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Published: August 6th 2007
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Strolling past the booths of Fortune 500 companies seeking fresh blood on the Queensland University of Technology (QUT) campus in Brisbane, Gina and I pondered what our professional lives would hold in store for us at the conclusion of this one-year hiatus. As we traded stories of the dream jobs of our youth, me a physicist and her a marine biologist, we quickly realized the disenfranchisement that will likely consume the eager twenty-somethings forcing conversation with the recruiters around us. While acknowledging that the decisions we have made professionally have afforded us the opportunity to travel, neither of us could say we’re excited to return to
the grind. Concluding our parade past the career fair, we were reminded of a church billboard we encountered in the middle of nowhere Australia which proclaimed, “It’s never too late to be what you might have been.”
We had arrived into Brisbane the afternoon before, after a leisurely drive from Surfers Paradise and found most of the city’s population letting their Sunday slip away at outdoor watering holes scattered throughout town. Luckily, our budget conscious hotel, which seemed isolated from everything else in the city, was kitty-corner from the Story Bridge and namesake bar
neatly tucked under the approach. Not in any mood to drink after a fun-filled St. Patrick’s the day before, we admired the fashion-forward crowd seemingly entranced by a mixture of conversation and the DJ’s rhythms as we walked by.
The woman who checked us in at our hotel advised that we could climb a set of stairs adjacent to the bar and cross the Story Bridge on foot for awesome views of the skyline and river. Not wanting our entire day to expire unproductive, we scaled the five-story high staircase and began our way across the kilometer long bridge. Taking our time to photograph the vistas, we found ourselves over the bridge and at the footsteps of Brisbane’s Chinatown about 20 minutes later. We doubled back and this time got sucked in by the patrons’ revelry at the bar. Soaking up the last minutes of a sun-drenched sky, we too became absorbed by the group’s cultish aura of relaxation as we sipped our libations.
The next morning was upon us quicker than either of us wanted. Having not slept well enough on St. Patrick’s, we fought our deprivation knowing that a mere day was all that we had
to explore Brisbane proper. A long black and hot chocolate later, we were navigating our way down to the closest ferry stop. Brisbane, being built on a river, relies on a series of ferries and catamarans to shuttle people to and fro. Our ten dollar day pass gave us access to anything on the water.
As we disembarked from the shuttle boat, our captain asked where we were from and whether we needed directions, trying his best to carrying on Oz’s hospitable reputation. Taking the few pointers offered, we set off towards the city center and the starting point of our 6 kilometer walking tour.
We zigzagged our way through the morning sidewalk mayhem towards Brisbane’s City Hall and noticed that unlike Sydney’s and Melbourne’s Anglo-dominated populous, the composition in Brisbane is more of a potpourri. Arriving thirty minutes too early to ascend the City Hall belfry, we assessed our bearing on the
Lonely Planet map and began our whirlwind tour. The next few hours would take us past war memorials, through pedestrian malls, and into a handful of churches before settling us near the river bank.
Walking down the tritely named George St., we came upon
the former Queensland Treasury Building, now turned casino. Gina mused, “Their slogan should be: ‘Where money’s made.’”
We chuckled and carried on per our guidebook’s directions, concluding our afternoon back near our originating ferry stop. Instead of calling it a day, we boarded a catamaran and decided to run the route from end-to-end. As the twin-hulled boat powered up the river at incredible speeds, we were whisked from the hustle and bustle of urban Brisbane into an area reminiscent of Florida’s Intercoastal waterway. Chicly designed homes filled both sides of the river bank, many sporting large docks and equally-sized boats.
An hour later, we exchanged a look of exhaustion and decided to call it a day. Heading into Chinatown for dinner, hoping for a cheap meal, we consulted the local restaurant directory that recommended two establishments serving
real Chinese fare. Thinking there would be ample street parking, we drove - how naïve of us. As I pulled into the sole parking structure, I eyed the $6 per hour sign as I pulled a ticket. For the next twenty minutes, we traipsed up and down the street trying to locate either of the recommended restaurants only to determine that
neither was still in business. Famished and frustrated, we settled on a non-descript place because it was the only one we passed with other diners inside - all two of them. We politely stomached the average meal under the watch of several Chairman Mao posters before returning to retrieve our car. I pulled up to the attendant’s booth two minutes shy of exceeding my first hour and handed over my ticket plus a $10 bill. “That will be $13,” the attendant countered.
“Excuse me? The sign says $6 per hour and we’ve been here 58 minutes,” I retaliated.
“That’s correct; however, since it is past 6 P.M. you pay the evening rate as well,” he said with an evil grin.
“So basically it would have been cheaper for me to park for two hours during the day, or exclusively after 6 p.m., instead of overlapping the daytime and evening rates,” I replied sarcastically, secretly wanting to stab his eyes out.
So much for our cheap meal.
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Nicole Ventura
non-member comment
Hellllllloooooo!
Hi guys! I never check my emails soo i havent been getting your travel blogs until today. Amazing! Im soo glad u guys are having a good time. Im having a crazy life in chicago as always. I cut all my hair off yesterday! Its soo hot. Love you guys. Nikki xoxoxox