab coming back across the harbor 3 minutes later because we were wearing open-toed sandals. Damn this dress code.

We came all the way back and it was worth it. There were three bars, strung together. They opened up into a courtyard that seemed to be right smack dab in the middle of North Sydney. Skyskrapers climbed the perimeter. House music poured out from the DJ booth, with live performers sitting rhythms on top of the tracks. Cool vibes. It reminded me of a ‘wet party’ I went to in San Francisco. Good looking crowd. I could not stop myself from moving. The tunes were too good. Monique showed up. I had arranged this but I did not think she was going to show. I was gushing. We went on a dancing marathon for three straight hours. I forgot about everybody else at the club. She was good. I am not good. But I try. And honest effort on the dance floor trumps limited dancing skill every time. Each bar had a different style of music – hip hop, techno, trance. Outside was the best – funky house with the night sky changing from spooky dusk to inky night. It was so much fun I thought I was doing something illegal.

1. Monique. She was the coolest. Much smarter than me but she was nice enough not to rub it in. Great accent (German). Greater walk. She was up for anything. Lustrous hair. Painfully sexy. And she seemed to have a real affection for me and God only knows why.


So that is it. Sydney is quality. It is cool. Clean. Little to no crime. Easy to get around. Great weather. Beautiful skyline surrounded by a network of waterways and you can travel by ferries for cheap. Good culture with free museums, historic neighborhoods and the iconic Opera House. Big sports town. Any kind of food you could ever want. Big nightlife – pubs, bars, 24X7 clubs of every flavor. Attractive people. You can go on the cheap, if you need to. Or you can spend a million dollars in one week. The Botanical Gardens is basically a glamorous park, right on the water. Multiple beaches. Irresponsible gambling, if that is your thing. Major backpacker town. Very international – influences from all over the world. A clash of an old-world British colonial state and an advanced South Pacific nation. Everyone speaks English. The locals are patient and comical. If you want to get out of the city, the Blue Mountains and Hunter Valley are an hour train ride away. The city is designed to accommodate tourists – and it does it well.

Entry 54

Thursday, 10.6.2005 – This was a throw-away day. I was sick of the hostel and my friend was arriving the next morning. I was upgrading to a hotel. Thank the dear lord. I went to China Town and it was exactly like every other China Town in any city in the world. I am not sure what the attraction is. My lunch was marginal. I went to the markets – fresh fruits, didgeridoos, boomerangs, celebrity face drawings and awful clothes. Fell asleep watching a 3D shark movie at the Omnimax. Really enjoyed the Art Museum of New South Wales. Bought a bottle of wine and took it to an Indian joint for dinner. That was good.

The hostel was abuzz that evening. Everyone was going out. Even my nemesis, Dez. A difficult person in the worst way. I would ask him to borrow the phone book behind the front desk and he would say ‘why? What do you need it for? Who are you calling? Just tell me who you want to call and I will look it up’. It would take me five minutes of excruciating banter to get the book. He mistakenly told me that he was given a $200 bar tab at the Empire Hotel for the night. The bars in the Cross give the hostel employees big tabs to get traffic into their business. My eyes lit up. As my revenge, I decided to run that tab dry and go out in a blaze of gunfire. And that I did.

At the Empire, I had the bartender line up drinks (courtesy Dez, who was flopping around somewhere) and saturated the patrons within shouting distance for a wonderful 45 minutes before the $200 was kicked. I left triumphantly, head held high. The night moved from there. World Bar. Kings X Hotel. A British woman named Fiona attached herself to me. Back, going back in all directions. I never spent a dime the entire night. Drinks came from all sides. It was a Backpacker celebration. Back at the hostel, it had morphed into my freshmen dormitory. Strangers running in and out of different rooms. 2nd floor. 3rd floor. 1st floor. Choices were being made. Drunken investigations in beds while roommates pretended to be asleep.

I woke up with a start at 7am. The room was a disaster. It was time to go. I packed my bags like the cops were coming. There was a line of people right outside my room, checking in. The hostel never sleeps. I was giggling maniacally. I did one last sweep of the room and hauled out my bags, turning once to proclaim ‘so long, SUCKERS!’ to the sleeping Germans. I threw my keys at the man behind the desk and was hailing a cab before he could offer protest. You don’t check out of a hostel. You escape.

Oops

Skydiving

10.5.2005

I had never been skydiving before. Or bungee jumping. In fact, my feet start to tingle when I look over a tall balcony. But I have always wanted to skydive. I like the idea of PURPOSELY falling from a high altitude – just not accidentally. I was determined to dive in Australia. A friend told me to look into the ‘Dive the Beach’ option out of Wollongong. This dive actually drops you off over the ocean and glides into land. Sounded good to me.

Wollongong is a mellow beach town 60 kilometers south of Sydney. A leisurely train ride brought me to the stop. The Sydney rail system is fast, clean and efficient. As instructed, I called the dive office and they said a limousine would be there to pick me up post haste. I was a little thrown by their blatant sarcasm. And then, 15 minutes later, a rickety white limo zoomed around the corner and screeched to a halt in front me. A girl in a tank top jumped out of the driver’s seat and waved me in. We were off before I could sit down. The interior was red plush and deliciously awful. The radio was pounding and the wild driver tried to shout over it. I had no idea what she was saying but shouted back with ‘YES!’ and ‘Uh huh!’ On instinct, I searched the back for a mini-bar that wasn’t there.

We drove to the office that was next to an oval grass field. The landing spot. I barely got my second foot out of the limousine before my first foot was jammed into a jump suit. Then I was stepping into a harness. Straps were tightened and belts fastened. I was then shaking hands with the man I would be strapped to while falling from the sky. He introduced himself as ‘Wildman’. Comforting. Here was our first exchange:

Wildman: OK man, here’s how it is going to be. You’ll scoot to the opening of the plane hatch and hang your legs out like this. Then you’ll cross your arms in front of your chest and lean backwards. I will push us out and after 5 seconds, I will tap you and you’ll spread your arms like this. You got that?

Me: No.

Wildman: GREAT! Well, let’s head to the airport – you can fill out your paperwork on the way.

So me, another couple and our three dive masters were on the highway heading towards an airport. For recreational divers, you have to tandem dive. The dive master hooks themselves to your backside (you basically spoon) and takes care of the parachute and landing. Our dive masters looked like extras from ‘Point Break’. I signed my life away on the forms – Wildman signed as my witness. It was calming to know that when my mother received my death certificate, she would be consoled with the knowledge that I struck the earth at 120MPH with a man name Wildman strapped to my back.

The divers were funny guys. We talked about base-jumping. All laughs on the way to the airport. The couple was in good spirits. These guys jump out of a plane about four times a day so for them, this is as nerve-wracking as crossing the street. We arrived at the airport and immediately jumped on a little crop duster. The girl at the controls could not have been older than 21. There were no seats in the plane. We were off the ground in 2 minutes. No pre-flight checks or safety instructions. There was no time to think, let alone be scared. We started to climb. 14,000 feet was the dropping point. I kept glancing at the altitude gauge like it was a running taxi meter. This was happening. Now.

Wildman ran through the jumping and landing instructions again. Good enough. He then asked me if I wanted to steer the parachute once it was released. I said yes, but I did not know how. He told me he would train me. Train? We’re at 10,000 feet! He positioned himself behind me and I could hear the sounds of clicking hooks and tightening straps. We were over the ocean now. I could see the white coast line stretching north and south. I could just barely make out the Sydney skyline. The ocean was vast as always. I was not nervous. Just overwhelmed. The straps were tight and locked in. It was time.

The dive master connected to the woman yanked the door open. The wind came pouring in as the pilot angled the jumping side wing down so it would be easy for us to spill out. The woman was set to go first. She wiggled to the edge of the door and there she was; an arms length from me (my palms are sweating writing this). And then she was gone. She was just gone. This is the moment I got scared. What the hell was I doing? But it was too late. Then the man was gone. My cargo and I (in truth, I was his cargo) scooted to the door and I swung my legs out. One deep breath. Arms on chest. Lean back. Airborne.

My eyes have never been this wide open. Hurtling down towards the ground. Absolute sensory overload. The fear was overcome by exhilaration and I shouted into the wind. Wildman pulled a mini-parachute (about the size of a big jelly fish) to slow us down a touch (two people in tandem have the same surface area as one with twice the weight, so you have to slow down a bit or the big parachute will burst when opened) – I didn’t notice. Free fall. On orders, my arms and legs were limp so I could be maneuvered. Wildman yanked my right arm back and we spun clockwise in a tight circle. Yanked my left and we went the other way. Then he pulled my legs back and went shooting downwards at a 45 degree angle. The ground was getting closer. My brain could not process it all. Speed. I was out of my mind. 50 seconds of pure free-fall. The main parachute was released and the break was quite jarring. It felt like I was going to sever free from my carrier. I didn’t. At the slower speed I could really take in the ocean, coastline and lazy town of Wollongong. I grabbed the straps and spun us around in circles. It was stunning. As we neared the landing spot, Wildman took over and guided us in. I had to lift my legs to my chest at the end. Perfect landing. It was over and all I wanted to do was go again. I did not know what to do with myself.
Disengaged from Wildman, I gave him a bear hug that startled him. All laughs and smiles and then he stomped away. I was left there standing with my heart thumping. What now? My straps were removed, stepped out of my jumper and that was it. I wanted more. I understand the addiction. I was handed my stuff and was back in the limo again. All I wanted was more.

Opera House

Rapid fire Tuesday: tired in the morning. Haircut. Made a phone call to the states in the loud and busy subway. Not sure why I picked that spot. Train to Newtown – a bohemian college town with eclectic shops. It was cold and I was not in the mood to shop. Saw a poster with quotes from the original ‘The Office’ show and laughed for 15 minutes. I got lost. Into an internet café where I read about the Bengals. Back in town there were masses of people. I bought a ticket for the monorail – massive tourist trap built for the 2000 Olympics. No one from Sydney rides on the thing. It was packed and went around in a tiny circle. Hit the Powerhouse museum which has nothing on COSI.

The Opera House was the day’s event. I gussied up in my Sunday Best – including a 2nd hand blue dress shirt that was missing two buttons. I thought it was INTENTIONALLY missing two buttons, for the sake of style. I convinced myself of this. A week later my buddy had to tell me, head shaking in pity, that ‘dude, that is not the style of the shirt – it is just missing two buttons.’ But this was of little consequence.

Front shot

I walked back through the Botanical Gardens that was lit up by lamps. I appreciated being able to walk around at night without looking over my shoulder. The city lights shimmered off the ocean. I was moving with a purpose and I felt like 100 dollars. At a harbor-side café, I did my best Ernest Hemmingway impersonation and ordered raw oysters and white wine.

Student discount tickets are released 20 minutes before show time. I inquired of these and expressed my regret for leaving my student ID ‘back in my dorm in the states’ but this time my act did not fly. Opera tickets were over $100 – for lousy seats. I almost bought these anyway, for the sake of sitting in the spectacular concert hall. I settled on a Shakespeare play that was showing in the drama theatre. The woman said my seats were great. She would prove to be right.

The theatre was designed to look like a ship with all of
its sails open.

The Playhouse venue is actually underneath the main theatre structures. I snaked through the lobby with a glass of wine and looked at everything and everybody. To me, I was in high society. I wondered what the PNG security guards back in Kondiu would think if they saw me now. Even without two buttons.

My seat was smack in the middle, six rows from the stage. And next to me was the loveliest of brunettes. It took me about 10 seconds to deduce that she was alone and I immediately started plotting. I could barely concentrate on the show. And the show was good. It was ‘Measure to Measure’ – a Shakespeare play I had never heard of about a king who turns over the power of his land to his top aide and then masquerades as a priest so he can remain in his kingdom and observe what unfolds. His own, personal sociological experiment. The play was ‘modern Shakespeare’ - the dialogue was the same but the scenery and costumes were modern and the acting was blunt and contemporary. It made it easier to follow.

Intermission came. I was never so happy for halftime. The woman to my left was German, named Monique, and was enjoying the show though she felt she was missing the subtle nuances because her command of the English language was not great. I thought this honest admission was so sweet. Her English sounded fine to me. I was missing plenty of the words myself and told her so.

The 2nd half began. The show was good but I was struggling to stay awake. I had not slept well for weeks. I managed to snap out of it for the last 30 minutes. The lights came on and I struggled to gather myself for I knew I only had one shot. I asked Monique if she wanted to have some coffee – she agreed. We went to another café on the water and told our stories. She was on an internship from Berlin. She was staying in Sydney and loved it. I babbled like I had not talked to anyone for years. I walked her to her bike – she had to ride back to her hotel. European girls are bold. Few women in the USA would ride their bike home, in the city, at 11pm at night. I was impressed. We made vague plans for the weekend and I got her number. I didn’t think I would see her again.

Monday, October 3 2005

Trying to pick up the pieces after a rowdy weekend. Credit card receipts everywhere. I sensed a trend. I start fussing with my baggage that is jammed under my bed, hoping this exercise will make some sense of my existence. New roommates – a group of four Germans – come rolling in. I decide to go grocery shopping in the spirit of pacing my mad spending.

Kings Cross is on the East side of the city and a mere 20-minute walk to the Central Business District. It’s even closer to the Opera House and Circular Quay – a small touristy port where the ferries and cruise ships depart from. I walked up and down steep flights of stairs on my way to the city. Huge naval ships were parked along the shore. There was a military band playing with marching soldiers. I found this odd for a Monday morning. More steps brought me to the Royal Botanical Gardens. The park was filled with strange trees and bright flowers. Cranes and ducks waddled around in packs. Lots of runners and lounging readers. I found some shade and dozed for 30 minutes. I woke up and did not know where I was.

I made it to the Opera House and took long looks. I was trying to imprint what I was seeing onto my brain. I checked ticket times and asked questions – massive discounts for students. I wondered if I could take advantage of this. I moved onto the Rocks, which is the historic district of Sydney – where the first settlements were built. The neighborhood was built right into the sandstone. Old, awkward buildings all squeezed into winding roads. Out of obligation, I stopped into the Visitor’s Center and scooped up about 50 brochures. Through narrow streets to the Rocks Market. Outdoor musicians, celebrity face cartoonists, chocolates, fancy nuts and booths with every crappy souvenir you could ever want to purchase. And they all take Visa. These commerce traps revolt me and I scuttled through the madness like I was late for something. My destination was the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

The gigantic suspension bridge that crosses the harbor and connects South and North Sydney is an engineering marvel. The bridge looks powerful – strong and enormous. It supports seven lanes of traffic. I walked across and went up the southeast tower to get some views and learned the history of its construction. Across the bridge was a great little neighborhood with sidewalk cafes and swank houses. I wandered the neighborhood. There was house music pouring out of a street level apartment and I peered in to see a girl rapidly cleaning her TV room. I zoned out and started walking into her apartment and barely caught myself and retreated before she was alerted to my presence and doused me with pepper spray. Another park under the bridge hosted my second nap of the day and I was finally nearing a state of coherence.

View from south-east tower of Sydney Harbour Bridge

Museum of Contemporary Art. Great bathroom facilities. And the art was real decent. I am still impressed the most by a piece of art that makes me say ‘wow, I could not have made that if I had a million years’. I try to lose myself in the ultra-simplistic pieces (the ones that have two streaks of paint and have a title like ‘confusion’) but I usually just start thinking about something that is going on in my life. Which could be the point. And some of the stuff just fell under the ‘weird for the sake of being weird’ category. I liked the silence and the sound of my own footsteps.

I went to the gym that night and I felt myself again. Went to a bar called the ‘Goldfish Bowl’. $3 pints and free pizza for backpackers. I have to give it to these hostels; they have cheap night options for residents and they promote a sense of camaraderie with your fellow travelers. It was a good sort of people. Europeans with months to kill and wayward travelers with all kinds of time on their hands. We didn’t talk about our careers or relationships or the future, which was fine by me. Everything centered on the moment.
I watched SportsCenter that night for the first time in 7 months. Now that was art.

NRL Grand Final

Sunday was going to be a big day. I had one channel in Papua New Guinea. This channel brought me Rugby League. I watched it religiously every Friday night and Sunday afternoon and had become a fan. Rugby League is a good blend of athletic skill, precision passing and controlled violence. When the game opens up, and these fast men are racing down the field, flinging the ball to their mates at full speed while eluding defenders, it is a beautiful thing.


Telstra Stadium

The Grand Final was set to kick off Sunday night in Sydney. The venue was Telstra Stadium at Olympic Park – a sleek, 88,000 seat stadium erected for the 2000 Summer Olympics. I had two tickets, which a friend of mine had purchased for me online. The seats were not together (the explanation for this is boring and irrelevant) so I had one to sell. The tickets were easy to get – this is not the Super Bowl, where to get in you either have to have the type of connections nobody I know has or willing to spend $2500 for the worst seats in the house. Still, the League had an exciting season and the game was now sold out. Many people that I talked to were amazed that I had scored tickets, even though they had been on sale for months. I felt like I knew what I was doing.

The morning was a blur. I got on the city rail for transport to Olympic Park. It was a free ride for people going to the game. You were supposed to show your ticket but they let me slide, since I had to pick mine up at the box office. Fans of both sides were in force. And they were decked out. There was a definite buzz in the air that was palpable. This is why I love sport.

The game pitted the North Queensland Cowboys (North Coast) vs. West Tigers (Sydney). Of the 15 teams in the league, 7 of them are from Sydney. The sports popularity is limited to the New South Wales and Queensland States. (The rest of the country likes Australian Rules Football, which is a ridiculous sport. It’s basically a combination of ‘first bounce fly’, ‘keep away’ and ‘smear the queer’. It would probably be the all-time best game to play at recess during grade school. But it sucks to watch.) The fans were geared in either Tiger stripes or big, foam cowboy hats with matching vest and chaps. The energy was building.

It was a hot day. I set up shop at ‘The Brewery’, adjacent to the stadium and watched season highlights. I tried calling a few people that I knew would be there, but it was useless. I could not hear them and the pay phones continued to get the best of me. I promised a friend to visit these poles that listed all the volunteers’ names that helped out during the 2000 Olympics and find her name. I did. And then I looked for my name and was actually disappointed when I couldn’t find it. They have ‘special’ institutions for people like me.

I picked up my tickets from will-call and immediately found a young bloke willing to buy my extra. He tried to low-ball me, offering $70 AUS. The tickets were $85. I demanded $90 – I wasn’t looking to make a profit, just break even. He told me I should give him a deal because he was a ‘poor backpacker’. I told him to give me $90. He forked over the cash and we exchanged dirty looks. I was huffy for almost 5 minutes.

There were great people to talk to. Everyone was in high spirits. I bounced from group to group and got in rowdy conversations and made predictions of the final score. Most people were impressed that an American was a Rugby fan. I knew the lingo too, which I played up. You know you are having a good time when you flat-out forget to eat. I met two wonderful girls who were big Tiger fans – I was cheering for the Tigers as well (they are the faster, younger team – capable of putting up huge points in bunches). One of the girls’ sisters was dating a star player for the Tigers and they invited me to the after party. I was overjoyed and told them so. The sun was setting, the crowd was live and stadium began to fill. It was time to go to the game.

A raucous walk up to my seats – most had been drinking since noon. Shouts of ‘Let’s go THE Tigers/Cowboys’ volleyed back and forth. I asked someone why they inserted ‘THE’ in the middle of ‘Let’s go Tigers’. He said ‘WHY NOT!?!’ Indeed. My seat was real decent. Bulbs flashed at the opening kick off and the game was under way. The crowd was live but I thought a little sedated due to the 8 hours of drinking in the sun. Or maybe everything just seemed that way because I was the one drinking for 8 hours in the sun.
The Tigers won 30-16. There were some thrilling moments in the first half, including a run/pass breakout that covered the entire length of the field. The Tigers took control and wore the Cowboys down in the 2nd. They won walking away. Good match. The crowd was worn out. I jumped in the crowd and floated with the current to the train station and quietly watched a group from the game insult each other all the way back to the city. What are friends if you cannot break them down and expose their flaws in public?

Back at the hostel. I wanted to regroup before meeting the girls at the after-party. Small problem: I forgot the name of the club. I scoured the phone book, figuring I would know the name when I saw it. It was a pitiful scene. I would not get over this exhibition of absentmindedness for one full day. I was determined to go out so I stomped out to find a good club. I went to ‘Peppermint Lounge’ – I was the only straight man in the building. The music was good. The drinks were pricey. The girls were icy. At least to me. I left the bar and called my ex-girlfriend back in the states and left a rambling message. I bought three pre-packaged sandwiches at a carry out. The night was over.

When I woke up the next day I immediately remembered the name of the club: Sapphire. It was two blocks from the hostel.

Saturday 10.1.2005

I woke up on Saturday to the sound of three girls exiting my humble room. No sooner were they out that two more people swooped in to take their beds. They barely got their sheets off before the next herd was claiming their quarters. Hostel life. I dressed in a huff and left immediately.

I was determined to do some shopping. I wanted to go to some proper clubs and did not have the attire. You have to have dress shoes and slacks (am I the only one that still calls dress pants ‘slacks’? – I also still call running shoes ‘tennies’ and condoms ‘rubbers’) to the upscale clubs. The best I could offer was jeans, hiking boots and a second-hand shirt. No amount of pity points was going to get me past the velvet ropes – I had to get some gear.

I took the city rail to town hall. This was my first time underneath Sydney. The subway workers pointed me in the right direction – and I asked about four different people which way to go to solidify the advice. New transit systems are intimidating the first time around. The last time I was in a subway was in NYC and the smells here were no rival to the New York waft of flavors.

I wandered around Paddington neighborhood – an upscale area with endless boutiques. I was still not fully adjusted to the speed and visual stimulus of a moving metropolis. I looked like a lost child. Still, I managed to buy some Euro-dress pants that were tight in the seat and some equally euro shoes. Sadly, these are now the only pants I own that fit me because I lost 20 lbs in PNG so all the rest of my trousers hang off my hips like I am an extra in a 50 Cent video. (that’s a topical reference for all the kids out there – stay up, yo!)

I hurried back to the hostel to drop of my purchases and rebound back out to the ferry station in order to catch a ride up to Manly Beach. I should say at this point that I had developed a ‘schedule’ during my extended research of Sydney and I was hell bent on sticking to it. This translated into a furious walking pace, constant head-swiveling and repeated checks on my Sydney map and guide book (which I tried to do conspicuously, as to not let out the secret that I was a green tourist). It would be days before I stopped and casually took everything in.

Manly Beach was the destination because the north-Sydney beach town was hosting their annual jazz festival. I envisioned thick, bluesy jazz sounds poured out by bands with names like ‘Hambone and the Ashtrays’. What I got was easy-listening jazz bands with names like ‘Pam Sutherland and the Smilin’ Five’. Not very sweet. Still, the ferry ride itself was worth the trip. I finally sat still for 5 minutes and took a look at the Sydney skyline and the waterways separating perfect neighborhoods. Sailboats dotted the water and each house looked like an Italian villa. Ferries are a great way to get around.

Manly Beach is a surfer town that revolves around a pedestrian street enclosed by cafes, shops and bars. The beach was shaped like a crescent, the tips of which run into a wall of rock which stretch upwards to the flat land above. It was a perfect day and in my infinite wisdom I had failed to bring any beach wear, assuming I was going to be hitting gritty jazz bars. The beach was packed. Lots of tourists taking surfing lessons which seemed to involve mostly stretching and talking about the ‘theory’ of surfing. I decided right at that moment that I would not be taking lessons. I walked the edge and glanced shyly at the all the beach girls through my mirror sun-glasses. I cannot tell if a woman is 16 or 26 (that is not a pre-cursor to an ‘incident’, just a pure observation. I am telling the truth! Let’s move on). I sat on a bench and thought about nothing.

I ducked into a bar to have a delicious pint. Good beer at my fingertips. I made a discovery. Australia is a sports gamblers paradise – or nightmare. There is sports book in virtually every bar and you can bet on EVERYTHING. NFL Football, MLB, International Soccer, Car Racing and of course, the ponies. Australians have a deep affection for horse racing and there were 6 screens in this bar simulcasting races across the country. I asked 100 questions to everyone in arms length. In the glamour race of the day, I saw a horse named ‘Cincinnati Gal’. I squealed in delight and ran to the betting window. You have to fill out this betting card with codes and small circles in which you scratch in your bet. It was confusing. I had to nudge the sullen bar men for help, who were running low on patience. Cincy paid 90-1. I bet 10 to win and was already spending my winnings in my head. Cincinnati Gal! This had to be a sign. The horse came in dead last. In fact, I don’t think he finished the race.


Cargo Bar

Back at the hostel I chatted with my fellow inmates and tried to make friends. I made some phone calls to the people I had met the night before in attempt to arrange a big Saturday night. Without a mobile phone, I had to rely on a tiny black notebook, a pen and payphones. It made me feel like a broken down private detective. I started the night at ‘Home’ with a large New Zealander named Dez, who worked at the hostel. He was either insulting me or flirting with me at all times. I didn’t know how to respond. He got me on the guest list so I endured this arrangement. The club sucked – big and soulless with heavy techno music. I was too early for this nonsense so I scooted alone to ‘Cargo’ on a tip from the crew I had met at Empire the night before. The line was brutal and they were not letting guys in. But I made friends with a woman in line and she told the door man we were together so they let me in. Cargo was great – it had the feel of a club in NYC in 1985. All the guys were in suits, then women were lit up and it seemed to me that everybody was on coke. Great house music with live performers (bongos and trumpets) playing over the tracks. I ran into my people and was paired off with an 18-year old girl named Olivia who laughed at everything I said. This worked for quite a while and then a Dutch girl grabbed me and asked if I could pretend I was her boyfriend so another guy would leave her alone. I did. We were pretending when she kissed me out of nowhere and we were giggling and by the time all this foolishness was over, Olivia was gone. Then I turned around and the other girl was gone. It didn’t happen that fast but it seemed that fast and once again I was at the bar, alone on my own ass. This would be a recurring theme. Back to Home Bar, then back to King’s X for late not spots and much clamor. The sun again greeted me as I ambled back to my small bed.