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Published: September 20th 2011
This title should of course be read in the style of everybody's favorite former bodybuilder/actor/politician/future cartoon robot in the classic Kindergarten Cop (it's the Dr. Zhivago of my generation, which is why my generation is a train wreck).
When I started writing this entry, it was meant to be the penultimate entry in our Sydney blog. Things got hectic, however, and time disappeared faster than jobs in Detroit. As a result, this will now be the neutron star of blog entries (it’s dense, for the astro-illiterate.)
When last I spun the online yarn fer ye, I foreshadowed high-quality times a-brewin. We had rid ourselves of the shackles of pauperdom and were ready to live like princes for once. Gone was our roach-riddled studio. We had swanky new digs right in the heart of the city. Jenny dove head first (she’ll say bellyflopped) into her first real teaching job. I had my casual travel store gig and full plate of classes to attend to. The final three months in Sydney were our first proper glimpse of what a steady life abroad could look like. We were able to be comfortable, build routines and really try living in Australia on for
On the pitch after the Swans match
They just let you onto the field to kick the ball around! This will never happen in America. Ever.size. Well the waist fits perfect, the in-seam is exact and our asses look fabulous in Sydney-wear. The sad truth was, every day that we became more at home was one day closer to losing that home. Each day the looming reality of our departure crept nearer, mocking us. Our response? Give tomorrow the finger while riding today like it’s a coked-up thoroughbred.
What did we do in our closing time in Sydney? We lived, damnit. We lived. (Granted, I dramatise, but I can make this as badass as I want. You weren’t there. If I said that we did bobsled donkey-jousting or narfled the garthok, you’ve got to take me for my word.) As the author of our day-planner, Jenny may have penned her Great Gatsby with our final months abroad.
First up was a trip Sydney’s artsy, intelligent, if a bit under-dressed little sister Melbourne. (To Melbournite’s Sydney is the smoking hot, but dumb as dingo droppings older sibling.) Melbourne is an extremely cool town. It lacks the in-your-face beauty of Sydney, but below the surface lies a city that is certainly more complex, if not more engaging than its rival to the north. The city
Nearly everyrone we know in Sydney
Top: Sophie, Caroline, Joe, Alice
Bottom: Danny, Jenny (duh) PJ, Michael Beans, Graham, Anne Marie, Ben, Blake, Melissa, Max
Yes, we were exceptionally popular takes work. Melbourne must be seduced. Sadly, I can’t chronicle to alluring nooks of Melbourne’s alleyways in any of the detail they warrant. (Though a handful of sultry glances assures me I would not be left unsatisfied.) I was Victoria’s capital to see people rather than the city.
Melbourne happens to be the home of perhaps our three greatest travel buddies. We first met up with Phil, with whom we plodded across the marshes of Botswana and sands of Mozambique. Phil was kind enough to put us up while we explored Melbourne a bit and he finished up his finals at university. (Our timing is unfortunate as our time with Phil was stunted by finals on our previous visit to Melbourne in 2008.) After a couple of days exploring the alleyways and fruitlessly trying to find some affordable Aussie Rules football memorabilia, we headed with Phil to his family’s beach house out on the Mornington Peninsula. Having spent nearly every moment of our time in Australia in a bustling metropolis, we savoured the opportunity to soak in the silence of the seaside cliffs. Our days were defined by long stints with a book in front of the fire, midday
naps, wine-tasting, cheese and crackers at sunset, strawberry farms and some of the most entertaining family banter ever witnessed between Phil, his parents, siblings and grandmother (all of them shit-shooters of the highest order). Of course, shithead was played (Victoria rules, which are not incomparable to prison rules.)
The best moment came on Easter evening, when the power in the old cabin went out just as our lamb roast was on its way out of the oven. A short scramble for light later, we all huddled at the table for a charming candlelit meal. The roast was perfect, the company grand and the atmosphere given just a hint of winsomeness that fluorescent light cannot provide. As the last bite of dessert was finished, the power returned. Everyone blinked back to the real world and recommenced decades-old arguments once more.
Phil left us on a train back to the city, as he still wanted to milk a few more days on the coast. We returned to Melbourne to reunite with Anthony and Katrina, our teachers when were but young backpacking padawans in South America. We had a wonderful roast dinner/cooking lesson/wine-drinking contest one evening with Anthony. The next night
An unnamed beach
let's be honest, probably named after Queen Victoria we met up with Katrina and her new fiancée Johno for dinner and drinks on the town. Intercontinental friendships have a special panache to them because there’s always so much to catch up on. Also there’s a tacit understanding that everyone involved knows the effort it took to end up in the same room and just being there is a huge display of respect and affection. Anth and Trin, both individually and as a collective, represent so much of who we are as travellers. No trip is complete without a visit.
When the whole, “let’s live in Australia” idea was first conceived, Melbourne was the number one destination. We have such a good friend base there that it was the obvious first choice. Though circumstances put us in Sydney, and we’ve since grown to adore living there, with friends like Anthony, Katrina and Phil we know we would have been just as successful and happy in Melbourne.
We had returned to Sydney for only a few days when we were met by our two friends from home, Moe and Shannon. The perks of Shannon’s job at Santa Barbara airport allowed them to avoid the staggering pan-pacific flight fees
Max has fancy pants
because he is a fancy pants that made visits from any of our other friends impossible. Having just taken days off for the Melbourne trip, Jenny and I each had a pretty full slate when the girls arrived. Their days were spent bouncing around Sydney’s attractions until we were free to put in some QT. Nevertheless, we did manage to squeeze in some great nights out (and in since the girls slept on our couch) and a great surfing day out at Bondi (despite Moe’s near drowning, she still has positive things to say.)
I like to tell myself that Moe and Shan came into town to help celebrate my birthday. For this event, Jenny pulled a Keyser Soze level bit of misdirection. First she pulled together a deliberately predictable surprise party at the bowling alley. A night full of all-you-can bowl, all-you can laser-skirmish action left me satisfied and totally vulnerable for what was in fact the real party. Then a few days later, I returned with the Mrs. from a happy hour drink to a pitch black apartment. Suddenly the light flew on and I was presented with almost literally everyone we know in Sydney screaming “Surprise!” Jenny had pulled a fast one
Pajamapalooza
"I said EXPANSE!!" and designed a second surprise party (this time of the pajama variety). It was one of the best moments of our time in Sydney and I’m already plotting my opportunity to reciprocate with a surprise party for Jenny. (I’ll get her when she least expects it, like a surprise Bastille Day party or something. That’ll show her.)
A few days later, we headed north to explore the legendary Blue Mountains. The Blue Mountains (so known because of the cyan mist of eucalyptus oil that hangs around its trees) are a spectacular collection of peaks and valleys a mere two hours by train from Sydney’s city center. One could easily spend weeks wandering the endless selection of trails or the proximity of the city makes a short day-trip possible as well. We decided to split the difference and stay for the weekend.
In my travels, I have seen my share of landscapes; from desert to rainforest, from bamboo to sequoia. It’s always a treat for me to encounter an area that is completely unlike anything I’ve seen before. The Blue Mountains very much fulfilled this. The sheer, almost-copper cliffs were surrounded by vast tree-filled valleys (not of the pine
I’ve grown accustomed to, but eucalyptus). The area seemed like a hybrid of different geographic elements all rolled into one. Some spots had the fertility of the Sierras and just a few meters down the trail, we were met with aridity not unlike the deserts of Utah. Picture the love child of the grand canyon and the evergreens of the Pacific Northwest and you’re close, but not quite there.
The access points to the Blue Mountains are worth noting as well. Spotted along the train line are adorable little mountain towns that attract as many guests seeking chintzy nostalgia and antiques as the mountains bring those seeking rugged adventure (the overlap of these two demographics is surprisingly robust).
The most active and engaging town of the bunch is Katoomba. Katoomba offers all of the wooden saloons and charming general stores that an old mining town should. The town is presided over by angelic Carrington Hotel. Since 1892, the Carrington has served as the self-described “premier tourist destination in the southern hemisphere.” Of course, through the magic of online coupon sights, our group was able to procure some affordable rooms and saved from the trials of staying at the
A lookout in the Blue Mountains
probably named after Queen Victoria one hostel in the area. The Carrington felt like it had been there forever, but was still comfortable and well-functioning. Our first night following an epic hike along the mountain cliff-tops resulted in a similar trek through the Carrington’s corridors. This place was like the hotel from The Shining, minus the old dead ladies in the bathtub (Though I did get some great work on my novel done: All travel and no work makes Mike a poor boy).
After the weekend in the mountains, we were staring at scant few weeks remaining in our Australian adventure and a sizeable number of boxes left unchecked on our Sydney to-do list. Things got a bit frantic as time ticked away. Added to all of the to-do items and friends we absolutely HAD to share a beer with one more time was the stress of leaving a country, leaving jobs, planning for life in the US and, oh yeah, getting quality grades on my finals. In our final weeks we crammed in a lot, including a footy game from the VIP seats, the best meal at the strangest restaurant (giant meatballs at an old-school hip-hop themed Italian joint, complete with posters of
Our last night in Sydney
They lit up the Opera house just for us. Rakim and Ghetto-blasters on the wall). Just before we left, we had a final gathering at Sydney’s most popular (and in many ways most obnoxious) club, The Argyle. Under normal circumstances, we would not choose to visit this place (nor could we, since I got turned away in when the nicest shoes I own weren’t up to the dress code.) On this night, we had the benefit of a friend-of-a-friend hookup that got us a semi-private party spot with minimal skanky 18-year-old interference. It was the last time the band in full got together and, though my memories from that night are hazy, my emotions are lucid as can be.
At last, the day finally came. We had battled our backpacks shut for the last time. On our way to the airport, we joined Max and Sophie for one last glass of bubbles at Circular Quay. After our emotional goodbye to the first friends we made in our new land, Jenny and I took a moment to bid adieu to Sydney for the last time. There we stood, in nearly the exact place we were those months ago saying, “Wow, were here.” On this day we said, “Wow, we’re
Tristan
Cockatoo Island leaving.”
Sydney has been everything we could have imagined it to be and so much more. We can try as hard as we can. We can have as many nostalgic conversations as we want. We can continue to nurture the friendships we made. We can cycle through pictures until days disappear. But nothing we do can recreate this period of our lives. It was an adventure. It was a challenge. It was a toil. It was trial. It was everything we’ve described it as being. It was impossible to recount. It was Sydney.
For the rest of my life, whenever I mindlessly insert the a “u” when typing the word “honor,” I’ll know that within that one letter, there are volumes to written.
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