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Published: February 2nd 2010
When in Rome, or Amersterdam or Sydney?
It actually may be a law that you photograph the Opera House before leaving Sydney...We arrived in Sydney to an uncomfortable humid heat wave, like how your broccoli casserole might feel as its placed into a preheated oven. Wandering the streets we settled for the cheapest hostel we could find between Kings Cross and downtown Sydney, Boomerang Backpackers. Each morning for the rest of the week we awoke from late nights to what could only be described as the sounds of container ships speeding dense fog. Most of the waking daylight was spent walking in every direction, Darling Harbour, Chinatown, Botanical Gardens, the Opera House or caching a Ferry/Bus to one of the beautiful beaches surrounding the harbour, Bondi and Manly mostly. By the week's end, Will and I had walked most every inch of Sydney and lit up every dance floor.
Exhausted after a week of teaching Sydney how to dance like epileptic, I sat on the corner of George St waiting for a bus to....well I don’t even know where? "Get on the yellow one that says Hills Bus, pay the driver and get off at an Irish café called McDonalds," I was told. Wwoofing on the Warrah farm is
not a recommendation of mine. It is a nice farm, set up
to support a community with intellectual disabilities, but I'd avoid it to stay sane. I lived with two of the most anti-social people I have ever met (not technically handicapped, but too much organic food IS a bad thing!) on the farm for what seemed like forever. One afternoon, I ventured off with a fellow Wwoofer (who had been around the farm for five weeks) into the neighboring bush. With a bit of misplaced trust in his familiarity with the land, I found myself lost in the thickness that is Australia Bush around sunset, four hours after intending to return while a storm dropped gaint raindrops and rapildly cooled the air twenty degrees in what seemed like ten minutes. After plenty of sprinting through endless bush and a few horse farms and a bit of panic, we eventually made it back. On the upside I did get some honest hard work in, tried some new tasty vegetarian fare and was then able to depart a few days before Christmas!
Back in Sydney, I treated myself to a viewing of one of my childhood's favorite book turned movies 'Where The Wild Things Are" and joined up with some Swedish and
The Harbour Bridge
On my way to Manly Beach, via Ferry German girls for a Christmas Eve feast, gift exchange and Darling Harbour fireworks, learning of some interesting traditions in the process. One such tradition in Sweden is that the Father of the household leaves to 'get the newspaper' on Christmas eve, and magically Santa visits during Dad's 15 min absence to deliver presents. Christmas Day with no Methodist Church within 30KM, I laid low in the hostel for my own service and personal R n R. Boxing day (the day after Christmas, where everyone goes to the beach to get drunk) was rainy and another lazy day I happily enjoyed. That night I boarded an overnight train headed for Melbourne to meet up with Maris, a friend who grew up back in Wilmywood. For what? To sell 3500+ sausages to party goers at the Falls Festival in Lorne, Victoria.
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