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.