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Published: July 29th 2008
I agreed to work for a few hours last Saturday morning, which helped me stay out of drunken doings on Friday night; instead of preparing for an all-nighter, at 8 pm I was in the locker room of the Ian Thorpe Aquatic Centre after an hour of swimming, and when I got home I practiced the guitar and replied to emails until I got tired enough to go to bed.
Seeing how successfully I stayed out of trouble with that recipe, I tried repeating the routine for Saturday as well, and just as I thought I had managed to escape all temptations of partying by instead engaging in some cardiovascular aquatic activities again, it snuck up on me from an unexpected angle; my new flatmate.
I don’t think I’ve properly introduced her, but we call her Wonga, and she’s the bomb; that’s all you need to know. (Elin, she’s like an Australian version of you, which unfortunately just makes me miss you even more. When are you coming?)
Because Wonga and I are both somewhat busy people, and not home terribly often, we haven’t really had much of a chance to hang out, but when I returned from my swim on
Saturday night we ended up chatting over tea in the kitchen. With about 6 bottle shops within a radius of 1 kilometer we couldn’t think of a reason not to buy a few $9 wine bottles and get a little tipsy, so that’s exactly what we did. Except we didn’t stop at a bit tipsy, but instead we got proper drunk.
“Let’s go to Zanzibar!” I suggested with an enthusiasm that poor Wonga couldn’t possibly resist. Having never been there before, it would be fair if Wonga assumed that this place was amazing, an impression fully based on the elated look on my face as I mentioned it, but to not be responsible for any disillusions later on, I made sure to inform her that it was a place that mostly played crappy music,t and the type of place that seemed to primarily attract skanks. This did little to deter Wonga whose curiosity had already been roused, so we grabbed our jackets and the brown bag with the rest of the wine, and started heading for Newtown.
It’s by no means a far walk, at least not when sober. According to my very accurate alco-gauge I can safely presume
we weren’t too drunk when walking by the Redfern Police Station, as we both reflected over the idiocy of passing it with an open container of alcohol in the characteristic paper bag, but we were drunk enough to not let this reflection cramp our style.
When walking along Wilson Street we came upon a house party, and since these are typically more interesting than any pub, bar or club, we invited ourselves, much to everyone’s delight. Or so we happily assumed.
“I’m Swedish! Can we come in?”, I hollered at the people standing outside the apartment smoking, some of whom offered an inspired “Sure!”, which really wasn’t needed since Wonga and I were already working our way through the crowd to get to the dance floor.
The party was pretty happening, with a DJ and heaps of snacks, but since we were on a mission we couldn't stay for too long. While we were there, though, I have to say no one seemed to object horribly to our eminent presence, judging from the many pictures. I would also like to take this opportunity to point out that it is quite astounding how much people like having their picture taken. They’re
not very discriminating, are they? “Oh, here’s a complete stranger with her arm around me smiling into the lens of the camera at the end of her arm. I’ll just mimic what she’s doing, that seems to work.” In a world of Youtube and Facebook and endlessly many blogs, people really should be more careful, lest they end up in some random person's online journal.
Wonga told me to grab a bottle of wine as we left, but I couldn’t find one, so instead I browsed the fridge for any alcoholic beverage that would fit snugly in my purse. I found what I thought was a longneck, slipped it into my handbag, and then I grabbed Wonga (who had already forgotten about leaving and was dancing with some odd, platypus-looking man). Once out of sight of the smokers we took the beer out of my purse, although Wonga Smarty-pants pointed out that it was in fact a pre-mixed Jim Bean and not a beer. Either way it was alcohol, which was really all that mattered. I attempted opening it against a fence, leaning the cap against the corner and pushing down on the bottle like I’ve done a thousand times
before, but I’m guessing I must have been sober most of these other times. Or at least soberer. Instead of just the cap coming off, the whole bottleneck broke off, and I stood there with a hazardous weapon as opposed to a drinkable flask. Unfortunately my vision was blurred and my observational skills slightly impaired, so I didn’t notice the undrinkability of this bottle; I took a swig with Wonga screaming at me not to, and after a sip I looked closer at the bottle and saw her concern. Miraculously I hadn’t cut my mouth at all, but I realized that I wouldn’t be that lucky if I continued to drink from that bottle, so I ran back to the house and fetched two plastic cups for us (as if the content was safe as long as we didn’t drink out of the broken bottleneck).
Our journey continued with numerous fun stops, such as Wonga climbing over parked cars on my recommendation, vehicles I picked, shrewdly avoiding the ones with blinking alarms. There are also odd photos of her in some sort of garden, but I’m not sure how, why or where these were taken.
Eventually, we got off
Wilson Street and made it onto King Street, on which our drinking hole destination was located. We decided we needed liquid provisions for the remaining hike, so we walked into the first bar we saw; I think it was the Marly Bar. I tried to convince a Polish guy to buy us drinks, a mistake I won’t make again. Ladies; Polish men are stingy; don’t waste your time trying to get a drink from them. Either that, or this guy simply saw through our bullshit and figured that he had absolutely nothing to gain from buying us anything. In that case he’s just a trifle smarter than most Aussie men, not to mention American ones. Either way, we had to pay for our own goddamn vodka crans, and that's just plain wrong. At some point of the night some guy asked me if I could help paying for something, but all I remember is pointing to my tits and saying: "See these? They indicate that I am a female. That means I don't pay for shit."
Gosh, I'm charming when drunk.
The rest of the night is a bit blurry, I’ll admit. Wonga tells me we went into and
got kicked out of Kelly’s, supposedly for falling off a bench and spilling beer everywhere, and then I vaguely remember a cab ride to Oxford Street. Again, Wonga fills in the gaps, ensuring me that both of us went to the Art Factory, locally known as the Fart Factory, but all I remember is looking for her in a club I had never been before, squinting to clear up my foggy vision. I remember calling her phone, but I couldn’t hear a thing she said, so when Glenn called and spoke more audibly, I headed towards where he was instead. Ironically that was at Zanzibar; Wonga’s and my initial destination.
I recall getting into a cab with a bunch of girls who were going to Newtown as well (without paying a dime, of course) but when I arrived at Zanzibar they didn’t let people in anymore, claiming there were already too many in there. I waited patiently for a while, and then stepped up to the doorman and blazed off my most charming smile. “I’m Swedish, can I come in?”
Amazing stuff, that line. He grinned at me and opened the door, and then quickly closed it behind me
to keep out all the whinging people who admittedly had been in line longer than me. Once in there I couldn’t find Glenn or any of his mates, and next thing I remember I was asked to leave. I don’t remember why, although I think I recall dozing off on a stool by the dance floor. Either way, getting kicked out of Zanzibar is unheard of, unless you’re actively breaking the interior or someone’s nose. I don’t know how I pulled that off.
Since Glenn’s place is practically next door to Zanzibar, I figured him and his mates might have gone up to party at his place, so I rang his buzzer. No one answered, but I assumed they were just playing music too loudly to hear me, so I rang again. Still no reply. Now I tried all the other buzzers, but without much success. After a minute or two of pressing arbitrarily on the other apartment’s buzzers, a guy came down to open the door and tell me off.
“It’s fucking 4:30 AM! Not everyone is out partying, some of us actually like sleeping. You can’t just buzz any fucking door just ‘cause your mate isn’t answering!”
I had a hard time believing it was really that late, but since I couldn’t read the clock on my phone due to the alcohol-induced fog in my eyes, I had to take his word for it. I also couldn’t believe that a first-world country like Australia was cruel enough to device buzzers without off/on functions, or at least mute, but again his fury had me convinced; I reckon he would’ve turned it off, had it been possible.
I apologized profusely, and then pretended to head towards another apartment than Glenn’s until I was out of the angry man’s sight, so that Glenn wouldn’t get shit for my drunken senselessness.
Glenn wasn’t home, and I was getting a bit sleepy, so I got comfortable on the floor outside his door just like a few weekends ago. I have no idea for how long I was there, but I woke up by my ringing phone; it was Glenn wondering where I was. “You don’t want to know”, I assured him, but when he insisted I told him that I was parked outside his apartment. He laughed and told me to come to the Bridge, where he and his cronies had advanced
after leaving Zanzibar. I had no idea where "the Bridge" was, but I hailed a cab and told the driver to take me there.
This ride I actually paid for myself, and when I stepped out of the cab Glenn was waiting outside of the pub. We went inside, and then all I remember is impressing heaps of boys (and myself) with my unexpectedly skilled pool play, while drinking vodka crans that I did not pay for.
We left the bar at around 7:30 AM and ended up at Glenn’s mate’s place. Glennie-boy and myself passed out on the couch in daylight around 8 AM or so, and when we woke up someone announced the time to be 2.40 PM, which I for some reason thought was a joke, until I checked my phone and saw that we had indeed wasted half the day.
We headed out for a light and late brunch at an Italian place, and then Glenn and I went to his place where we laid down on the couch to watch “A Clockwork Orange”.
And that’s when we had an unexpected visit.
Picture this: I’m on the couch, not wearing an awful lot, so to
speak, so when a Sideshow Bob look-a-like pops his head through the open window I quickly grab the blanket and cover myself. This man, Scotty, was seemingly drunk despite it being 7 PM on a Sunday, and he threw himself at me as way of introducing himself.
“You must be Anna! Good to finally meet you”, he shouted much too loudly and much too close to my eardrum, before running over to the door to let in the rest of the posse; now there were 7 of these rambunctious creatures in the apartment, all attacking Glenn with punches and kicks. Glenn was sitting in the couch with me as he received this assailment, which means that I had a bunch of hollering boys on top of me as well.
“Why don’t you stand up, Anna?” grinned one of Glenn’s charming friends, but I just faked a laugh and made sure I had a good grip of the blanket, especially since one of these evil boys was taking pictures of the ongoing commotion.
Eventually they started dropping out, yelling at me to join them for beers at the Courty. Glenn waited until all except one of them had left, and then
asked me if I was coming. I said I’d come down for a beer or two, later, and Glenn hesitated before he gave me an awkward pat on the knee and left.
I got dressed and went down to hang out with these moronic but rather entertaining 15-year olds trapped in 28 year-old’s bodies for a few pitchers, but when they wanted to head to another bar I used this transitional moment to slip off. I had already been referred to as “Glenn’s girlfriend” by one of his friends, and Glenn himself had talked about me as “his girl” when he thought I didn’t hear, but I didn’t say a thing about either of these faux pas. These things sort themselves out, I thought to myself, but I guess I know better. It’s a slippery slope, this not-dating-but-seeing-each-other kind of thing we’re doing, and I don’t know what to do with it anymore than poor Glenn does.
When I parted with this bunch of immature rocksters, Glenn again seemed unsure of what the appropriate thing to do was, and knowing this I half expected a good-humored punch on the arm or something equally confused. But this time he went with
a cheek kiss and the usual departing line; “See ya around, tiger”.
Yup.
The rest of the week was good, especially since I spent most of it with my favorite Aussie-dude Will. On Tuesday I found myself at Kelly’s Irish Pub again, this time to learn how to crochet from a sweetheart called Jamie, a man so innocent he didn’t seem to understand why I laughed when he said “If you spread ‘em it’s easier to see the hole”, referring to the loops of the yarn I was struggling with. The sexual reference I laughed at hardly needs to be spelled out, but the point here is that the man is an absolute darling for not catching on to my perverted interpretation.
When Pete whom I hadn’t seen for 10 weeks showed up, I used this as an excuse to put my pathetic knots of yarn aside and instead listen to stories from his adventures in Russia and Beijing. But tonight I'm getting right back on the crocheting again!
On Thursday Wonga had a dinner party for her friends, and since she’s a kitchen illiterate, Will and I helped her out. Needless to say, our pizza main followed
by the crepe dessert was a tremendous success. “I would never have thought banana and tuna would go so well together!” exclaimed one of the girls, and another commented on the amazing secret kebab-sauce in which they all draped their slices.
Damn, I’m good.
Both Kit and Ming caught the flu last week, and they’ve been miserably sick since. But because Kit is the only one he himself trusts to make coffee, and because Ming is too damn loyal towards his brother for his own good, they both kept coming to work, coughing and sniveling and effectively spreading germs about. As a result, I felt something coming on on Thursday, and by Friday I felt pretty crappy, but I went to the chemist next door and bought Ecinachea for $20, which I drank heaps of every two hours. Miraculously, I didn’t get sick over the weekend, although I felt a bit sluggish and not in much of a party mood.
On Saturday Will and I went for massage and sushi, and afterwards I hung out with Wonga, watching “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” and eating toast with honey and peanut butter; our new favorite. She went out with
some friends afterwards, but I was dead tired from battling the flu, so I stayed at home and went to bed at a decent hour.
Every day after work I go down to the Central Station where my mate Clarence plays guitar for money. Clarence wears flip flops (or ‘thongs’ in Aussie-language) despite the relatively cold climate Sydney is experiencing right now, and looks and smells like a bum, mostly because he is one. I bring whatever leftovers I’ve managed to score from the coffee shop, and although it’s mostly just day-old bread, I sometimes bring goodies like sausage rolls and muffins. The first time I offered him food I had two nice fruit bagels, but Clarence didn’t want them. “I don’t really like bagels”, he said, and since I had heaps of bread he didn’t need more carbohydrates, I guess.
On my way home I giggled at this fastidious bum, but the more I thought of it the more it struck me that the expression “beggars can’t be choosers” really doesn’t ring all that true. Of course he has likes and dislikes like the rest of us, he just doesn’t have the luxury to live according to them. I felt like an ass for finding it amusing and absurd that he wouldn’t just greedily accept every little crumb I threw at him.
I’ve kept my employer unaware of the recipient of all this bread up until yesterday, when I finally came clean. Kit was throwing the edges of the fresh bread, and I asked him to never throw anything edible, but to give it to me instead.
“Do you really eat that much bread?” he asked, since I had been grabbing heaps of day-old bread lately, and I answered that what I didn’t want my flatmates might want. But then I offered the rest of the story; “…and also there’s a bum at the station that I give some of the food to sometimes.” Kit took this information surprisingly well, even commenting on my kind heart, and now he and Ming help out by giving me more and better food to give to Clarence.
Awesomeness is all around.
Glen, a regular at the coffee shop, had mentioned a show at the theatre he works at, and on Thursday he said he would try to get me a free ticket for Saturday. The idea was for him to come by on Friday to let me know when and where, but he never showed up, and I just assumed something had come up.
But on Monday he steps in and asks me why I didn’t call. I’m confused since I don’t have his number, but he says he left a message for me with some girl Friday arvo. I look at Emily who works with me and the boys sometimes, and quickly realize that that daft cow is to blame for me missing out on the free tickets.
“Emily, did you forget to give me a message on Friday by any chance?”. Emily denies it, going red as she does so.
Glen tells me later he had asked for me, and she had said I was busy, inquiring what it was in regards to. It’s personal, Glen had replied, and asked her to just take his number and give it to me. This she supposedly did, but she failed to forward any of this information to me, so I was oblivious to Glen’s efforts to hook me up with good freebies.
I was not the least bit upset with Emily for forgetting to tell me about this, since I can easily see myself making the same blunder, but it really pissed me off that she couldn’t just fess up to her mistake, the silly bitch.
Glen promised he’d take me to some other show this week instead, and I gave him my number to make sure we wouldn’t have the same problem again. "If it’s free it’s for me", I winked at him, and he said he had sensed that about me.
Three updates;
One: I’ve started running again, and it went well up until a few days ago when my shin started resumed its bitching. My chiropractor suggested we should schedule me for a podiatrist if it doesn’t improve after the magic bending and twisting he performed during my last session, but I agreed to no more than a quote for an assessment. $100 per week for getting my hip aligned is enough health care for right now, I figured. I work in a friggin’ coffee shop, for crying out loud, I’m not made of money. Cut me some slack.
Two: The wonderful Kati worked fast and efficiently on shipping my new mp3-player to me, so I’m back to being equipped with music wherever I go. Other than a somewhat lousy battery life my new player is a fabulous piece of electronics; I especially enjoy the alarm clock function that allows me to wake up to whatever tune I choose. Lovely.
Three: I’ve started eating meat. OMG, OMG, I know, it’s like, so mad! But the smell of oven-baked chicken at the coffee shop finally got the better of me, and one day when slicing the freshly cooked meat I popped a piece into my mouth, just to see how that felt. It felt alright, so I tried another one. And then some more. I kept nibbling on chicken the following days, and last week I let Ming make me a chicken burger. Today I had a bagel with chicken and aioli, and so far I’m enjoying every bite of that succulent little animal.
It’s a bit weird eating meat again, and I probably won’t ever get to the point where I buy it, but when it’s my favorite meat, mega-fresh and free and right in front of me, assaulting my nostrils and tantalizing my taste buds, I just want it. I believe it’s called “intuitive eating”; you eat what your body feels like when your body feels like it, as much as your body tells you you need. It’s a food trend that originated in the U.S., and it may very well be responsible for the dire obesity situation they have on their hands now. It turns out this concept doesn’t mix so well with the pervasive use of MSG in American food.
Although, in all fairness, Australia just passed America in the one challenge no country wants to win; highest percentage of overweight or obesity. And that takes us to the
Trivia of the Day The word “svelte”, which in English means “slender, gracefully slim”, means ‘starvation’ in Swedish (svält).
I'm off to crochet.
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whoa now...
....so you move to Australia and now you drink a lot? I swear it was a chore to get you to have one cocktail back here in sunny California, and now you've turned pro! LOL. =)