The Great, Great Ocean Road

March 10^th- 15^th

            It seems like we just got back, but the three amigos are off again. We get our routine airport beers. Expensive airport alcohol only seems good for two things: to calm heightened nerves or excite adventuresome attitudes. We were b. As we exchanged casual conversation about the weeks past events whether in class, in the water, or elsewhere the gate became less crowded.

            After I took another glimpse around, it was less crowded because everyone was on the plane already! We chugged what remained in our bottles and ran to the counter. I took my designated seat and began to read, excited for a weekend of driving the Great Ocean Road and getting another beer.

            “In-flight service has now been suspended”

            If I can still makeout my already borderline illegible handwriting that has been written during the ups, downs, and side-to-sides that the “unexpected turbulence” has caused, then I think the flight attendants can serve me the beer that I have yet to receive.

            Melbourne bound today. My ipod has been reloaded with over 300 new songs, so I put down the book to jam and write.

            I’ve never liked the taste of Heineken. Tonight is no different. I’m sure that Victoria Bitter is viewed as an embarrassment comparatively, but there are different strokes for different folks. But, to be honest I’m just content with being beered

            We arrived late and snagged a cab to a friend’s place about 20 minutes away. We are greeted with cold coronas with pre-sliced limes. It was about one when we headed out. The streets seemed pretty tame for a Thursday night, so instead of going to a club we stopped at some tables outside of a Lebanese restaurant and ordered a few over a some stories. Ignoring our early rise in a few hours we headed to another bar that was interestingly placed inside of a mall. The whole place was dead and there were only a few advertisements lit up that proved people actually come here. As we went up a few flights of stairs the noise seemed to become louder and more bar-like. We have a few pitchers and head back to our respective beds. Mine is a comfortably carpeted floor.

            Friday we are up early in search of a rental car. Nowhere seems to have anything. The receptionists laugh before wishing us luck and hanging up. Franticness ensues. The calling and rejections go on for close to an hour before we have a lead. We are told that there is a Land Cruiser that is available which will be perfect for our makeshift bedroom. After a long walk and a cab ride we arrived at Thrifty only to find out that the driver had to be 25. I let out a four letter word as I dropped my shoulders. The manager typed some things into the computer and told us that the Ford Focus would be available and that it would only cost a little fee for being underage. Fair enough.

            We went back to the place that we slept the night before to get some blankets for our new home before hitting the road to Torquay.

            Melbourne is an interesting place. If you care to go right in this town it’s slightly different than anything you’ve ever thought of in your life. Due to the trams sharing the road with normal cars and the morons that designed the roads, to go right you must first get all the way to the left hand lane, and even further over. After almost hitting the traffic perpendicular to you, you wait until the following lanes are all open at the same time: the two going in the same direction to the immediate right of you, the tram lane that unforgivingly speeds through the centre, and the two lanes furthest away from you that are heading in the opposite direction. Did you know that if all particles (electrons, neutrons, protons) inside of an atom align in a certain way, it is possible to drop a pencil through a desk? That is about what it is like making a right handed turn in downtown Melbourne, unbelievable and borderline impossible.

            We escaped from the city with the car still in tact and headed for Torquay, the city where the Great Ocean Road begins. We stopped and we all scarfed down a big brekky special; I had a coffee.

            The Great Ocean Road is exactly that. The seaside view from our car was really amazing as we zigged and zagged around corners around cliffs. To the left, the south, the view was the ocean that seemed to be never ending; to the right, the north, there were empty farming fields and a few scattered houses every once in a while. Kangaroos hopped freely across the plains. An information centre seemed like a good idea, since none of us had done any research on the sites along the road. We had a map that was circled with places to stay and things to see, so we got a case of Tooheys and started driving.

            Our first stop was Kennet, where we were told that there would be koala bears. As we pulled up and grabbed a few brodos, we saw a group of people standing under a tree all hovering over each other attempting to snap photos that wouldn’t have any evidence that there was anyone else there. A “natural” view, if you will. We looked and quickly got walking up a dirt road that was heading up in the mountains, away from everyone else. Not far off, we saw koalas in trees, everywhere really. Every time we looked in a new tree we would see another snoozing koala, and we had them all to ourselves. We enjoyed the scene for a while before getting back into the car and driving further west.

            After ignoring the forewarning of a passing car that there was a cop ahead, we received a $227 speeding ticket. This was the sixth cop I had seen in Australia, the other five were in Sydney the weekend before. The driver remained carefree, and we continued to make our way up the coast. We followed a sign that said something about waterfalls. The misty fog had rolled in pretty heavy now, especially up in the mountains where we drove. There was suppose to be a great view overlooking all the surrounding land and the water, but it was hidden by a blanket of grey. We walked around the hillside making fun of the sheep in the opposing field by bahhing, when the sound of approaching hooves reached our ears. Out of the grey mist, like that of a movie, a white horse appeared and he was curious. I was frightened and immediately I slid down the steepest part of the hill to the left down towards some woods in hopes that the mare would not attempt to charge down it. Rory on the other hand had issues. After yelling at the horse he quickly changed his demeanour to a nicer more relaxed tone and talked to the horse. They exchanged a moment. The horse whinnied and trotted off.

            We continued to admire the surroundings on the road. Occasionally we would pass a small town, or string of homes and we wondered what it would be like to grow up down here. We stopped at a lighthouse before realising that it would be dark soon and we wanted to reach the 12 Apostles sunset show before 8. I drove fast, but under control thinking about the ordeal with the officer earlier.

The road was crossing through an increasingly more remote area. Big open fields seemed to go on forever, just like the ocean that mirrored it. We made it to the Apostles just around sunset; enough time to snap a couple pictures. We stayed and watched for a long time. The twilight here was much longer than any other I’ve ever experienced the sun stays relatively low and only sets sideways to the south facing cliff, making the sunset seeming endless.

We had no idea what we were going to do now. We had literally no plans. There was a college another hour to the west. We could drive there in attempts to find the local hangout and party with some kids our age. We could drive back to the previous town, which we knew had some restaurants and maybe one bar. Or we could drive just a little further up the road to Port Campbell, which we had yet to see. Port Campbell it was.

We drove through the town in about sixty seconds and located a hostel. There wasn’t an office and the patrons inside said to go to the little villas up the street. The office was closed, now that it was about 9, but there was a number. We called, but the rooms were about $120 a night; too steep for backpacking travellers. There was a bar across the street that had a sign that said accommodation. We asked the bartender. She said no, but pointed us in direction of the other hostel in town. We lucked out, and at $22 a night, it was the cheapest hostel so far. We showered without soap or shampoo, threw on some cool weather clothes and went out for dinner, observing the few bars on the main road, placing bets on which we thought would be the most fun.

I had a great plate of the special beer battered fish and chips after an equally amazing pepper onion soup with cheese foccacia bread dippers. Our stomachs were filled and we walked to the bar whose sign read “Live Music Tonight.” We got a couple jugs and took a seat in front of the band. There were about 25 people in the room, whom we assumed were all locals.

The man next to me leaned in and asked if the band was local. I responded that I had only been in the town for an hour and had no clue. We were not alone. After a song, the man leaned in again and said:

            “I’m a married man, but if I were you I’d go out back, there were some good looking girls out there.”

I passed the word on to my friends and immediately followed them out there. We took a seat, but without cigarettes to smoke, felt awkward in that there was no other reason to sit in the cold. After 5 minutes we returned inside. The girls followed a minute later, only to be greeted by their boyfriends who were inside the whole time. Close call we though as we exchanged the notion with head nods and wide eyes.

The band was really jamming now. “Surfusion” was their name and that’s exactly what it was. It was a three-piece jazz inspired surf band with hints of punk and garage music alike. They were unpredictable and cool. We got a few more jugs and intended to leave soon. We had been up since early that morning and drove the entire day. It was literally mid-song of the last one before we decided to leave when two girls, whom we noticed earlier, pulled the three of us onto the makeshift dance floor with the other seven people dancing. Without resistance we joined them. They didn’t want to dance with us exactly but just near us. It was strange, but we all had solo sessions. Due to the music style, we never knew what was coming next. There were no clear cut dance moves that would cover the bases for the rest of the set. The dancing became increasingly more free and original as the songs progressed across the board. I was in astonishment at how ridiculous everyone looked and didn’t care. I was right there with them, sweating now.  We stayed for the rest of the set, and talked with the girls afterwards. In-between spilling her wine and some cigarettes one of the girls informed us that she had a “little one” at home. We soon left, heading to what would be the only real bed that we would have the entire trip. When we walked in the hostel I took notice to a board of facts on the wall. At the top read: Port Campbell: Population- 200. We assumed this was when all the accommodation in the town was booked.

The following day we planned on finishing the remainder of the road preceded by taking the, much shorter, inland road back to Melbourne. We had inquired the night before with the manager about the surfing close by, so he informed us on the local spots with a map. He took us to a couple, and then wished us on our way.

We stopped at the first little café we saw once we reached town and grabbed some brekky and a standard coffee for me, actually two, as advised by the waitress. We headed back to Torquay and checked out the surf museum and a couple shops.

We entered Melbourne around 5ish and began to get lost in the city in search of a hostel for the night. After getting rejected from about 5, we decided the car would do just as well, and we should get some dinner and our night started.

The pizza dinner was good and the wine and beer satisfied all of our current needs. We grabbed a bottle of Yellowtail from the bottle shop and drank it along with the rest of our beers before hitting the town. We went to a couple bars and then entered a club. Here we split. After jamming together for about an hour, the rest of my crew was no longer to be found. I left happy and almost enjoyed the fact that all of our cell phones were dead and the only way that we would all meet again would be at the car later that night. While walking back to the car I noticed a lonely table in front of a restaurant that looked as though it could use some company. I sat down and ordered a beer. I was quickly spoken to from the guests at the adjacent table. I probably told them I was from Canada. From there I slightly exaggerated about how I was a world traveller and writer. It was cool and I had the audience captivated until I departed.

I returned to the car to find the other two fast asleep. I got them to open the car, and found that the most uncomfortable seat was left for me. Given that I would have done the same, I got in without words and fell quickly asleep.

The next morning we were awoken by the city crew cleaning the parking lot. It was gloomy outside and it was very reflective of the way that I felt. We got out the map and planned our course back to the Thrifty, taking as few right handed turns as possible. We dropped off the car and headed to the markets where we were told of live music, good food, and cheap goods. After lunch we walked around the huge market for a while debating with sellers over items. It was fun and there was a lot to be seen. Near total exhaustion we took a seat in the middle of the square at a table near some live music and coffee stands.

We recounted the weekend for a while, the night in Port Campbell in particular then grabbed a cab to the airport. 

Bedroom Revision

With the lights off and newly collapsed eye lids

  I can imagine the former rooms that put me up

My room at home slowly becomes two others in Harrisonburg,

  quickly reversed back to that of the current with the shut of a door

With each transformation, I envision the location... 

  of pictures in frames, dressers filled with clothes, doors upon walls, and book covered bedside tables circulating the room until they reach the venue that hosts their presence. 

  

March 2nd – 9th: Sydneys Burning

I have a love/hate relationship with finishing books. I have been reading A Cook’s Tour for an embarrassing amount of time until now. I have another one of Bourdain’s books collecting dust on my shelf, unopened, but I yearn for the comforting travel tales of the previous chapter. Ironically, I am going out to the first real sit down dinner that I can think of since getting settled in here, tonight. I can only ever strive to remember all of the ingredients, even the tastes, and characterise them as freakishly well as Bourdain. I am frustrated that the book is so old now. I feel as though he has done so much since then… And I want to read it all!

            The crocodile at the Asian inspired restaurant was accompanied with typical vegetables of a Japanese steak house. The sauce was foreign to me but very good. I received the name from the broken English speaking Asian, but I am humiliated to mention that I have forgotten it. There were also the precursors of a Japanese steak house of miso soup and a salad with ginger dressing. The salad was small and decent, but the soup was a real treat. Whatever brownish sauce the croc was in was a perfect adornment to the chicken coloured meat. It was much more tender than I had previously imagined…

Thursday-

            Due to the freakish amount of toddlers on my flight I’ve had to put down Bourdain’s The Nasty Bits around my third essay in and turn on tunes. We left the Gold Coast airport about 15 minutes ago and the whiny little bastard’s ears are seconds away from popping uncontrollably. I have to pick a song, now. Faster.

            I’m content with my second Victoria Bitter, freshly charged Ipod, pen and paper, and my thoughts.

            We are Sydney bound. We opted for the most intelligent form of logistics: OOL – SYD, while some are flying from BNE, and others are calling a Greyhound-style bus seat ‘bed’ for the night. A little less than 45 minutes now.

            I have already planned on breaking the bank this weekend. Premeditated thoughts of a continuous flow of open containers while walking around the largest city in Australia are in the works. 30 more minutes. Not sure what we have in store for tonight, but I’m ready. I’ll be riding on my recharged travel binge after my purchase of a one-way ticket to Bali earlier today. I cannot help but be saturated in a good mood.

            “Perfect Weapon,” by Communiqué is playing, but I’m singing “perfect weather.” This was once inspired by former smells of stale beer, and liquor charged morning drives to Tech with Pickles for football games, even though we never left the parking lot pregames. Even during the game. Right at about the time we would all run out of beer, the teams were preparing for kickoff, the former tailgaters were finding their seats, and my gang of pirates were spreading ourselves through the parking lot looking for treasure chests of imported beer, but we would settle for heavy domestics; it was free. Those days are long gone now, and I’m substituting old songs for memories. Getting my ticket to Bali is either the first step to planning my journey home or the furthest from it. Currently I need to be back in Sydney on May 21^st to catch a flight to New Zealand.

            “Music players must now be turned off.”

            We’re getting close.

            “Please place tray tables and seats in the upright position”

            After a train transfer to Central Station we are greeted in the street with beers… a good way to kick off the first 20 minutes in Sydney. We all meet and exchange names, then cheers. We all drink 3-5 beers over some general conversation before heading out to a bar just up the street. We are staying in Newtown on the outskirts of the city, but one can tell that this place gets busy. The friend’s house that we are staying at is a little short on cups, so for some reason or another stealing the schooners in front of us seem like a good idea at the time. I placed mine in an alley way in the midst of walking to the second stop, an Irish pub up the street. Liquor is a rarity here, but what better time to celebrate. Johnny Walker goes down the hatch. I find myself with my good friend talking so some older Aussies… about what, I cannot recall. I’m going to guess that Obama came up at least 45 times because everyone here loves to talk about Obama and how great Obama is and how Obama is going to be a better president than the former, whom they despise. Why? Most of them have a half-assed reason. Some have decent. And few have good. I've quit asking. While ranting about politics and how bad Bush was, most don't stop to think that maybe the American public wasn't to keen on the ideologies that were going on behind the White House doors either. Most of the time, if asked, they mention Canada. This is because they don't want to offend real Canadians by asking if they are American. Nowadays I respond "Southern Canadian," and most of the time talks of politics are skipped and beers are to be had. 

            As standard procedure would have it, I am the first to wake on Friday morning. I am on a couch with a few missing pieces. I find them on the floor as makeshift pillows from other visitors. I make some coffee from the stash that I brought, while I contemplate going back to sleep.

            After an interesting set of logistics we make to the famous set of Bondi Rescue, Bondi Beach. The place is pretty packed, and I’m content with bird watching in between Bourdain’s essays. Sunglasses are a must here. Around 4 we make our way to Sydney Harbour. What an amazing site. The Sydney Opera House with the Harbour Bridge backdrop makes for a picture that has been seen all too many times by the popular postcards that leave this city.

            We are walking home with the intent to snag a kebab in Newtown when the likes of a pizza and jug happy hour immediately hook our attention. We sit down and order a couple rounds. The spontaneity that accompanies a big city is something that many take for granted. Since landing in Sydney I have some nostalgic connotations of my previous summer in New York, and the afternoons and late nights that I had out in the big city. While it is not nearly as fast or crowded here, the scene has evoked a feeling that I have not had since August. I like it, but it makes me contemplate my intentions on living once I am “grown up.” Because I never grew up in too big of city, at least not world famous, there is a constant feeling of curiosity and eagerness to find all the little nooks, holes in walls, and dives that this or any other place has to offer.

            We continue to escalate our buzz back at the house over some boxed wine. An Aussie house party and a few drinks at the bar later and I am ready to call it a night. Mardi Gras Saturday is tomorrow and I have no sleep to waste. But as fate would have it, we go to a bar instead.

            When sleeping in unfamiliar places I am immediately awoken by any foreign noises. Some of the other guys staying at the apartment are stirring around 10 because they are going to check out the Harbour. I am ecstatic to be invited to grab a cup of joe. I have noticed that coffee drinkers are few and far between on this trip, so I am delighted to share the vice with someone. Frightened, I slightly open my wallet like opening a cracked door; 5 dollars, enough. As we walk to a place just up the street I am informed that the place we are going, Campos, is addressed as having some of the best coffee in Sydney, if not the country. I am having trouble deciphering if it is the exhausted, damaged, headache-stricken body that really believes this is the best cup of coffee I have ever had, or is the skilled artisans behind the counter are miracle workers. My headache has burnt off just with the first few sips. I walked back to the house to brag to the others back at the house. Being non-coffee drinkers, they found my story slightly unappealing.

            The backpack is loaded with beers, and the remainder of the, now, bagged wine. We start the walk into the heart of city with Tooheys in hand. I love this country. The others ate earlier and I am growing increasingly hungry. Chinatown sounds enticing. We get our bearings straight and head to the city within the city. As we enter, we are flooded with little women telling us about lunch specials. I feel feet taller in this town. We continue to walk. Downstairs we go, underground. There are about 25 different little food stands all crammed side by side.  The signs are overwhelmingly covered in foreign symbols, but the pictures tell all because food always turns out how it looks in film. I make a lap assessing my options. I decide both by price and friendly looks. Now what to get out of the 50 choices…Easy: the number 1 has the biggest picture and lettering. This is clearly what they are the best at.

            16 pieces of fried dumpling accompanied with some hot chilli sauce stare at me as I crack another beer. The food is hot both temperature and spicy. I like it very much, nonetheless.

            We continue our trek through the city still attempting to figure out what the plan is for this parade: time and location. Some friends notify us that Oxford Street is the main drag of the parade. We head that way. The closer we come the epicentre of gayness (the official name of the parade is: Mardi Gras Gay and Lesbian Parade), there are more and more people and while their gender is clear, their biological sex becomes harder and harder to determine. Finding a good spot seems few and far between, but we manage to land a plot a few street lights down from the intersection where the parade begins. The wine has now been mixed with some juice to lessen the warm sour taste. With 2 hours before the parade even starts we are left with no option but to hold down the fort by standing and creating a circle around our territory. Drinks in hand are necessary.

            The sun has gone down now and there is now a blanket of people everywhere along the footpaths and grass behind it. Holding our ground is becoming increasingly more difficult, but attainable.

            The floats are absolutely ridiculous. Rainbows, angel wings, and skimpy clothing are in popular demand. The crowd grows wilder with each float and presentation. This place is insane. The crowd behind me has really started to push forward with force. My elbow and empty jug are keeping my feet in the ground like posts. After an hour and a half of this the crowd has a complex stench of sweat, cigarettes, stale beer, and your average conception of body odour. I have got to get out of here. I nab a friend and we head out of our initial spot into a jungle of freaks, underage drinkers, and normal people that are in total astonishment at the entire occasion.

            Looking around and you’d think it was the beginning of the apocalypse. People running in all directions, drunken idiots attempt to make conversation with each other, others strung out on drugs make conversation with themselves. I look down and in between strobe lights and street lights I see broken glass and burning cigarettes constantly under my flip flops. Kids are passing around bottles of liquor, gay and straights alike are making out and making their way to second base. However much chaos was really going on among the masses, I found it strange that everyone was in a good mood, still smiling in the fantasy-like environment of borderline anarchy.

We hailed a cab, showered quickly, and changed into attire that was suitable for the occasion. As absurd as it may seem… when going out at night it is not worth it to risk going out without jeans and close-toed shoes. It is basically a staple in Australia. I can handle Sydney's cool night breezes, but the heat of the Gold Coast can leave me frustrated in restricting jeans, socks, and shoes.

We met up with some friends in a hotel bar for 9$ jugs. This is probably the best price in the entire city tonight. After a few, we return to the streets in search of chaos. King’s Cross seems to be an area that is a recurring subject when discussing binge drinking into the wee hours of the morning, so we adjust our directions accordingly. After a few bars, I quickly realised that the most entertaining of venues were the streets themselves. The parade had ended a couple hours ago by now, and the bar rejects were bouncing around like pinballs in a pinball machine. They’d hit walls, fall off curbs, and walk clear into traffic. Cab drivers weaved through them like an obstacle course. I think they almost enjoyed it.

I awoke from the couch with most of my clothes on. After a one-eyed trip to the bathroom, I robotically started the coffee. I sat back down for a moment before exiting to the balcony to gather my thoughts.

I packed my things and noticed, as I always do, the garments that went unworn. We had much of the day before we needed to make our way to the airport, so we decided to walk around near the harbour. This turned out to be the best decision I made the entire weekend. The fresh raw seafood caught earlier that morning was waiting for my eating. The others grabbed fish and chips with an addition of fried calamari. I settled on the sushi the moment I saw another's plate. Japanese worked behind the counter cutting whole fish right there on the table, before making rolls, and putting them in take-aways. I enjoyed my meal knowing that I had done a lot in one weekend: had some great times, great coffee, and the best sushi to date. And for the fact that the others don't like sushi, thus eliminating questions of a bite. As my friends slowed down on their meals I was given the permission to work on the leftovers. Sushi never fills me to the extreme, so this was good. We sat looking over the harbour. The skies were gray, yet satisfying. The weather was gloomy, but agreeable.

After we walked around and witnessed some near death street performers attempt to cut their heads off for 20$ in change, we hailed a cab to the airport. We arrived early, but I used the time to read and write. As I walked away from the coffee stand to the right of the food court, the skies opened up. It poured… probably in hopes to wash out the sins of the city and put out the flames from the hellish weekend.

A Bit to Chew On

The longer I'm here, away travelling, the futher mentally I am from home... and closer I am to physically to being there.

Learning on a basic level is really just creating, organising, and reorganising a sequence of entities in a series of lists.

I organise my life around liquid: coffee to wake, ocean to surf, beer to party.

Substitute Teaches

I have begun to substitute coffee for sleep

saltwater for showers

toothpicks for teethbrushing

books for tv watching

old songs for memories

a search for clarity

negotiation for morals

adventure for comfort

travel for entertainment. 

February 23rd- March 1st: Watch-tan Diaries

February 23^rd – March 1^st

            I really would not have even been writing right now but I have completely trashed the PowerDVD on my computer. There are 8 different DVD regions in the world. The U.S. is 1 (of course) and Australia is 4. Every time that I check out a movie from the Bond University Library (about 25 times so far) there is a chance that the film is either 1 or 4. Not ever reading the pop up box that asks me to change the country code for the DVD player, I always click “change.” What I have been missing all these times is that you are only allowed to change you DVD player’s regional country code 5 times before it becomes stuck on the last region that you have watched. There is no way of changing this once it has occurred. That said, my computer will now be forever stuck in the Australian and New Zealand code of 4. Thus one more reason that I must live here forever…

            When I was first looking back at the week I thought that it was rather uneventful, until I started writing.

            The beginning of the week was pretty hectic, as I felt totally disorganized from my trip to Fraser, and I had 2 papers that were due for film. I had yet given either much thought. They actually went fairly well and did not take up too much of my time. I rewarded myself Tuesday once they were done with an evening surf session instead of class.

            I surfed a lot this week: once a day, sometimes twice. Not that there was much swell but it was indeed better than the current forecast in Harrisonburg, Virginia where I would be otherwise. Thursday at Duranbah was a real treat. The waves were fun and the waters were shared with the likes of Bobby Martinez, Mick Fanning, and Greg Emslie. It was fun seeing those guys out in the water. I tried to thrive off their power and use it to my motivation. That night we did the usual and always entertaining Don’s. We would have gone out to Surfer’s, but we had larger fish to fry in the morning: Surfing South Straddie.

            We awoke early and made the trek down to the spit. Foolishly forgetting my booties in my room, I would make the rock jump / climb with naked feet. After a quick paddle through the shark infested waters, we ran over the dunes to see what we were working with. I felt as though I had just gotten out of my car mid summer on Pea Island, North Carolina to look at some hurricane swell. The crowd factor would be considered negative for the Gold Coast and the waves looked perfect. We surfed for 3 hours before paddling back with noddles for arms. I went home for a nap and a snack.

            The afternoon was consumed by rock jumping in the Currumbin Valley and pushing our luck at the natural rock slides in a part of Springbrook National Park. The water was cold, but everything about the jumps and the slides was so sketchy that the racing of my heart had overtaken the icy waters.

            Saturday was equally fun. The world circuit tour had arrived and although the waves were not very good, seeing all the pros out at the place I surf weekly was some real eye candy.

            We went to Surfer’s both Friday and Saturday night this weekend. The tax return money that I was just notified that I would be receiving was being quickly dispensed, as if it was already in my bank account. The Beer Garden was our “go to” both nights. Music is exponentially better live especially when cover bands are playing late 80s and 90s with a hint of today.

 I know that this up coming week is going to go by really quickly. Thursday we leave for Mardi Gras in Sydney. Melbourne has been booked for the following weekend.

On another note- I am frustrated to say that I am still reading Anthony Bourdain’s A Cook’s Tour. I have another book of his waiting on my shelf, and more books on an imaginary list that I have created. It is really hard to have down time to read or watch a good film, let alone sleep in a place that has so much going on all the time. The culture is much relaxed here, but there is so much that I want to do. I have really developed a love for writing since coming here, but sometimes I find that writing gets in the way. I love the feedback even more (hint hint for the readers I have). Not that it makes me think that my pieces display anything great in any way, shape, or form, but that people are going out of their way to listen to my thoughts. I hope to intrigue them to think and optimize everything they come across.

I want to keep this lifestyle once I return to Virginia Beach this summer: no wasted time, continually being outside, not watching tv, capitalising on creativity and wit, exploring the natural / unnatural landmarks that my surrounding area has to offer. I want to continue this when I get to JMU as well: checking out hiking trails, enjoying time in Deerfield, being constantly productive. I can only hope that these entities remain my focus.

Here is a riddle I made the other day:

            What is something abstract that is measured with hands?

Answer will be displayed on next post.