While the cities of Melbourne and Sydney have stolen a good deal of my attention, it was the last two trips that truly captivated my senses: Darwin and Ayers Rock. Both part of the Northern Territory, the two regions share many similarities: World Heritage protected, Aborigine-owned National Parks, visibility of prehistoric cultures and people, a tourist clientele, oppressive heat, original art galleries, and a respect for nature in all of its many forms. But, that’s where the similarities end. Darwin, part of the tropical wet, is painstakingly humid; Ayers Rock is painstakingly dry. Darwin is coastal; Ayers Rock is desert. Darwin’s Aboriginal culture is part of mainstream society; Ayers Rock’s Aboriginal culture remains invisible, confined to the bush, the outback, and the land. Differences aside, I had a similar fondness for these two very special places, vastly unknown worlds that helped me appreciate the beauty of Australia, away from the cities.
I was remiss in thinking that the tropical wet would only be represented by my sub-par experiences in Queensland’s Daintree, as Kakadu National Park (north of Darwin) was an abyss of beauty and reverential surrender to nature. A shit-kicker town dubbed “The Top End” because of its northern location, Darwin is the closest port to Asia and bustles in the way a port city does. The wharfs are active, the population is transient, and the water is a clear blue that reminds me of Bali’s southern shores, a semi-stone’s throw across the way, especially appreciated in Fannie Bay, a bit east of the city itself. I arrived during the beginning of “the wet,” a season that provides the year’s rainfall averages. Like in Port Douglas, I got lucky, avoiding the torrential floods and late day downpours associated with such a season. For that I’m grateful, as I got to explore Kakadu National Park in most of its splendor. Kakadu is in parts swampy marshlands that feed off a system of rivers flowing out into the ocean. In other parts, it is towering rock formations boasting century old Aboriginal artwork, the most beautiful (that I saw) being Nourlangie Rock, a lookout point that encompasses as much of Kakadu that the eye can see. The juxtaposition of the dry regions and the wetlands are remarkable, the colors of the vegetation are constantly changing while the colors of the rocks completely astounding, and the variety of wildlife interesting (and endangered, most). Who knew bird watching could be so worthwhile?
Begrudgingly, since I was short on time, I went on two tours in Kakadu, and both were absolute pleasures, restoring my faith in the tour guide. Kerry, the park ranger, is my new email buddy. Go figure. Granted, the heat was uncomfortable and the entire group was drenched throughout—seats of pants soaked through, darkened t-shirts clinging to torsos, matted ponytails, glistening forearms. And the flies! Australian flies are the true definition of pest. They obstinately refuse to be dismayed by swats, coming back and attempting to probe any exposed orifice for a bit of nutrition. It’s insanity. The park rangers wore nets over their faces; it’s that much of an issue. Had I seen a fly net hat, fashion victim or not, I’d have purchased it! To further illustrate the heat, any movement from indoor to outdoor venues in Darwin necessitated a 15-minute holding period for picture-taking, as my camera fogged and needed a brief acclimation before use. It’s unbearable weather. Tip for future travelers: come in the dry.
My second tour was a crocodile-feeding boat cruise. I had been foiled in Cape Tribulation, foiled in the Kakadu wetlands, and refused to leave 6 weeks of Australian holiday without a proper croc encounter. So, I signed up for the most croc-worthy adventure I possibly could: The Adelaide River Feeding (to wild crocodiles). Using pork chops guides lure the beasts out of the water. Natural jumpers, they spring out of the water for the bait. Well…it was worth every damn tourist penny. These creatures, that look Jungle-Cruise fake, stealthily glide over to the boat, flash their crooked, sharp-toothed smile and then, spring out of the water and snap that chop! Priceless, priceless. I didn’t win the boat’s lottery to feed one myself, though was praying like a grandma on the local church’s bingo Wednesday for a score. Can’t have all the luck, I guess.
Satisfied with all of my adventures in Kakadu, I moved onto Ayers Rock, or the Red Centre as the desert outback is called. An arid, dry heat festers here, in stark contrast to Darwin’s humidity. 33 degrees in Darwin renders one sweat-soaked merely by breathing; 33 degrees in Ayers Rock is breezy, enjoyable but potentially deadly without a water bottle close at hand. The reason to come to the Red Centre is spectacular Ayers Rock, a 40 million+ year old landmass rising 1100 feet high and a 5 mile-trek around the base. Made of sandstone, Ayers Rock is a desert mystery. Why, in the middle of this red sea of sand, did this structure prevail? Aboriginal culture renders it holy; the scientific community labels it a geological anomaly, and the Australian tourist council calls it a goldmine. However you want to define it, Ayers Rock is hands-down amazing. To contemplate this massive red rock, to walk the base, follow the lines and witness the ever-changing colors that beat off of it throughout the day, is one of the more appreciated experiences I’ve had yet in Australia. But, better than Ayers Rock (called Uluru by local people) are The Olgas (Kata Tjuta), 36 rock domes of conglomerate nearby to Ayers Rock. Entrenched throughout the domes are valleys and gorges, crevasses of hike exploration, and be sure that I tried to explore every last piece of it. This was my highlight – Kata Tjuta.
In the three days that I spent in the Red Centre, I was in awe. I was reminded of Bryce Canyon – the colors are remarkably similar and I saw every sunrise and every sunset over these formations, one more spellbinding than the next. After climbing Ayers in early morning, I spent a day wandering around by myself, in the heat of midday, prompting concern from the shuttle driver who dropped me off. Kata Tjuta, however, defies conventional descriptions of beauty. I initially went with out there with a tour but during the first 15 minutes my guide let everyone know we’d only be walking into and out of the main gorge as he brought the pace of a leisurely stroll down to a crawl. No way. So, I explained that I needed to stray from the group and do my own full circuit of the gorges. “I wouldn’t advise that,” said my worried leader. Noted. “What time do I need to be back at the bus?” I asked. “10:15, but you’ll never make it,” Ian doubted. Noted. Ever up for a challenge, I hiked the whole 10k circuit of Kata Tjuta, a tough, rocky, yet stunning terrain that had me panting at points, but never sweating (I love this kind of heat!). Two hours later, at 10:15 AM on the dot, I arrived back at the bus. I could barely breath through my dried out nostrils, my body was beet red, regardless of continuous SPF applications and I was out of water. But, I made it! Better…nobody else was there yet! My mission was victorious. 20 minutes went by before the Italian group I had passed along the way (turning back because they couldn’t continue forward) returned. No, no…the Americano! “You are here!” they uttered in halting English. “No way, you are here!” I won’t say I told you so, kids…
On my last night in Ayers Rock, I opted for the Sounds of Silence—a dinner under the desert stars. Owned by the same people who created Truman/Hamilton Island, Ayers Rock Resort itself was all about the tourist dollar, so I was wary of the likely kitsch factor. Yet, I’d heard it was a “must” and for all the solo time I’d had at the rocks, a little socialization might be good for me. I’m so glad I went. A lot of these tourist traps find me paired with seventeen couples of 60+ years. They ask if I’m still in school and when that fails, they ask if my parents worry about my travels. Blah, blah, yawn. This dinner had a singles contingent. Shocker! At the champagne and canapé sunset, I met Sarah from 8th Street/5th Avenue, also traveling alone. Then, Henry from Toronto, and Jack from Montreal. Two artists from South Korea who didn’t take photographs but sketched the landscapes of the cities they went to (!!), and a young couple from Sydney. Voila! A kids table. We were at a beautiful outback wedding, paired with the cousins and work friends who didn’t know the bride/groom very well, but had a blast, regardless. We drank lots of wine after hearing that the dinner was a bush selection of crocodile caesar salad (very gummy, the croc – yes, I tried it), kangaroo steak, lamb sausages, emu filets (gamey, yucky) and barrimundi skewers. We listened to the eerie didgeridoo play in the background (by a white guy in a polo shirt, NOT an Aborigine, of course), and had an astronomer take us through the night sky full of glittering stars. The coolness of the weather, the company, the setting (did I mention the wine?), were all fantastic.
After a quick weekend in Sydney for Australia Day (our July 4th, except a LOT more patriotism, painted faces in Aussie colors and flag-wearing ensembles), the Australian Open final and a trip to the Zoo, I’m now back in Melbourne for my final week in Oz. I can’t believe I’ve past the month mark and am headed onto the next leg of my journey soon. New Zealand. But first, Melbourne beckons once again.
xo
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Tennis for Tourists
Melbourne, Australia. Once the capital before it was moved to Canberra, Melbourne is a world city in its own right. No, it’s not as pretty as Sydney, it’s not as hot as Cairns, it’s not as industrial as Brisbaine, and it doesn’t have beaches like the Gold Coast or the Reef, but Melbourne is most definitely the coolest of them all. Different for having four seasons, it has an underground vibe, an air of chic, and a penchant for the arts. It’s multicultural—everywhere else in Australia (that I’ve seen) is very white—with an intense appreciation for art, literature, architecture, and music. Boasting great universities in a cultural playground, the palate is world-inspired, the fashion sense is trendsetting, and the quality of life makes it all affordable. In a constant fight for bragging rights as Australia’s best metropolis, Melbourne wins.
While not immediately coastal, the Yarra River, which cuts right through the center of the city, gives Melbourne charming tranquility. The city is most active along the riverbank; there’s great people-watching near the promenade on Southbank and the up-and-coming Docklands or in Federation Square—a Melbourne hub across from the Flinders Street Station (with it’s recognizable clock façade) boasting restaurants, pubs, museums, and various outdoor spaces to watch the big screen broadcast of whatever major sporting event has the population of Melbourne momentarily transfixed. I spent the entire weekend in central Melbourne, getting to know the city a bit, riding the trams, walking the side streets. The center is an easy grid: Collins, Bourke, Flinders (Matthew Flinders circumnavigated the coast of Australia, so there’s a Flinders street in every city), backed by the winding alleys off of Little Collins, Little Bourke, et al. While the center is fantastic and kept me thoroughly busy, it’s really the suburbs (meaning city neighborhoods – like our Chelsea and East Village versus our Westchester and Long Island “suburbs”) that pulse. I met Ben one night in Collingwood, which is a grungy little suburb with rows of bars along Smith Street, a very different feel than the fancier Southbank or the laidback ease of waterside St. Kilda.
The weekend in Melbourne was a quick trip, a tennis diversion, if you will. Being that I’m annually obsessed with the US Open each year (similar to my love of all things Yankee at playoff time…), I decided to further my fan-dom and make a real go at becoming a year-round aficionado. So, onto Rod Laver Arena I went. Tickets for two sessions (a day and a night) purchased on Ticket-Tek, Australia’s answer to Ticketmaster. For all the cringing that goes on when I see camera-toting tourists at the U.S. Open, I WAS that girl. The foreign fan, camera at the ready, buying souvenir towels. here in Australia. Yep, I admit it. That was me. I was snapping pictures of players on warm-up courts that I wouldn’t have given a second look in the States. Ooooh, Tommy Robredo, shirtless on Court 6. Run, snap, snap! Ooooh, Federer in a night match. Run, snap, snap! Look, it’s Fernando Gonazlez, the new hot Chilean. Run, snap, snap! I even found myself, true to my love of ALL things South American, mumbling along with the Chi! Chi! Chi! Le! Le! Le! Vi-va! Chi-le! Every time Gonzalez took center court. (I’m thinking of getting myself a poster of him for my apartment, he’s THAT dreamy…) I was giddy with tennis fever, a giggling sidecourt fan. Who AM I? Appalled with myself, that’s what I am. I’ve seen these players play hundreds of matches and yet, here, in Oz, I’m a “Yankee” loser with a wild cheer and a Canon Elph.
Rod Laver Arena, with it’s retractable roof for rain (WHY don’t we have this?), is intimate, likely ½ the size of Arthur Ashe Stadium. I sat in the last row for one of my matches (the aforementioned Federer night match) and I might as well have been in Ashe, tier two, front row. It was fantastic, every seat felt close to the action. I asked an usher on the outside who was chatting me up (because I guess US Open tradition had to be tested) if I could pay to lower oneself down. Shocked, he responded politely: “This isn’t America. You can’t just buy your way through.” Ahem. Got it. The matches themselves were great. The protocol is the same, the antics are intact – the wave, the country chants, the overpriced food court, the corporate sponsor boxes. The only thing missing was the Ralph Lauren polo outfits on the ballboys. I didn’t miss them…at all.
In addition to Ben in the world, I met Caitlin & Vanessa in Melbourne, courtesy of Sarah. It’s amazing how keen everyone is to be out and about. It’s almost an effort to keep up. We went for divine Chinese in thriving Chinatown (you kinda forget that Australia is part of Asia), where we killed two bottles of fabulous NZ white before the matches after which we headed to Richmond (another suburb). But being a Sunday night, it was quiet. Plan B: onto Fed Square, where we met a whole new rolling posse. Gotta love the collective spirit of the Aussies; they’re ready to go out for allnighters with absolute strangers in their own town. Like we would ever do that in New York! (Sad…) Two guys in our new contingent were New Yorkers, but upon hearing I was from New York “City” dropped their smiles. When the girls inquired where exactly they were from, in a whisper, not meeting my glance, they replied, “Poughkeepsie.” “Where’s THAT?” Caitlin asked. “Pou-what?” asked Vanessa. “It’s upstate,” I offered. The pair just shook their heads, kicking the dirt at their feet, hands stuffed in chino pockets. “We hate it when we meet real New Yorkers,” they muttered. “Blows the ‘Poughkeepsie New Yorker’ right out of the water.” Ha.
Back to the tennis for Day 2. Man, was I lucky. For all of the first week’s issues, Sharapova’s meltdown, the challenging of the weather policy, the race riots, and a sex offender preying on kids in the bathrooms, it was uneventfully gorgeous during my time in Melbourne. 70 degrees, cloudless, breezy, the optimum conditions for some sport. I watched Hingis steamroll Li, Clijsters clobber Hantuchova, and Blake get his ass-whupped by my new love, Fernando Gonzalez. Stopping for dinner in Southbank, where I indulged in some Australian cuisine – kangaroo, which was delicious – I hit The Crown, a massive casino complex in Southbank, filled with high-end shops, restaurants, and a swanky hotel. Of course, it was packed. (I’m told there a bit of a gambling issue here in Oz, especially at “pokie” machines, or slots, which are everywhere.) I wound up next to a guy from Brooklyn, and wouldn’t you know it, he was with the Blake party. Soon after, the dred-locked brother Thomas showed up, then Blake for a quick spin at the tables before retiring back upstairs after too much unwanted attention on the day’s loss. Sucks you can’t take photos in casinos, otherwise my inner-tennis-tourist would’ve been back on display…
Overall, a blast. Can’t wait to return to Melbourne without the tennis distraction. A winner in my book, for sure.
More soon.
~M
While not immediately coastal, the Yarra River, which cuts right through the center of the city, gives Melbourne charming tranquility. The city is most active along the riverbank; there’s great people-watching near the promenade on Southbank and the up-and-coming Docklands or in Federation Square—a Melbourne hub across from the Flinders Street Station (with it’s recognizable clock façade) boasting restaurants, pubs, museums, and various outdoor spaces to watch the big screen broadcast of whatever major sporting event has the population of Melbourne momentarily transfixed. I spent the entire weekend in central Melbourne, getting to know the city a bit, riding the trams, walking the side streets. The center is an easy grid: Collins, Bourke, Flinders (Matthew Flinders circumnavigated the coast of Australia, so there’s a Flinders street in every city), backed by the winding alleys off of Little Collins, Little Bourke, et al. While the center is fantastic and kept me thoroughly busy, it’s really the suburbs (meaning city neighborhoods – like our Chelsea and East Village versus our Westchester and Long Island “suburbs”) that pulse. I met Ben one night in Collingwood, which is a grungy little suburb with rows of bars along Smith Street, a very different feel than the fancier Southbank or the laidback ease of waterside St. Kilda.
The weekend in Melbourne was a quick trip, a tennis diversion, if you will. Being that I’m annually obsessed with the US Open each year (similar to my love of all things Yankee at playoff time…), I decided to further my fan-dom and make a real go at becoming a year-round aficionado. So, onto Rod Laver Arena I went. Tickets for two sessions (a day and a night) purchased on Ticket-Tek, Australia’s answer to Ticketmaster. For all the cringing that goes on when I see camera-toting tourists at the U.S. Open, I WAS that girl. The foreign fan, camera at the ready, buying souvenir towels. here in Australia. Yep, I admit it. That was me. I was snapping pictures of players on warm-up courts that I wouldn’t have given a second look in the States. Ooooh, Tommy Robredo, shirtless on Court 6. Run, snap, snap! Ooooh, Federer in a night match. Run, snap, snap! Look, it’s Fernando Gonazlez, the new hot Chilean. Run, snap, snap! I even found myself, true to my love of ALL things South American, mumbling along with the Chi! Chi! Chi! Le! Le! Le! Vi-va! Chi-le! Every time Gonzalez took center court. (I’m thinking of getting myself a poster of him for my apartment, he’s THAT dreamy…) I was giddy with tennis fever, a giggling sidecourt fan. Who AM I? Appalled with myself, that’s what I am. I’ve seen these players play hundreds of matches and yet, here, in Oz, I’m a “Yankee” loser with a wild cheer and a Canon Elph.
Rod Laver Arena, with it’s retractable roof for rain (WHY don’t we have this?), is intimate, likely ½ the size of Arthur Ashe Stadium. I sat in the last row for one of my matches (the aforementioned Federer night match) and I might as well have been in Ashe, tier two, front row. It was fantastic, every seat felt close to the action. I asked an usher on the outside who was chatting me up (because I guess US Open tradition had to be tested) if I could pay to lower oneself down. Shocked, he responded politely: “This isn’t America. You can’t just buy your way through.” Ahem. Got it. The matches themselves were great. The protocol is the same, the antics are intact – the wave, the country chants, the overpriced food court, the corporate sponsor boxes. The only thing missing was the Ralph Lauren polo outfits on the ballboys. I didn’t miss them…at all.
In addition to Ben in the world, I met Caitlin & Vanessa in Melbourne, courtesy of Sarah. It’s amazing how keen everyone is to be out and about. It’s almost an effort to keep up. We went for divine Chinese in thriving Chinatown (you kinda forget that Australia is part of Asia), where we killed two bottles of fabulous NZ white before the matches after which we headed to Richmond (another suburb). But being a Sunday night, it was quiet. Plan B: onto Fed Square, where we met a whole new rolling posse. Gotta love the collective spirit of the Aussies; they’re ready to go out for allnighters with absolute strangers in their own town. Like we would ever do that in New York! (Sad…) Two guys in our new contingent were New Yorkers, but upon hearing I was from New York “City” dropped their smiles. When the girls inquired where exactly they were from, in a whisper, not meeting my glance, they replied, “Poughkeepsie.” “Where’s THAT?” Caitlin asked. “Pou-what?” asked Vanessa. “It’s upstate,” I offered. The pair just shook their heads, kicking the dirt at their feet, hands stuffed in chino pockets. “We hate it when we meet real New Yorkers,” they muttered. “Blows the ‘Poughkeepsie New Yorker’ right out of the water.” Ha.
Back to the tennis for Day 2. Man, was I lucky. For all of the first week’s issues, Sharapova’s meltdown, the challenging of the weather policy, the race riots, and a sex offender preying on kids in the bathrooms, it was uneventfully gorgeous during my time in Melbourne. 70 degrees, cloudless, breezy, the optimum conditions for some sport. I watched Hingis steamroll Li, Clijsters clobber Hantuchova, and Blake get his ass-whupped by my new love, Fernando Gonzalez. Stopping for dinner in Southbank, where I indulged in some Australian cuisine – kangaroo, which was delicious – I hit The Crown, a massive casino complex in Southbank, filled with high-end shops, restaurants, and a swanky hotel. Of course, it was packed. (I’m told there a bit of a gambling issue here in Oz, especially at “pokie” machines, or slots, which are everywhere.) I wound up next to a guy from Brooklyn, and wouldn’t you know it, he was with the Blake party. Soon after, the dred-locked brother Thomas showed up, then Blake for a quick spin at the tables before retiring back upstairs after too much unwanted attention on the day’s loss. Sucks you can’t take photos in casinos, otherwise my inner-tennis-tourist would’ve been back on display…
Overall, a blast. Can’t wait to return to Melbourne without the tennis distraction. A winner in my book, for sure.
More soon.
~M
Friday, January 19, 2007
You Have an Ocean, People!
Oh, the Whitsundays…
Australia’s northeast coast is dominated by islands that flirt with the fringes of the Great Barrier Reef. The Whitsundays were supposed to be one of the most beautiful groups, with blindingly gorgeous views. At the top of the Whitsundays is the famed indulgence of Hayman Island; in the south lies a more laid-back Lindeman Island. I stayed somewhere in between on Hamilton, a self-sufficient, more built up island that offered all different types of accommodations rather than one high-end accommodation where I would be a single girl in a sea of wealthy honeymooners or one low-end accommodation where I would be a wealthy girl in a sea of single backpackers. I wanted variety. Hamilton afforded that.
So, Qantas. My first flight on the Australian carrier. Why is it that American carriers just can’t get it right? Qantas was roomy; I boarded without hassle in 10 minutes; was served food on an hour flight; and they didn’t charge me excess baggage fees. Being honest, that’s what really gave them extra points in my book. Everywhere else takes advantage of the fact that I like to alter my wardrobe and pack black AND camel heels…just in case. Qantas understood. As we flew back down the Reef, I was again compelled to pant breathlessly out the cabin window. After about an hour, into view came a weird little island with a high-rise in the middle, which I’ve come to know as the Reef View Hotel on Hamilton Island.
Hamilton is, basically, a fake town, built on the basis of the tourist dollar, nothing more, nothing less. It looks like a Hollywood movie lot, with the perfectly painted storefronts, evenly paved streets, equally spaced palms, and golf-cart-driving population of Bermuda short clad gents and ladies wearing their color-coordinated key straps (for designated lodging) dutifully around their neck elevating the whole lodging situation into a modified caste system. Why, if you’re staying at the red-roped 2-star are you wearing your key so loudly? It’s not the chic black 5-star key you’re boasting about! There’s also something very Stepford about Hamilton, how you’re treated by all of the staff, at every service stop. Service with a smile, and then some. It’s a little unsettling. There’s a bakery, one restaurant of each Chinese, Italian, Deli, Ice Cream Shop, Seafood, Steak, and Coffee Shop. There’s one nightclub, a general store, a beauty salon, a children’s clothing store attached to an adult clothing store. One internet café, a Doctor’s office, and a Marina. You have everything you might need, sure, but Hamilton lacks, well…reality. All that said, I admit that I liked it. Trolling around on the wrong side of the street in my golf-cart (only losers take the free Hamilton shuttle…) worked. It’s this quirky little Truman-esque town.
So…diving here was so much better. While Port Douglas looked like it would provide less glitz with the diving, it was actually here in showy Hamilton that allowed the diving part of the dive to “wow.” I’m a fan of the rugged dive trip; those outfits employ the real dive aficionados, the grittier types. They offer no frill boats, homemade lunches in Tupperware containers that the divemasters made themselves that morning, and there’s no photographer. The crew all sport that shaggy sun-bleached blond over brown hair that they push back with plastic sunglasses while they sing Jimmy Buffet on loud at the day’s end. Now, THAT’S diving. Also, contrary to the legend of the Great Barrier Reef diving being the best, the inner “fringe” reef offered MUCH better visuals. The coral was more varied; the colors were vibrant, pale blues, pinks, purples, deep oranges and bright reds. On the outer reef dives here, we saw heaps of sharks, turtles, and rays but it was the coral odyssey of cauliflower and spaghetti shaped life that enthralled me. Overall, great dives. More on par with what I imagined in my head. However, definitely not the dives I expected the Great Barrier Reef to offer.
I guess I pushed my luck by heading out again for two more dives on the Outer Reef. I couldn’t be satiated with 5 dives over the past week and a brush with a lion fish. The upside was that I realized that I’d become so comfortable underwater that I didn’t need half of my air, going one-on-one with my divemaster when everyone else ran out (on both dives). My own private dive finales. Quite a confidence builder. But, before I had peaceful finishes with Alana, my divemaster, I got beaten up by a dive couple who seemingly didn’t learn the ABCs of diving etiquette in their courses. Sydneysiders, him in a turquoise Speedo and a gut the size of Santa Claus (not pretty) and his wife of equal girth in Billabong ensemble, were ALL over me. You have an OCEAN, people! Can’t you stay in your own space? God knows there’s plenty of it. She would creep up on one side and knock my tank. Annoyed, I’d slow down to let her pass and he would kick my head with a fin from the other side. I hated them. But they got their due on the way back to shore. The water was ultra-choppy and they couldn’t handle it; they were sick as dogs the whole way back. The crew was loath to take their double plastic grocery bag messes that pulled and sloshed on the bottom. Justice. Ha. But for all my silent nasty satisfaction, karma worked against me. Answering my curse on the fat Speedo and wife was a change in my equilibrium. Seemingly, I dove so much over the past week (after not diving in months) that I developed an inner ear infection that messed up sense of depth. Yep – I wobbled dizzily through the last days on Hamilton, missing steps, having trouble reading. Not so fun…
Two dive lessons learned: never touch a lion fish and don’t curse other people’s dive etiquette.
Heading to Melbourne tomorrow for a few days the Australian Open.
More from there…
~M
Australia’s northeast coast is dominated by islands that flirt with the fringes of the Great Barrier Reef. The Whitsundays were supposed to be one of the most beautiful groups, with blindingly gorgeous views. At the top of the Whitsundays is the famed indulgence of Hayman Island; in the south lies a more laid-back Lindeman Island. I stayed somewhere in between on Hamilton, a self-sufficient, more built up island that offered all different types of accommodations rather than one high-end accommodation where I would be a single girl in a sea of wealthy honeymooners or one low-end accommodation where I would be a wealthy girl in a sea of single backpackers. I wanted variety. Hamilton afforded that.
So, Qantas. My first flight on the Australian carrier. Why is it that American carriers just can’t get it right? Qantas was roomy; I boarded without hassle in 10 minutes; was served food on an hour flight; and they didn’t charge me excess baggage fees. Being honest, that’s what really gave them extra points in my book. Everywhere else takes advantage of the fact that I like to alter my wardrobe and pack black AND camel heels…just in case. Qantas understood. As we flew back down the Reef, I was again compelled to pant breathlessly out the cabin window. After about an hour, into view came a weird little island with a high-rise in the middle, which I’ve come to know as the Reef View Hotel on Hamilton Island.
Hamilton is, basically, a fake town, built on the basis of the tourist dollar, nothing more, nothing less. It looks like a Hollywood movie lot, with the perfectly painted storefronts, evenly paved streets, equally spaced palms, and golf-cart-driving population of Bermuda short clad gents and ladies wearing their color-coordinated key straps (for designated lodging) dutifully around their neck elevating the whole lodging situation into a modified caste system. Why, if you’re staying at the red-roped 2-star are you wearing your key so loudly? It’s not the chic black 5-star key you’re boasting about! There’s also something very Stepford about Hamilton, how you’re treated by all of the staff, at every service stop. Service with a smile, and then some. It’s a little unsettling. There’s a bakery, one restaurant of each Chinese, Italian, Deli, Ice Cream Shop, Seafood, Steak, and Coffee Shop. There’s one nightclub, a general store, a beauty salon, a children’s clothing store attached to an adult clothing store. One internet café, a Doctor’s office, and a Marina. You have everything you might need, sure, but Hamilton lacks, well…reality. All that said, I admit that I liked it. Trolling around on the wrong side of the street in my golf-cart (only losers take the free Hamilton shuttle…) worked. It’s this quirky little Truman-esque town.
So…diving here was so much better. While Port Douglas looked like it would provide less glitz with the diving, it was actually here in showy Hamilton that allowed the diving part of the dive to “wow.” I’m a fan of the rugged dive trip; those outfits employ the real dive aficionados, the grittier types. They offer no frill boats, homemade lunches in Tupperware containers that the divemasters made themselves that morning, and there’s no photographer. The crew all sport that shaggy sun-bleached blond over brown hair that they push back with plastic sunglasses while they sing Jimmy Buffet on loud at the day’s end. Now, THAT’S diving. Also, contrary to the legend of the Great Barrier Reef diving being the best, the inner “fringe” reef offered MUCH better visuals. The coral was more varied; the colors were vibrant, pale blues, pinks, purples, deep oranges and bright reds. On the outer reef dives here, we saw heaps of sharks, turtles, and rays but it was the coral odyssey of cauliflower and spaghetti shaped life that enthralled me. Overall, great dives. More on par with what I imagined in my head. However, definitely not the dives I expected the Great Barrier Reef to offer.
I guess I pushed my luck by heading out again for two more dives on the Outer Reef. I couldn’t be satiated with 5 dives over the past week and a brush with a lion fish. The upside was that I realized that I’d become so comfortable underwater that I didn’t need half of my air, going one-on-one with my divemaster when everyone else ran out (on both dives). My own private dive finales. Quite a confidence builder. But, before I had peaceful finishes with Alana, my divemaster, I got beaten up by a dive couple who seemingly didn’t learn the ABCs of diving etiquette in their courses. Sydneysiders, him in a turquoise Speedo and a gut the size of Santa Claus (not pretty) and his wife of equal girth in Billabong ensemble, were ALL over me. You have an OCEAN, people! Can’t you stay in your own space? God knows there’s plenty of it. She would creep up on one side and knock my tank. Annoyed, I’d slow down to let her pass and he would kick my head with a fin from the other side. I hated them. But they got their due on the way back to shore. The water was ultra-choppy and they couldn’t handle it; they were sick as dogs the whole way back. The crew was loath to take their double plastic grocery bag messes that pulled and sloshed on the bottom. Justice. Ha. But for all my silent nasty satisfaction, karma worked against me. Answering my curse on the fat Speedo and wife was a change in my equilibrium. Seemingly, I dove so much over the past week (after not diving in months) that I developed an inner ear infection that messed up sense of depth. Yep – I wobbled dizzily through the last days on Hamilton, missing steps, having trouble reading. Not so fun…
Two dive lessons learned: never touch a lion fish and don’t curse other people’s dive etiquette.
Heading to Melbourne tomorrow for a few days the Australian Open.
More from there…
~M
Ranger Rick and the Lion Fish
Brisbaine loses the ‘East Coast, Big City’ contest. I guess it’s hard to compete with Sydney, but Brisbaine’s too slick to even be in the running. While waterside, and potentially beautiful, it’s designed with too much chrome, glass, steel on both building and bridges, to be comparatively impressive. Luckily, I was just in and out, headed up to the reef-accessible city of Cairns (pronounced “cans” – they mute the ‘r’) then onto Port Douglas, the recent site of all those tacky Matthew McConaughey Down Under photos in the magazines that you all sent my way. “He’s in Australia, have you seen him?!?” No, I haven’t, though I’ve been looking . . .
Port Douglas is an adorable little town where they still park cars diagonally on the main street in front of the ice cream shop, the post, or the market. But, for all the quaint that Port Douglas dishes up, I was surprised to find that with respect to their bread and butter, diving, it’s very big business.
I was SO eager to dive the Great Barrier Reef. Just flying over it was breathtaking, the various hues of blue below me interrupted by greens and yellows glowing against the sun; it looked like a map, the underwater reef subbing for land mass. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen from the sky and the flight had me utterly transfixed, glued like an eight year old to the window. For me, diving the Reef was one of those things that I wanted to check off my life’s to-do list. Dove the Great Barrier Reef: check! Everyone was all Steve-Irwin-worried about my dives in Australia, but the places I was headed were nowhere as exotic as Irwin’s shoots. Plus, the outfit I had booked into at my hotel was “top-notch,” according to Steve, my B&B owner.
True to word, the Calypso boat was a three-decked glossy yacht of pristine white finish with royal blue trim. It was obvious that it was exceptionally cared for and each gleaming section of the boat offered more luxury. The top deck was devoted to plush lounge chairs; the second deck offered the same views, as well as shade. The bottom deck was divided into a designated dry space for our beautifully catered lunch and a wet staging area for the various divers (certified got red folders full of reef information and first-timers got green ones) and snorkelers (blue folders). There was a floating dive shop and (drumroll…) a full-fledged photo shop! The on-ship photographer, who looked like Pippy Longstocking, braids and all, was at the ready to snap you lounging with a book or engaged in underwater hi-jinks. The whole set-up was too perfect. I couldn’t imagine HOW people got left behind on the Reef with organization like this. It was here off Port Douglas that the “Open Water” couple was left at sea! I can’t imagine, given the onboard prep.
For all the hype, my three dives to the Outer Barrier Reef were disappointing. The coral was hardly colorful, the wildlife invisible, and the pace rushed. The most exciting part of the day came when Pippy the Photog had me sidle up to a spider-y looking fish hanging on some coral. She motioned (underwater signals are often guessing games…) for me to (I thought…) touch the fish. Um, really? He looks awfully menacing, Pippy. Throughout the day, Marty my divemaster had encouraged me to touch all sorts of anemone, coral, sea slugs, and clams that were double the size of me and looked like Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors. So, when Pippy signaled, in I went for the grab. Why not, right? The feel factor of the day was pretty fantastic, thus far. WELL…. Ever heard a human squeal of terror? Underwater? Yeah, a bit frightening. Pippy’s eyes widened to the size of donuts as she kept squealing at me. Thankfully, the Lion Fish (I’ve come to learn…) scurried off, spooked by either Pippy’s noise or the motion of my hand. I was told on surfacing that the effects of the Lion Fish’s venomous quills have yet to be truly understood. Initially, I would’ve suffered convulsions, followed by a paralysis. Depending on the sting, the paralysis might have been local to the bite and passing, or comprised a trauma to the better part of my nervous system. Yeah…so, I guess all the Irwin-worriers had right. I almost became a vegetable.
The next day, opting for a safer activity, I headed up to Cape Tribulation and the Daintree Rainforest. Here is the only place in the world where two World Heritage sites meet – the oldest rainforest on Earth (with more species than ALL of the species in the whole world) meets the largest living thing in the world, the Great Barrier Reef. Ta-daa! Now, that deserves a trip, no? Well… I again listened to Steve and booked onto Tony’s Tropical Tours. Name full of alliteration, high recommendation, I’ll see what it’s all about. Picked up at 7 AM, I should’ve known that I was in for a long, long, long day.
After a brief rainforest walk where David, my eco-friendly, pony-tailed waif of a guide, pointed out a few species, I remembered that I get bored on these kinds of trips. I usually opt for the half-day version as I can only feign interest for so long. But, out of travel-practice, I forgot my “half-day is the way” theory and booked full. I’ve been to quite a few rainforests in my day, I’m kind of from the “seen one, seen them all” school. But, it seemed we were headed onward quickly, not spending too much time in the forest. Excellent. To Cape Tribulation next, where Captain Cook discovered the Australian coast. (No, not Captain Hook, the Disney character who lost a hand when bitten by a crocodile – but I understand the confusion…)
Photo op accomplished, we went for another walk through the rainforest. Another one? Here, I started to wilt. Seemingly I joined a group of aspiring botanists and entomologists who knew their omnivores, carnivores, and herbivores on sight. They were all SO into the rainforest walks, asking questions to which David would answer, “Now, that’s a GR-EAT question, Mark!” and embark on a ten-minute lichen tangent. Ranger Rick had as much of a hard on for the lively group as he did for marsupials, reptiles, cassowarys (a prehistoric bird, bigger than a peacock that lives in Daintree, and got Dave really going...). Being “green,” the commentary didn’t stop. Ranger Rick’s NON-STOP soapbox preaching about anything remotely un-eco stole thunder from an otherwise nice day. “This is the original Garden of Eden, people.” And you’re freaking Adam, right? “This world is a world of harmony, the rainforest. Do you hear the forests song?” No David. No I don’t. “When it comes to the environment, America leads the pack of those going to hell. With the Devil, uh Bush, at the helm. Sorry, Marie. I can’t help the eco-chatter, it’s my passion.” Learn to help it, David. Americans tip, Australian’s don’t. “Fun and friends in the forest. We’re all friends, us and the animals?” Uh, no. No David, we’re not. Two World Heritage Sites, a day at one with nature, an exploration of our scientific lineage in the rainforest -- I couldn’t wait to get off the goddamn tour. Half-days, half-days.
More soon from the Lower Great Barrier Reef. I’m headed to Hamilton Island, part of the Whitsunday group for four days of beach and diving (yes, more…). I promise to look not touch, this time…
Xo
~M
Port Douglas is an adorable little town where they still park cars diagonally on the main street in front of the ice cream shop, the post, or the market. But, for all the quaint that Port Douglas dishes up, I was surprised to find that with respect to their bread and butter, diving, it’s very big business.
I was SO eager to dive the Great Barrier Reef. Just flying over it was breathtaking, the various hues of blue below me interrupted by greens and yellows glowing against the sun; it looked like a map, the underwater reef subbing for land mass. It was like nothing I’ve ever seen from the sky and the flight had me utterly transfixed, glued like an eight year old to the window. For me, diving the Reef was one of those things that I wanted to check off my life’s to-do list. Dove the Great Barrier Reef: check! Everyone was all Steve-Irwin-worried about my dives in Australia, but the places I was headed were nowhere as exotic as Irwin’s shoots. Plus, the outfit I had booked into at my hotel was “top-notch,” according to Steve, my B&B owner.
True to word, the Calypso boat was a three-decked glossy yacht of pristine white finish with royal blue trim. It was obvious that it was exceptionally cared for and each gleaming section of the boat offered more luxury. The top deck was devoted to plush lounge chairs; the second deck offered the same views, as well as shade. The bottom deck was divided into a designated dry space for our beautifully catered lunch and a wet staging area for the various divers (certified got red folders full of reef information and first-timers got green ones) and snorkelers (blue folders). There was a floating dive shop and (drumroll…) a full-fledged photo shop! The on-ship photographer, who looked like Pippy Longstocking, braids and all, was at the ready to snap you lounging with a book or engaged in underwater hi-jinks. The whole set-up was too perfect. I couldn’t imagine HOW people got left behind on the Reef with organization like this. It was here off Port Douglas that the “Open Water” couple was left at sea! I can’t imagine, given the onboard prep.
For all the hype, my three dives to the Outer Barrier Reef were disappointing. The coral was hardly colorful, the wildlife invisible, and the pace rushed. The most exciting part of the day came when Pippy the Photog had me sidle up to a spider-y looking fish hanging on some coral. She motioned (underwater signals are often guessing games…) for me to (I thought…) touch the fish. Um, really? He looks awfully menacing, Pippy. Throughout the day, Marty my divemaster had encouraged me to touch all sorts of anemone, coral, sea slugs, and clams that were double the size of me and looked like Audrey II from Little Shop of Horrors. So, when Pippy signaled, in I went for the grab. Why not, right? The feel factor of the day was pretty fantastic, thus far. WELL…. Ever heard a human squeal of terror? Underwater? Yeah, a bit frightening. Pippy’s eyes widened to the size of donuts as she kept squealing at me. Thankfully, the Lion Fish (I’ve come to learn…) scurried off, spooked by either Pippy’s noise or the motion of my hand. I was told on surfacing that the effects of the Lion Fish’s venomous quills have yet to be truly understood. Initially, I would’ve suffered convulsions, followed by a paralysis. Depending on the sting, the paralysis might have been local to the bite and passing, or comprised a trauma to the better part of my nervous system. Yeah…so, I guess all the Irwin-worriers had right. I almost became a vegetable.
The next day, opting for a safer activity, I headed up to Cape Tribulation and the Daintree Rainforest. Here is the only place in the world where two World Heritage sites meet – the oldest rainforest on Earth (with more species than ALL of the species in the whole world) meets the largest living thing in the world, the Great Barrier Reef. Ta-daa! Now, that deserves a trip, no? Well… I again listened to Steve and booked onto Tony’s Tropical Tours. Name full of alliteration, high recommendation, I’ll see what it’s all about. Picked up at 7 AM, I should’ve known that I was in for a long, long, long day.
After a brief rainforest walk where David, my eco-friendly, pony-tailed waif of a guide, pointed out a few species, I remembered that I get bored on these kinds of trips. I usually opt for the half-day version as I can only feign interest for so long. But, out of travel-practice, I forgot my “half-day is the way” theory and booked full. I’ve been to quite a few rainforests in my day, I’m kind of from the “seen one, seen them all” school. But, it seemed we were headed onward quickly, not spending too much time in the forest. Excellent. To Cape Tribulation next, where Captain Cook discovered the Australian coast. (No, not Captain Hook, the Disney character who lost a hand when bitten by a crocodile – but I understand the confusion…)
Photo op accomplished, we went for another walk through the rainforest. Another one? Here, I started to wilt. Seemingly I joined a group of aspiring botanists and entomologists who knew their omnivores, carnivores, and herbivores on sight. They were all SO into the rainforest walks, asking questions to which David would answer, “Now, that’s a GR-EAT question, Mark!” and embark on a ten-minute lichen tangent. Ranger Rick had as much of a hard on for the lively group as he did for marsupials, reptiles, cassowarys (a prehistoric bird, bigger than a peacock that lives in Daintree, and got Dave really going...). Being “green,” the commentary didn’t stop. Ranger Rick’s NON-STOP soapbox preaching about anything remotely un-eco stole thunder from an otherwise nice day. “This is the original Garden of Eden, people.” And you’re freaking Adam, right? “This world is a world of harmony, the rainforest. Do you hear the forests song?” No David. No I don’t. “When it comes to the environment, America leads the pack of those going to hell. With the Devil, uh Bush, at the helm. Sorry, Marie. I can’t help the eco-chatter, it’s my passion.” Learn to help it, David. Americans tip, Australian’s don’t. “Fun and friends in the forest. We’re all friends, us and the animals?” Uh, no. No David, we’re not. Two World Heritage Sites, a day at one with nature, an exploration of our scientific lineage in the rainforest -- I couldn’t wait to get off the goddamn tour. Half-days, half-days.
More soon from the Lower Great Barrier Reef. I’m headed to Hamilton Island, part of the Whitsunday group for four days of beach and diving (yes, more…). I promise to look not touch, this time…
Xo
~M
Sunday, January 14, 2007
No Shirt, No Shoes....Service!
Australia’s East Coast is a virtual wonderland of beach towns. From small, sleepy little hamlets to glitzy, designer promenades, the Coast is rife with a beach community for even the toughest of customers.
I stopped in Byron Bay (in the northern part of New South Wales, Byron is the easternmost point on Australia's coastline) with Simon for a quick overnight, most of which I slept through. However, on the return, I found Byron to be a funky little town, full of bohemian ideals and hippie culture against an absolutely breathtaking beach backdrop. A backpackers wet dream, 100% surfer's haven with lessons being given by leather-faced pros on every stretch of beach imaginable, Byron Bay was a great few days. To start, the whole place runs on the anti-philosophy of No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service. Here, in Byron, it’s all about barefoot, shirtless service. Flip-flops were a practical luxury item. In Byron, everyone shed all conventions and I went along with the craze, tucking my Haviannas into my day bag for the duration. In addition, as I made my way through the maze of streets lined with bazaar-like stores filled with trinkets from dark corners of Asia, stores sporting frangipani incenses, tuberose oils, Thai fisherman pants, Indian tunics,Vietnamese silk skirts, golden Buddha heads and silver ankle bracelets, I was hard pressed to find a store actually open on a sunny afternoon. Signs hung gently in the windows, swaying from the recent posting that read: “Be back in 10 minutes.” Most of the shopkeepers were “sneaking a wave” when the surf provided. And, 10 minutes usually meant an hour plus. When I did find an open store, sunny day or otherwise, the shopkeepers usually had a beer or a glass of Shiraz in hand, as they threw a “How you going, mate? Can I help?” my way. Laid back is an understatement. But, it worked here.
The folks in Byron embraced the charm of the place, preferring and asserting individuality in all fashions, starting with dress -- polka dot top hats, Raggedy Ann knee socks, layered tulle skirts, koolats for men, floral patterned daisy dukes, and wrist warmers (in 90 degree weather, mind you…). The only cohesive body decorations seemed to be dredlocks, tattoos, and of course, piercings. But, the bent toward being unique extended far beyond frock. The creative arts were alive and well in Byron. Art galleries peppered the place; my own hotel room had the work of three different artists’ for sale. Entrepreneurs sat in closed doorways after hours, selling beaded necklaces, handmade wind chimes and homemade soaps. Street performers were everywhere: mock cover bands plugged into street outlets – 4 guys, no rhythm – belting everything from Billie Jean, the jazz version, to Will She Be Loved by Maroon 5 to Motown. Lone guitar players sat idly at every corner, top hat at the ready for an extra dollar. All had weird little voices, but crowds were large, generous and boisterously involved. (This has happened everywhere – these horrible Aussie bands of 1-5 guys. I think it occurs, and endures, because Aussies have too many drinks to realize how horrible it all really is by the time the singing urchins come out to play. Hence, it turns out to be a bonafide blast. So, really…what’s the harm, eh?) Add to the singers, contortionists, magicians, kids riding unicycles while juggling, and one over-40-year-old-man dressed in a yellow leotard with red wings. A human chicken, he clucked and pecked until you gave him a tip. At which point, he looked up to the heavens and let out a whopping “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Welcome to Byron Bay.
Farther up, closer to Brisbaine on Queensland’s Gold Coast, there is an actual place called Surfers Paradise. I know, right? A marketing strategy from inception. It’s Australia’s answer to Florida, almost frozen in time circa 1975 when the plastic slatted loungers at dodgy looking tiled pools of pastel-colored high-rise communities and hotels were in Floridian vogue. Makeshift carnivals line the boardwalk and casinos lurk behind every doorway; Surfer’s Paradise, to me, was stuck in that Jersey Shore-esque, early Miami Beach time warp. Restaurants with names like Pancakes in Paradise and Surfer’s Seafood Lovers were plentiful. I noticed many a Red Lobster, McDonalds, Hungry Jacks (Australian Burger King), and Subways, along the Strip. The only addition that I found that brought the place current was the influx of designer boutiques to cater to an upper echelon of visitor (though most I met in Sydney that would fit the demographic advised me AGAINST coming to Surfers Paradise in the first place): Ralph Lauren, Hermes, Louis Vuitton, Gucci. But, overall, Surfers Paradise, I felt, could use one big face-lift. A little north of Surfers was a smaller town called Southport that might be considered the South Beach of the Gold Coast, housing some ritzier hotels, restaurants and shops. Here is where Donatella Versace has decided to try her hand at being a hotelier. Why HERE? I’m not sure. But, it didn’t seemingly stop me from booking a room for the night. Unremarkable, except I remember A LOT of gold. A lot of overdone, cluttered ugly-ass patterns on china, throw pillows, lobby lounge chair fabric, and tablecloths. And a lot of those Versace/Medusa-hair inspired heads embossed on everything from towels to sheets to the room pencils. BUT, the saving grace of Surfers, Southport and the Gold Coast is the beaches. If for no other reason, the Gold Coast should be a stop on everyone’s tour circuit around Australia. They’re absolutely amazing, expansive and pristine perfect beaches that weren’t crowded, eroded, or polluted. But…a quick stop only. I hightailed it back to Byron the next morning, removing my own gold necklace if but for just the afternoon.
I’m on my way north to Cairns, Port Douglas, Cape Tribulation and the Great Barrier Reef. More soon…
xo
I stopped in Byron Bay (in the northern part of New South Wales, Byron is the easternmost point on Australia's coastline) with Simon for a quick overnight, most of which I slept through. However, on the return, I found Byron to be a funky little town, full of bohemian ideals and hippie culture against an absolutely breathtaking beach backdrop. A backpackers wet dream, 100% surfer's haven with lessons being given by leather-faced pros on every stretch of beach imaginable, Byron Bay was a great few days. To start, the whole place runs on the anti-philosophy of No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service. Here, in Byron, it’s all about barefoot, shirtless service. Flip-flops were a practical luxury item. In Byron, everyone shed all conventions and I went along with the craze, tucking my Haviannas into my day bag for the duration. In addition, as I made my way through the maze of streets lined with bazaar-like stores filled with trinkets from dark corners of Asia, stores sporting frangipani incenses, tuberose oils, Thai fisherman pants, Indian tunics,Vietnamese silk skirts, golden Buddha heads and silver ankle bracelets, I was hard pressed to find a store actually open on a sunny afternoon. Signs hung gently in the windows, swaying from the recent posting that read: “Be back in 10 minutes.” Most of the shopkeepers were “sneaking a wave” when the surf provided. And, 10 minutes usually meant an hour plus. When I did find an open store, sunny day or otherwise, the shopkeepers usually had a beer or a glass of Shiraz in hand, as they threw a “How you going, mate? Can I help?” my way. Laid back is an understatement. But, it worked here.
The folks in Byron embraced the charm of the place, preferring and asserting individuality in all fashions, starting with dress -- polka dot top hats, Raggedy Ann knee socks, layered tulle skirts, koolats for men, floral patterned daisy dukes, and wrist warmers (in 90 degree weather, mind you…). The only cohesive body decorations seemed to be dredlocks, tattoos, and of course, piercings. But, the bent toward being unique extended far beyond frock. The creative arts were alive and well in Byron. Art galleries peppered the place; my own hotel room had the work of three different artists’ for sale. Entrepreneurs sat in closed doorways after hours, selling beaded necklaces, handmade wind chimes and homemade soaps. Street performers were everywhere: mock cover bands plugged into street outlets – 4 guys, no rhythm – belting everything from Billie Jean, the jazz version, to Will She Be Loved by Maroon 5 to Motown. Lone guitar players sat idly at every corner, top hat at the ready for an extra dollar. All had weird little voices, but crowds were large, generous and boisterously involved. (This has happened everywhere – these horrible Aussie bands of 1-5 guys. I think it occurs, and endures, because Aussies have too many drinks to realize how horrible it all really is by the time the singing urchins come out to play. Hence, it turns out to be a bonafide blast. So, really…what’s the harm, eh?) Add to the singers, contortionists, magicians, kids riding unicycles while juggling, and one over-40-year-old-man dressed in a yellow leotard with red wings. A human chicken, he clucked and pecked until you gave him a tip. At which point, he looked up to the heavens and let out a whopping “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Welcome to Byron Bay.
Farther up, closer to Brisbaine on Queensland’s Gold Coast, there is an actual place called Surfers Paradise. I know, right? A marketing strategy from inception. It’s Australia’s answer to Florida, almost frozen in time circa 1975 when the plastic slatted loungers at dodgy looking tiled pools of pastel-colored high-rise communities and hotels were in Floridian vogue. Makeshift carnivals line the boardwalk and casinos lurk behind every doorway; Surfer’s Paradise, to me, was stuck in that Jersey Shore-esque, early Miami Beach time warp. Restaurants with names like Pancakes in Paradise and Surfer’s Seafood Lovers were plentiful. I noticed many a Red Lobster, McDonalds, Hungry Jacks (Australian Burger King), and Subways, along the Strip. The only addition that I found that brought the place current was the influx of designer boutiques to cater to an upper echelon of visitor (though most I met in Sydney that would fit the demographic advised me AGAINST coming to Surfers Paradise in the first place): Ralph Lauren, Hermes, Louis Vuitton, Gucci. But, overall, Surfers Paradise, I felt, could use one big face-lift. A little north of Surfers was a smaller town called Southport that might be considered the South Beach of the Gold Coast, housing some ritzier hotels, restaurants and shops. Here is where Donatella Versace has decided to try her hand at being a hotelier. Why HERE? I’m not sure. But, it didn’t seemingly stop me from booking a room for the night. Unremarkable, except I remember A LOT of gold. A lot of overdone, cluttered ugly-ass patterns on china, throw pillows, lobby lounge chair fabric, and tablecloths. And a lot of those Versace/Medusa-hair inspired heads embossed on everything from towels to sheets to the room pencils. BUT, the saving grace of Surfers, Southport and the Gold Coast is the beaches. If for no other reason, the Gold Coast should be a stop on everyone’s tour circuit around Australia. They’re absolutely amazing, expansive and pristine perfect beaches that weren’t crowded, eroded, or polluted. But…a quick stop only. I hightailed it back to Byron the next morning, removing my own gold necklace if but for just the afternoon.
I’m on my way north to Cairns, Port Douglas, Cape Tribulation and the Great Barrier Reef. More soon…
xo
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Simon Says...
At 7:20 AM, Sarah and I awoke startled as my phone rang. Simon the Stranger. Downstairs. “You don’t have a big bag, right? I’ve got my bike in the back.” Uh, now you tell me…? Scraping the last vestiges of sleep from my eyes, we wheeled me down to meet Simon. “Ah, he looks lovely,” remarked Sarah from afar. Ok, sure. Temporary big goodbyes to Sarah (she’ll meet me in Melbourne and I might come back to Sydney for Australia Day (equivalent of July 4th – yeah, I’m a bit hooked), I focused back to my driving partner. Pleasantries exchanged, Simon and I set off in his black hatchback. (I don’t know what he was worried about, the bag fit beautifully…)
After peripheral small talk, I started to wonder how should one act on a 9-hour road trip with a stranger? On no sleep. My biggest road trips were to and from Michigan with Lukoff where I rationed her Snapple to avoid abundant pee breaks (the girl’s got a bladder…and while I wasn’t tolerant of frequent urinators then, I’ve started to soften). With Jen, we’d take turns driving, playing DJ, choosing the snack of the moment, waving at hot passerby in 300Z’s. Road tripping was easy. What to do with Simon?!?!
Could I take off my shoes? Could I put my feet on the dash?
What if I fell asleep?
Would I do the “oh-I’m-not-sleeping-head-snap” to mask or would I embrace the nap?
If I embraced, what if I drooled? Worse, snored? Worse even, both?
What if my head lolled onto the window where I made hot breath marks as I slept? Should I share my food? Would he partake or refrain?
Could I eat a banana? Where would I put the peel?
Could I hum, better sing quietly, if I liked a song? What if I sang the wrong words?
And what was the limit on questions?
What were within “getting to know you” boundaries?
All of this filtered through my head as I decided to just run with…gulp…being myself.
It worked. Not 2 hours into the trip, passing “The Hunter”, I had my bare (!) feet on the dash, had consumed a banana (peel in a garbage bag that I was keeping for the duration) and was sharing gummie worms with Simon, formerly the Stranger, now the Sweet. He took a lot of the orange ones, the leftover color, how considerate. Simon was quiet, at first. But soon enough, we were laughing like old friends. I even nodded off a few times and while I’m sure he was too polite to tell me, I think a snort or two might’ve escaped my lips on the reawake. By 5 hours into the trip, we were comparing war stories on relationships, both of others and our own. Simon’s trip north was a spur-of-the-moment one; he needed a moment to just clear his head on his life, away from the confines of his apartment with his girlfriend in Sydney. Josh would call every so often to check status. He had a date with “Mexico” the night before (girl of Mexican descent, for the less clever readers out there…) and was keen to dance around the details via mobile, giving Simon and I something to speculate on.
The landscape was lovely, really pretty. The Blue Mountains then the Great Dividing Mountain Range were to our west the entire drive and they offered quite a spectacular view. What impressed me the most was just how much of the land we passed was untouched, wholly natural, and completely green. Australia has a population of 20 million (Total! If you need perspective the U.S. just surpassed 300 million…) and it’s here, riding through the unmanned wilderness that I realized how such a concept is possible. And we were traveling the coast, not the outback. I can’t imagine how those drives will be, the outback drives. Solely animal country, I reckon. Though the road signs (and roadkill) indicated kangaroos and koalas abounded, we had no spottings. Simon pointed out a wombat, or was it a sloth? Maybe I should’ve made that sidetrip to the Sydney Zoo…
By the time we reached Byron, we were golden. Golden enough, seemingly, that while Simon dropped me off at hotel after hotel “that he deemed Marie-worthy” to check for vacancy, he was comfortably working up to the question: Wanna just split the night? Um, sure. So, now it’s a car ride AND a shared hotel room with Simon the Stranger. What would my mom say? We found a great little beach side vacancy right off of town and settled in. Simon left me to rest for a few hours while Simon did what, I’ve come to learn, Simon does. Bike, dip, then shower. A guy after my own heart, he also scouted a great little restaurant called The Balcony overlooking the main drag in Byron. After a few beers off the beach, we had dinner, a great bottle of New Zealand white (I’m a buyer), and laughed our asses off. Then, off to bed for a continued road trip further up the coast in the morning, after a bike, dip, and shower in the stunning setting of coastal Byron Bay.
A new friend made, the 29 hours I spent with a random Aussie stranger were great. The next day, after Simon left me at the very cheesy Versace hotel along Queensland’s Gold Coast (I promptly returned to the hippie enclave of Byron Bay after 24 hours), he texted me a note that proclaimed me “the funniest and very good value,” a term that loosely translates to quality which I plan to make my own over the next months. Nice! Being myself worked. Sometimes you forget how satisfying that simplicity really is.
Now back in beautiful Byron Bay. Lowdown to come…
xo
~M
After peripheral small talk, I started to wonder how should one act on a 9-hour road trip with a stranger? On no sleep. My biggest road trips were to and from Michigan with Lukoff where I rationed her Snapple to avoid abundant pee breaks (the girl’s got a bladder…and while I wasn’t tolerant of frequent urinators then, I’ve started to soften). With Jen, we’d take turns driving, playing DJ, choosing the snack of the moment, waving at hot passerby in 300Z’s. Road tripping was easy. What to do with Simon?!?!
Could I take off my shoes? Could I put my feet on the dash?
What if I fell asleep?
Would I do the “oh-I’m-not-sleeping-head-snap” to mask or would I embrace the nap?
If I embraced, what if I drooled? Worse, snored? Worse even, both?
What if my head lolled onto the window where I made hot breath marks as I slept? Should I share my food? Would he partake or refrain?
Could I eat a banana? Where would I put the peel?
Could I hum, better sing quietly, if I liked a song? What if I sang the wrong words?
And what was the limit on questions?
What were within “getting to know you” boundaries?
All of this filtered through my head as I decided to just run with…gulp…being myself.
It worked. Not 2 hours into the trip, passing “The Hunter”, I had my bare (!) feet on the dash, had consumed a banana (peel in a garbage bag that I was keeping for the duration) and was sharing gummie worms with Simon, formerly the Stranger, now the Sweet. He took a lot of the orange ones, the leftover color, how considerate. Simon was quiet, at first. But soon enough, we were laughing like old friends. I even nodded off a few times and while I’m sure he was too polite to tell me, I think a snort or two might’ve escaped my lips on the reawake. By 5 hours into the trip, we were comparing war stories on relationships, both of others and our own. Simon’s trip north was a spur-of-the-moment one; he needed a moment to just clear his head on his life, away from the confines of his apartment with his girlfriend in Sydney. Josh would call every so often to check status. He had a date with “Mexico” the night before (girl of Mexican descent, for the less clever readers out there…) and was keen to dance around the details via mobile, giving Simon and I something to speculate on.
The landscape was lovely, really pretty. The Blue Mountains then the Great Dividing Mountain Range were to our west the entire drive and they offered quite a spectacular view. What impressed me the most was just how much of the land we passed was untouched, wholly natural, and completely green. Australia has a population of 20 million (Total! If you need perspective the U.S. just surpassed 300 million…) and it’s here, riding through the unmanned wilderness that I realized how such a concept is possible. And we were traveling the coast, not the outback. I can’t imagine how those drives will be, the outback drives. Solely animal country, I reckon. Though the road signs (and roadkill) indicated kangaroos and koalas abounded, we had no spottings. Simon pointed out a wombat, or was it a sloth? Maybe I should’ve made that sidetrip to the Sydney Zoo…
By the time we reached Byron, we were golden. Golden enough, seemingly, that while Simon dropped me off at hotel after hotel “that he deemed Marie-worthy” to check for vacancy, he was comfortably working up to the question: Wanna just split the night? Um, sure. So, now it’s a car ride AND a shared hotel room with Simon the Stranger. What would my mom say? We found a great little beach side vacancy right off of town and settled in. Simon left me to rest for a few hours while Simon did what, I’ve come to learn, Simon does. Bike, dip, then shower. A guy after my own heart, he also scouted a great little restaurant called The Balcony overlooking the main drag in Byron. After a few beers off the beach, we had dinner, a great bottle of New Zealand white (I’m a buyer), and laughed our asses off. Then, off to bed for a continued road trip further up the coast in the morning, after a bike, dip, and shower in the stunning setting of coastal Byron Bay.
A new friend made, the 29 hours I spent with a random Aussie stranger were great. The next day, after Simon left me at the very cheesy Versace hotel along Queensland’s Gold Coast (I promptly returned to the hippie enclave of Byron Bay after 24 hours), he texted me a note that proclaimed me “the funniest and very good value,” a term that loosely translates to quality which I plan to make my own over the next months. Nice! Being myself worked. Sometimes you forget how satisfying that simplicity really is.
Now back in beautiful Byron Bay. Lowdown to come…
xo
~M
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Sydney, City Redefined
Continuing from where we left off post-New Years, my days in Sydney have been nothing short of thrilling. Taking the ferry from Sarah’s flat in Abbotsford (a suburb) each morning was divine. I’m sure the novelty wears off, but seeing the Harbour Bridge loom large against the backdrop of every color of sky never ceased to amaze this city girl. I’ve always defined city by the bar of Manhattan. We all do, us New Yorkers. But, Sydney raises that bar a bit. Sydney is city redefined. I spent a day walking it from end to end. From the wealthy, leafy streets of the suburbs of Darlinghurst, Potts Point, and Paddington on high, through the sea-level neighborhoods of waterside Woolloomooloo’s (say THAT three times fast) Finger Wharf of trendy restaurants, past the lush Royal Botanical Gardens that open onto the Opera House and the Harbour, to the oldest part of the city, the historical Rocks district. Yes, I wore flip-flops. No, I shouldn’t have.
But past the city center, in every direction, are the beaches. Glorious, glorious beaches. The eastern beaches (Bondi, Coogee, Bronte, Tamarama) face off with the northern beaches (Manly, Palm Beach) and you belong to one school or the other. Each of them offers a different vantage point to take in the amazing coastline, but also each caters to a certain slice of life. Bondi is the original, the mack-daddy (who even says that, sorry…) of Sydney’s beaches. Expansive and eclectic, Bondi caters to all. Tourists mingle with locals on the surrounding strip, peppered with restaurants and cafes, of both cheesy and classy varieties. On Bondi, the energy is always magnetic (as well as the surfer boy bodies…). Tamarama is the see-and-be-seen beach, while Coogee and Bronte (my favorite) are laid back and gorgeous, without as much attitude. Then, there’s (touristy) Manly Beach, farther north. A ferry ride away, Manly is chock-full-of-foreigners (as if I should talk…). I closed my eyes for 20 minutes and woke up nose-to-nose with a Spanish contingent that deemed it perfectly acceptable to invade my personal breathing space. Regardless of which beach, everyone carries a surfboard, everyone “dips” in the water, and everyone loves the sand. Sydney’s a total eye-fuck, all of it.
Deciding to get out of town for a bit, Sarah, Tim, Sally (Tim’s sister) and I went up to the Hunter Valley for the day. “The Hunter” is the Sydney’s local wine region. I’ve never done the Napa thing (shocker…) so, this was a whole new ballgame for me. Miles and miles of vineyards, far as the eye can see. At noon we started at Audrey Wilkinson, where I discovered verdelhos and semillions. Forget the shiraz, who knew white could taste so good? By midmorning we were tipsy, by mid-afternoon we were “blind,” as Sarah would say, bolting out Celine Dion ballads in the car ride home, making a visibly annoyed Tim (our designated driver) pull over on the side of the road to go “clear his ears” a time or two. How we made it out that night is beyond me, but these Aussies don’t EVER turn down another cocktail or a good party, so onward we went to meet Sarah’s friends. All great, Leigh stands out as I’d heard so much about her over the past year (and she presented me with a Harbour Bridge bookmark for my travels, aww…). She’s headed to South America for the next 5 months. Not that I can actually be jealous…but, well, let’s be honest, I am.
My last days in Sydney brought the Harbour Climb, where true to the name, I climbed the Harbour Bridge. While it was a perfect day and the views were astounding, reaching every nook of Sydney’s landscape, the climb itself was a little anti-climatic. I wanted trembling knees, rickety steel girder passes, drop-offs that gave me a birds-eye view into the art of suicide. Nope, nothing so dramatic. I guess the tip-off should’ve been that my group was largely comprised of 65-year old with hearing aids and a couple from Ohio that won their trip to Sydney from Visa (yes, those sweepstakes pay off sometimes…), but I was still craving the adventure aspect of the morning. No dice. I couldn’t even bring my camera so had to shell out tourist robbery prices for the “official” Harbour Climb produced photos. Yes, I had to do the Climb (it’s one of those things you have to do here), but afterwards, I totally felt like a sucker.
I went out of Sydney in style. A true Saturday night out with the girls. Dinner was Thai (Australians eat thai like we eat sushi) at Longrain (yes, it was on my “list”) where I felt right at home when Lachlan Murdoch walked out of the restaurant as we were walking in (I just can’t get away from Harper…but he’s adorable in person). From there we went to Hugo’s in King's Cross, an indoor/outdoor lounge/club where we partied until about 3 AM. Then, went with the runner-up from Rockstar Supernova (I never heard of this show, am learning…) and a former hook-up of Miss Leigh to Lady Lux, some after-hours bar. When I looked at my watch, it was 5 AM. OK, I don’t know the last time I was out until 5 AM in New York. Maybe at Star Room in the Hamptons, circa ’99? Limelight circa ’96? Bedrox circa ’91? Regardless, I had a date at 6:30 AM! I was driving up the coast with Josh’s friend, Simon. Never met him, but had committed to a 9 hour drive with Simon the Stranger. And now, it was 5 AM. Shit, shit, shit. I’d only have one chance to make a first impression. I’m not exactly charming without sleep. Let’s face it…I’m NOT AT ALL charming without sleep. Uh-oh.
Gotta sleep, sorry…nap.
More soon,
~ M
But past the city center, in every direction, are the beaches. Glorious, glorious beaches. The eastern beaches (Bondi, Coogee, Bronte, Tamarama) face off with the northern beaches (Manly, Palm Beach) and you belong to one school or the other. Each of them offers a different vantage point to take in the amazing coastline, but also each caters to a certain slice of life. Bondi is the original, the mack-daddy (who even says that, sorry…) of Sydney’s beaches. Expansive and eclectic, Bondi caters to all. Tourists mingle with locals on the surrounding strip, peppered with restaurants and cafes, of both cheesy and classy varieties. On Bondi, the energy is always magnetic (as well as the surfer boy bodies…). Tamarama is the see-and-be-seen beach, while Coogee and Bronte (my favorite) are laid back and gorgeous, without as much attitude. Then, there’s (touristy) Manly Beach, farther north. A ferry ride away, Manly is chock-full-of-foreigners (as if I should talk…). I closed my eyes for 20 minutes and woke up nose-to-nose with a Spanish contingent that deemed it perfectly acceptable to invade my personal breathing space. Regardless of which beach, everyone carries a surfboard, everyone “dips” in the water, and everyone loves the sand. Sydney’s a total eye-fuck, all of it.
Deciding to get out of town for a bit, Sarah, Tim, Sally (Tim’s sister) and I went up to the Hunter Valley for the day. “The Hunter” is the Sydney’s local wine region. I’ve never done the Napa thing (shocker…) so, this was a whole new ballgame for me. Miles and miles of vineyards, far as the eye can see. At noon we started at Audrey Wilkinson, where I discovered verdelhos and semillions. Forget the shiraz, who knew white could taste so good? By midmorning we were tipsy, by mid-afternoon we were “blind,” as Sarah would say, bolting out Celine Dion ballads in the car ride home, making a visibly annoyed Tim (our designated driver) pull over on the side of the road to go “clear his ears” a time or two. How we made it out that night is beyond me, but these Aussies don’t EVER turn down another cocktail or a good party, so onward we went to meet Sarah’s friends. All great, Leigh stands out as I’d heard so much about her over the past year (and she presented me with a Harbour Bridge bookmark for my travels, aww…). She’s headed to South America for the next 5 months. Not that I can actually be jealous…but, well, let’s be honest, I am.
My last days in Sydney brought the Harbour Climb, where true to the name, I climbed the Harbour Bridge. While it was a perfect day and the views were astounding, reaching every nook of Sydney’s landscape, the climb itself was a little anti-climatic. I wanted trembling knees, rickety steel girder passes, drop-offs that gave me a birds-eye view into the art of suicide. Nope, nothing so dramatic. I guess the tip-off should’ve been that my group was largely comprised of 65-year old with hearing aids and a couple from Ohio that won their trip to Sydney from Visa (yes, those sweepstakes pay off sometimes…), but I was still craving the adventure aspect of the morning. No dice. I couldn’t even bring my camera so had to shell out tourist robbery prices for the “official” Harbour Climb produced photos. Yes, I had to do the Climb (it’s one of those things you have to do here), but afterwards, I totally felt like a sucker.
I went out of Sydney in style. A true Saturday night out with the girls. Dinner was Thai (Australians eat thai like we eat sushi) at Longrain (yes, it was on my “list”) where I felt right at home when Lachlan Murdoch walked out of the restaurant as we were walking in (I just can’t get away from Harper…but he’s adorable in person). From there we went to Hugo’s in King's Cross, an indoor/outdoor lounge/club where we partied until about 3 AM. Then, went with the runner-up from Rockstar Supernova (I never heard of this show, am learning…) and a former hook-up of Miss Leigh to Lady Lux, some after-hours bar. When I looked at my watch, it was 5 AM. OK, I don’t know the last time I was out until 5 AM in New York. Maybe at Star Room in the Hamptons, circa ’99? Limelight circa ’96? Bedrox circa ’91? Regardless, I had a date at 6:30 AM! I was driving up the coast with Josh’s friend, Simon. Never met him, but had committed to a 9 hour drive with Simon the Stranger. And now, it was 5 AM. Shit, shit, shit. I’d only have one chance to make a first impression. I’m not exactly charming without sleep. Let’s face it…I’m NOT AT ALL charming without sleep. Uh-oh.
Gotta sleep, sorry…nap.
More soon,
~ M
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