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.