Day 2 in Sydney

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The next morning I strolled around for a few hours, feeling like a king, most likely thanks to the sleep I got.
I grabbed a Flu Shot Smoothie for breakkie, and walking around this beautiful city to the outstanding soundtrack my mp3-player randomly made up for me gave the morning a nice start.
Sydney’s alright, I thought to myself, while browsing through stores looking at things I could neither afford nor fit in my backpack.
Jett had told me that my hostel was not all that good compared to a lot of other ones, so the next day I checked out.
That proved to be a bad idea.
Knowing that Mardi Gras was coming up in a few days, I thought it’d be wise to book a new hostel before checking out of my current one, so I did. They included breakfast in the $27 per night, and it had said “Internet Acess” on their webpage, so everything seemed good, although the rain was pouring down when I caught the bus to my new location.
When I showed up to check in, it turned out that internet was not free like I had assumed, but it was actually priced ridiculously high. That on its own would not have been enough to send me back into the rain, but when I also learned that they didn’t have any type of storage for valuables whatsoever, I decided against it. Am I supposed to carry around wallet, camera and laptop at all times?
Back on the streets, and back in the rain. Shite.

I started walking, and tried to think clearly, which was hard not only because of my heavy back pack and the hard rain, but also because of my overpowering hunger. I stopped at a café and ordered a veggie burger, and tried to charge my dying laptop while eating, but of course the one plug I found was dead.
After my meal I kept walking, and I soon saw a library, which I equated with free wireless internet, so I walked in and inquired about it. Yes, they did have wireless internet free of charge, as long as the laptops were battery operated. As opposed to what? I asked, and the lady kindly informed me that one was not allowed to use power chords due to the increased safety risk this imposed to the library clients. “Someone could trip and fall, you know”, she said, while looking somewhat apologetically at me.
I took out my computer to make sure that I could at least pick up the signal and connect, since Vista has been messing with me a little in that aspect, but it was ok. What was more problematic was my dying battery, though, and this stupid restriction for power chords prevented me from charging it. I really needed to get online to find a new hostel, and book a room as soon as possible, so there was no way around it; I had to allow the rebel within me to act.
I found a corner that seemed to get very little traffic, plugged in my laptop and dragged over a chair. I read for an hour (Elin, jag tycker om Jane Eyre, men vad katten ser hon i Mr. Rochester, den surpuppan?) while my computer charged itself, and then moved over to the wireless area. Within a few minutes I found a hostel that boasted “FREE Internet Access” in King’s Cross, along with free breakfast. All rooms were 4-dorms, which sounded better than the mixed 16-dorm I had stayed in, so I reserved a room there. I was simultaneously searching gumtree.com for housing, and found an interesting room in an apartment in World Tower smack in the middle of downtown. I managed to get a hold of the owner and set up a meeting that same day. He wanted $110 per week for 5 weeks, and although it was too good to be true, I couldn’t resist at least checking it out.

My new hostel’s interior was covered in ugly paintings of artists and actors and random creatures. I believe they were attempting a cool graffiti vibe, but they fell short and only managed to create a mangy atmosphere with enough colors to trigger whatever epileptic tendencies one might have. It also turned out that by “FREE Internet Access”, they meant that each backpacker could get 15 minutes complimentary internet time per day in the café across the street, but laptop users had to pay $2 for 30 minutes for wireless (logic, anyone?).
Note to self; make sure it says “FREE Wireless Internet” next time, and even then, ask if it’s restricted in any way.
But beggars can’t be choosers, so I checked in and carried my stuff up the two flights. My room was essentially a closet with two bunk beds crammed into them. There was stuff everywhere, piles of clothes all over the floor, so I just cleared a little space to put down my pack and escaped the claustrophobic room quickly to go see about the room in World Tower.

The walk from King’s Cross to downtown was pleasant, and I met the up with the guy outside World Tower, which was a very fancy-looking building. He was a Korean student who intended to leave the country for 5 weeks, and needed a tenant from March 1st.
So far so good.
We went up the elevator, and I couldn’t help but notice that this whole building was completely infested with Asians. I don’t think I saw one single Caucasian while inside.
We entered the apartment, which looked really crammed. There were beds everywhere, and my guess is that they lived 9-10 people in an apartment for two. All asian, of course.
But the best part was the room; this guy had said that it was a share, which I’ve learned is Australian for “a room in a shared apartment”. The Korean had not figured that out, however, but obviously thought that “share” meant “a room that you shared with someone else”.
But what he showed me wasn’t even that. The “share” that he was trying to sublet was actually one of two mattresses on a tiny balcony. I nearly pulled out my camera to forever capture it, but didn’t want to offend him by showing him what a travesty I thought this was. The space other than the mattress was no more than 5 square feet, then began his roomie’s part of the room (which I would have to walk through to get to my part of the balcony).
He started showing me the bathroom and whatnot, but I excused myself and said that the setup was not for me, and good luck in finding someone.
I walked back to King’s Cross where the streets were filling with people out to party. As I was walking I started feeling a little better about my shit-day, relieved as I was from my backpack, but just as that feeling set in a drunken man started harassing me. He pointed at me from a distance, and came up and started hugging me and telling me that I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. You’re the drunkest man on this street, was my flattering reply, but he only retorted “So what?!”
Unfortunately, he wouldn’t let me go, but kept giving me all kinds of demands (“I’ll let you go if you tell me your name”, “I’ll let you go if you shake my hand” etc). After a while of me trying to get him to leave me alone, a flock of Brits slowed down when passing us, and gave him the evil eye. He then let go of my arm, and I quickly joined the Brits who had saved me. “You know him?” they asked, and I explained that I most definitely did not, and that he was just some madman who started talking to me. They laughed their jolly British laughter and wished me a fun night.

I slipped into an internet café to try to figure out my housing for the weekend. I had to stay in the graffiti hostel for the night, but there was no way I was staying in that rat-hole any longer than necessary. I was well aware that all decent hostels were sold out thanks to the bloody Mardi Gras, so I was happy to see a reply from another Hospitality Club-member in my email inbox.
He lived outside of Sydney, which suited me just fine, as it would offer me a refuge from the Mardi Gras. I can’t stand urban festivals, and will only suffer through them if I have somewhere quiet to retreat to when the glitter and glam becomes too overwhelming. I took the guy’s number and went back to the hostel to get some sleep.
But no sleep for me just yet. There was a party in my room; three girls were drinking and smoking and sharing stories of their horrible upbringings (“my mom NEVER gave me pocket money, I had to get my own job when I was 14”) along with listing their favorite possessions (“God, I LOVE my leather boots… My mom wanted to borrow them, and I was like ‘no, you can’t, not unless you promise to put a new sole on them afterwards’, cause you know, I almost never wear them, and when I do, I make sure to take a taxi everywhere”).
Needless to say, these girls were not my cup of tea.
I tried to block them out by listening to my mp3-player and read in my bed, and after an hour or so, they were done blabbering about their pathetic lives. They left the hostel to go out and get plastered, which meant I could finally go to sleep.

But a few hours later some other girl showed up, and turned on the only light in the room and started messing around with her stuff. When she had finally installed herself in the room and started applying makeup, I informed her that there was a bathroom where no one was trying to sleep, and maybe she could give that a chance? As she blurted out a heavily accented apology I detected her German origin (go figure), but I didn't even have enough energy to be annoyed with the Germs for being so despicable. At least she got out of the room and turned out the light, and that was all I cared about.

Still, the night was far from over. A little bit later one of the girls returned, really drunk, which would have been a good thing had she not owned a cell phone. Now she called up some guy and started talking to him, and I gave it a few minutes before I realized that this was not to be a brief goodnight-call, but rather a “let’s catch up on the last year”-type of conversation, so I asked her to take her phone call outside. She looked offended by this, but I could not care less.
I went back to sleep a third time, and was brought back to consciousness the next morning in the most repulsive way; by the sound of a couple getting it on in the other bunk bed. I quickly threw on some clothes and got the heck out of there, while half swearing off ever staying in a hostel again.

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