Nobody Likes an American

Before we proceed with more adventure, the marketing team here at NLAA thought it might be a good idea to plug some of the gear that helped make the adventures, if not possible, comfortable. You see that ugly white box to the right that has such sayings as “Low SF Hotel Winter Rates” or “San Antonio Car Rental”? Well because I don’t pay for this site that is how the hosts get their money to run it. WELL IGNORE IT! Right now the companies that we would like to advertise to you is
Kathmandu (Australian company) and Helly Hansen travel gear.

 

I have become a member of Kathmandu’s Summit Club which gets me discounts which I greatly appreciate. (Only $20AU to join) I bought a fantastic sweater and top in the Christchurch store, but in the Brisbane store a week prior I bought some of the best pairs of shoes in my life from there made by Helly Hansen that would make Mr. Hansen proud. (Down in his grave in Norway) The Helly Hansen Trail Cutters:

What I really want is to get sponsored by these companies because I truly need the top gear when I’m tramping through a new city and spelunking inside its pubs. What if it rains from my going to the Elephant and Wheelbarrow to the Pig n Whistle?!? I most certainly would need a Kathmandu rainproof jacket. What if I’m out so late I miss the last tram?!? I may have to camp and that small Kathmandu mountain tent sure would come in handy. So if you are out there corporate sponsors of these too very fine and distinguished companies, know this….

 

I’m ready to sell out for you. You want me to carry a banner when I enter a new place? Wear giant florescent jackets with your logos? You got it my friends. Send me I’m here.

Sincerely,

 

Sir Nickolas - City Trekker & Pub Spelunker

(A.K.A “Melburn!” or “Ouch! Ouch! I’m back from
New Zealand”)

 

We flew into the Tullamarine airport at 7am Saturday morning from Christchurch and saw through our little windows a red and smoky sky beneath us and ashes my friend’s car where he left it in the long term airport parking spot. The northern outskirts of Melbourne are on fire and it is estimated that after they find missing people (bodies basically) there will be 300 dead. They believe that these fires were caused intentionally by vandals. Many hope to see them hang from the gallows quite soon I can assure you.

 

There are many fund raisers taking place across Australia to fight the bush fires. My work like most places had a “morning tea” donation meal and raised a handy sum of money. New Zealand sent over 50 well trained fire fighters and the US sent 60. There are many volunteer fire fighters as well, one of which was laid off of his job whilst helping to put out the blazes. This global recession is like a bush fire and Australia and New Zealand aren’t exempt from it that’s for sure. The oils in gum trees are very explosive and when you add strong winds the combo is next to impossible to compete against.
 

I lived in Southern California for most of my life and had my fair share of arson induced fires in the area. It was part of the seasons really, rainy season, windy season, and fire season. Rarely though did mass amounts of people DIE. In Australia the police and fire fighters cannot force people to leave their homes and Aussies tend to apply the “Stand and Fight!” attitude when it comes to their homes. The fires continue to blaze but for now, where I live, we are unaffected apart from the smoky smell in the air. We are grateful.

 So we spent a week in New Zealand doing an epic road trip and it was truly a fantastic experience. I wasn’t able to destroy the stupid ring however because Gandalf the Stupid didn’t tell me that Mt. Doom was located on the NORTH Island. So here I am stuck with this bloody thing and I am kept up all night with these blokes in black tunics riding around on horses outside my flat. Sucks to be me I guess.

 

New Zealand is the loveliest of loveliest of places I’ve seen with mine own eyes. There are some pros and cons to having a travel companion on a road trip as apposed to going solo. Normally I prefer the solo road trips because it is a much more personal experience with the places you visit, you can drive wherever you want, and listen to whatever ever you want as well. Those horrible, horrible smells in your car? Why, that’s just you and nobody else can take credit for it.

 

The pros of having a travel companion, especially one that lived in the area you are visiting, are many and in this case outweigh my preferred usual solo missions.  My California drivers licence has expired so I wouldn’t be able to hire a car and therefore was chauffeured around the island by someone who knew all the nooks and crannies of it. It also allowed me to delve deeper into my research of the national and local beers throughout the country unhindered from the scientific deterrent of driving. I also was able to write most of this epic story whilst in the passenger seat or stopping along the way. I would like to finish up The Sydney Adventure first and then lay a big fat adventurous tale on you of the South Island of New Zealand. Stay tuned and hold on to your hats.

There should be another entry or two about my
Sydney adventure heading your way, but first I am going to take a week off to go over to New Zealand with The German. We are flying into Christchurch where he has to take some English test for his residency and then we are going to embark on an epic road trip around the South Island where I will have a pad and pen to take notes on whatever adventure may occur.

 

I’m writing this on a plane going from Brisbane to Melbourne and there is a kid behind me that has been screaming in a high pitch since before we took off and needless to say I’m not the only one losing their mind. Flying sucks. If we still lived in the days of taking giant ships on romantic voyages around the world or fancy cabined trains I wouldn’t have to deal with this kid right now. Woman and children first? Not this time. No sir. (Or mam I’m sorry that was very sexist of me)

 

So it’s off to New Zealand where I am going to attempt to cast the ring into the fiery pits of Mordor. My name in Elvish is Lenwë Míriel and is probably what everyone will call me there. I’ve attached below a map of New Zealand for you to follow my travels. Will we have epic battles with Orcs? Will we ride with the brave horseman of Rohan? Will we be blessed with a gift of mithril they found in Khazad-dûm or an elixir of light from beautiful Elven maidens? I cannot say, but can only hope. ONLY COPE is more like it. This kid behind me won’t shut up!

The German Arrives

 

Tired from two very early mornings and a long walksome adventure around a
new city, I found myself groggy from a 40 minute hotel room slumber. They say 15 to 20 minutes is the right amount of time for a re-energizing nap and anything over that leaves you more tired then when you first slept. This was yet again the case for me, however being a recurring member of insomniacs anonymous I’m not one to complain over any amount of sleep that comes my way. After some desperate freshening up I take my enemy elevators to the ground floor and embark on a much more terrifying adventure than a new city….new friends.

 

Plopping myself down on the vinier sofa I sat cross legged and prissy in all of the anti post-nap demeanour I could muster up with cautious anticipation of the girls The German was about to introduce me to. I have known The German for about 6 months now and upon my first meeting determined he was a man I could never trust because of his “scheming devils eyes”. Typical me, he has become one of my best mates and here I was face to face with my new brother and friend from Munich who is as much of a refuge and outcast with his country as I am with mine. We are pegs that don’t fit in their proper places of any country we visit and have both found ourselves shipwrecked on the forsaken shores of Australia.

 

Whatever, there in the lobby was my friend with two lovely girls, one from New Zealand and the other from Korea and here we go again with more social awkwardness.

 

If there is one thing that anyone that has ever met “Heir Deutschland” will say, this guy is a fan of the ladies and they are a fan of him. I don’t for a second deny that when the two combustible elements of the flammable female heart and the kerosene charm of a European man instantly kindles and combusts into something this American observes from afar with his mental long lens Cannon camera like a National Geographic documentionalist. And when this magic happens and the fiery embers of love, lust, or whatever you want to label it jump a few feet away from the fire they have ignited and land a few centimetres from my canvas covered toes, I recognize that I am just happy to be out and about with a girl or girls that have no idea of whatever it is that I am and smiles and talks to me laughing and not fully understanding what foolish things intentionally or unintentionally come out of my mouth. I’m still trying to figure out which is which myself and the sooner it is we part ways with the “oh it was so nice to meet you” side kiss goodbyes the sooner we can both escape unscathed to the rest of our lives.

Anyway, back to Sydney. After friendly introductions The Kiwi (A New Zealander) leads us through the city in a zig zag fashion back towards The Orient Hotel that I was at earlier. I felt like such the Sydney aficionado in my recounting of my extremely fast tracked knowledge of the city. “Oh yes, I had a pot of beer there earlier, a charming place” or with a monocle in my eye, cane in hand, and top hat on my head, “Oh yes, I had a snifter of Heineken there as well, it was swellegant!” They never question how on earth I managed to hit up that many pubs in such a short amount in a city I had never been to in a country I am still a foreigner to. My answer? I’m thorough.

 

Whether it had been the hunger in her belly, the thirst in her throat or the affection and hope of impression on the heart of our mutual Bavarian friend, the Kiwi led us to a German restaurant just up the street from The Orient on Argyle St, called The Lowenbrau Keller, where we went through an awkward song and dance with the bouncer who refused The German and I saying they were closed but allowed The Kiwi and Korean saying they were open. There was a genital conspiracy taking place and after a while of our acting confused, foreign and in the company two lovely felines we all found ourselves at a long table in front of a lederhosen band of traditional Bavarian songsters, sausages and giant steins of Lowenbrau from Munich. (Well The German and I did anyhow, he had it waiting for me bless his heart) I found I had been pronouncing this beer wrong for years. It’s not “Low en Brow” but “Loo en Broy” and means “Lions Brew”. Now you know too.

 

Now the girls played a dirty trick on us and said that The Korean didn’t speak English. This resulted in me speaking slow and loud so that she could understand me. That works right? If I were more of an observant man I would have realized that when they were walking they were giggling and TALKING to each other but I was having sensory overload with everything and missed that bit of detail. So it turned out The Korean spoke English which upset The German who from then on addressed her as “Hey Korea”. (They reconciled a few days later) I thought it was pretty funny and something I would try to pull if I knew another language.

 

After our food, steins, and the most critical of all evening events, the two girls going to the bathroom together, Der Ladiesman and I found ourselves locked in the eyes and everlasting judgement that two girls emerging from a bathroom together cast that only heaven or perhaps the Free Masons know the secret of what exactly takes place. We were off to the Opera House for further critical feline evaluation and study. Boys will be boys and girls will be girls. And the observer becomes the observed.

 

The Opera House at night is beautiful. Seagulls fly around its top lights and young lovers and tourist’s alike gaze out to the harbour and its many sites. The German and I had to relieve some of the stein we consumed and afterwards found rehydration through a fellow foreigner by named Jose Cuervo whilst out of site of our two accompanists. It was a lovely night with new and lovely friends and it’s exactly how I want to remember my first night in Sydney. I had been growing increasingly negative and cynical over the past few months and Sydney had proven to be a balm to subdue any inflammation of the heart that had been steadily growing. Don’t worry, I’m still a Melbournian all the way. Melbourne is home.

 

After friendly goodbyes we left our friends at Central Station and I can’t remember what the reason was, perhaps I needed to use the loo, but we ended up back at Jackson’s for an unsaid amount of time and accidentally slipped into a gin and tonic or two. It was Christmas Eve and people were wearing their Santa hats and would stumble around smiling at you. After that we accidently found ourselves at a place that I think was called The Pub where more gin and tonics somehow found their ways down our throats. Gin keeps the mozzies away (mosquitoes) which Sydney didn’t have, but you never know right?

The
Sydney Opera House

                    

After walking up the long set of stairs leading to it, I stood face to face with one of the world’s most uniquely designed and well known buildings. There was a tour for the Opera House in 30 minutes of the time I first wrote this. The inside of the Opera House felt like the inside of a church. When you enter the inside lobby, everyone gets quiet and walks around looking up and down in Danish reverence that architect Jørn Utzon no doubt intended to instill. I stopped by the gift shop and bought some post cards for people whose addresses in the US I could remember and on my way out of this initial reconnaissance mission, I decided a claim to fame would be to poop in its toilets, so I did.

 

The bathroom was dark with no visible inside lights apart from the artsy hidden light that was coming from somewhere out of the ceiling. I think my favourite things about the Opera House, beside the front view Spanish conquistador style helmet shape of the building itself, was the backlit toilet paper dispensers and the sinks that drained back into the wall and not with your traditional drain. I spent more time than I probably should have in this particular area of the Opera House but in my line of work attention to detail isn’t a bad thing. I moved on.

I paid $35 and took a tour with a handful of other tourists led by an aussie gentlemen that spends probably way too much time in the building. There were some Chinese girls in the group and whenever there was anything he could bring out that Asian related he would look at them and say something emphatically so that they knew he was on the level with them. He would go down the list of all the plays and musicals they held there and when he got to Miss Saigon he would look at them and with raised eyebrows and an excited nod tell them “Miss Saigon!” He very much reminded me of my dad in that sense. All he would have had to do next is try to speak Japanese to them (they weren’t Japanese) and the picture would have been complete.
 

As I mentioned in Part II, the Sydney Opera House was also created via a contest that began on 13th September 1955. There were 233 entries from 32 countries and towards the end of their making of a decision, there came Jørn Utzon with a surprise last minute entry who saved the day with his crazy design that they had no idea how to actually make. Imagine that, they approved a design that was so ahead of its time, nobody actually thought it could be constructed. They started construction, laid the foundation, and STILL didn’t know how they were going to make the domes. I try to envision Jørn (born in Copenhagen Denmark in 1918) as the Scandanavian Howard Rourke from The Fountainhead. He was extremely passionate about this particular creation of his (he designed buildings all around the world from the US to Iran) but, after a falling out with the newly elected Prime Minister and Minister of Public Works in 1965, he resigned from the project.

 

In the early 1990’s the Sydney Opera Trust contacted Jørn again and after almost a decade of back and forth he was appointed as an official consultant and in 2007 was given his own room (The Utzon Room) in his “honour”. I think he got the rub, to be honest with you, especially when you think of the saddest part of it all, he died - 3on 29 Nov from a heart attack in his sleep, weeks prior to my viewing of his work. He had left Australia in 1965 and never stepped foot on its soil again. He never saw the completion of his work.

The Opera House was estimated to cost £3,500,000 ($7 million) in 1957 with the original completion date being 26th January 1964 (Australia Day which is coming up soon) but ended up costing $102 Million and was opened with a smiling Queen Elizabeth II there on 20th October 1973. She enjoyed the large party, fireworks, and blasting of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9, which is nice of her being that she seems to be ashamed of Australians for being convicts and not proper Englishmen. Jørn was not invited or mentioned at the ceremony. Howard Rourke all the way. At least that’s how I choose to envision him.

 

The Opera House has 1,056,006 glazed granite, self cleaning, roof tiles imported from the Höganas firm in Sweden that alternate from white to beige so that depending on the light of day it will reflect and appear either darker or whiter. It was an overcast day that day and the whole building came across as grey. Two days later it was bright and sunny and the building looked bright white. I used to lay tile as one of my youthful odd jobs with a Mexican named “Manny” and let me tell you, the tile work alone on this building is art in itself.

 

After my careful inspection of tile and its grout, I left the Opera House (if we were in California we would call it the OH) and continued on to The Orient Hotel on George Street. It’s a pup/pokie/beer garden that is pretty on the outside but not so pretty on the in. I enjoyed a Boddingtons, soaked in the surrounding, and caught up on my notes from the exciting afternoon. The German would be arriving in 2 hours so I felt it was time to high tail it back to the hotel room and have a kip (nap) as I am sure he would be parched and in need of some rehydration.

I wandered to the Queen Victoria Building (QVB) that is wedged in between York, George, and Market Street. It is an old Roman style building built in 1898 by George McRae (1858 – 1923) to be a monument to the previous Queen of England. Well everyone woke up one day and either realized this was a really big waste of a really big building or perhaps thought it would be a good idea to pay for it by adopting American capitalism. They then turned it into a giant upscale shopping mall for wealthy Sydneysiders and tourists. Okay it was originally also shops and a concert hall, but I like my version of the story a little better. It was too posh for me anyway so I pushed on down York Street and somehow found myself in the dodgy catacombs of the Wynyard underground mall/train station that first opened in 1923 and looks to be in the need of a serious face lift.

I needed a haircut so I found a run down $10 a cut hole in the wall where a nice older lady from….some other country cut my hair. She did a good job too and I’d gladly go back. Pushing on and with no real destination I found myself on George Street. It’s that time again so I go into Jacksons for a Boags Draught to catch up on my notes. The young bartendress enchanted me with a spell so I had another. I liked this pub. It had Boddingtons and a good variety of beers in bottle with old paintings and mirrors topped off with some classic Victorian carpet. On the wall they had a “Beer drinkers hall of fame” with plaques of peoples names on the wall. In order to get your name on it you sign up and have to drink 101 beers in no set amount of time. If only I lived in Sydney.

Not too far from Jackson’s I turned a corner and was faced with the harbour for the first time. Why doesn’t my US version of MS Word spell checker catch harbor and spell it “harbour” by the way? It does everything else. Anyway, a few more steps and in front of me is the Sydney Opera house. It’s massive and demands a proper entry, but before that I am transfixed on the Sydney Bridge. I don’t know why I love bridges so much but I can’t stop taking pictures of them. The enchantress at Jackson’s told me it would be a 30 minute walk across it and there was nothing more on the trip that I would rather do. I didn’t though. The German would be arriving in five hours, I could have done it, but didn’t. Instead I text him three words. “Sydney is awesome”.

The Sydney Bridge was opened in 1932 and is said to be the world’s widest long-span bridge (48.8 m/151.3 ft). It is also the fourth-longest arch bridge (2.4 km/1.5 miles long) in the world. It is supposedly called “The Coathanger” locally because of its design but I didn’t see any locals to know if that was true or not. Even the people serving you your coffee were on a student or holiday work visa from some other country.

The plan to build a bridge across the harbour began in 1815 and, like the Opera House which I will later get to, a competition was held to get a suitable design in 1900. In 1912 John Bradfield’s design based of New Yorks Hell Gate Bridge became the plan and he completed the formal design in 1916, but got delayed because apparently the world got together and decided they wanted to kill each other by the millions and coined the name for a war called “World War I”. I‘m not sure if there was a competition for this name too but there you have it. Building started in 1925, the arch itself in 1929, and in 1930 the two teams working on each opposite end met in the middle. This $10 million dollar bridge (double the original quote and not paid off until 1988) was opened 19 March 1932 for all of the world to see and love.

Enough about bridges. I was in a very euphoric state that a new city and its famous bridge can sometimes have on me. The beer may have been a factor as well but I’m not going to second guess the experience. I couldn’t have asked for a better Saturnalia’s Eve. A new city, beautiful lady tourists everywhere, a new bridge, people from every place around the world, and Asians. I was feeling….feeling…buzzed.

I woke at 5am once again with sleep in my eyes and adventure in my heart. I’m taking on my rival city today.
Melbourne will overcome. I took the train from the Malvern station into the city but didn’t know my stop. I needed to get to Southern Cross Station but got off at Flagstaff instead. After a wander around the city I found the Southern Cross and the Sky Bus that would take me to the Tullamarine airport. I hadn’t done this train/bus routine before so it was a bit of trial and error but  a taxi would have cost more $75 instead of the $16 I paid for the bus.

 

It’s a 55 minute flight from Melbourne to Sydney. I sat in my usual 30C seat in the back of the Virgin Blue aircraft and was thoroughly annoyed the entire flight by a bubbly steward that skipped very fast up and down the isle displaying his Christmas spirit in full. My mother would have gleaned and said he was “quite a character” but I instead gave him scowls and fangs.

 

After reading the latest Virgin Blue in flight magazine that have I have been collecting for about a year now and keep in my bookcase at work, I found the flight over and I escaped from the plane upon landing leaving behind the Mariah Carry Christmas carol singing steward and found myself in the Sydney domestic shopping mall….I mean airport for the first time. After exploring the many shops and eating a salad at my new favourite fast food chain “Sumo Salad”, where I enjoyed a tabouli salad mixed with a rocket and fetta one. Rocket lettuce (or Arugula) as we call it in the States, is very popular here in Australia and is your standard lettuce you will find. Salads are generally rocket or Greek here and has become a staple of my diet all the more so since I’ve become “gluten free”. My doctor had recently told me I have a allergic reaction to wheat and nuts due to my O blood type. He said I need to stay away from bread, beer, and nuts. I’m a compliant heath conscience person so I cut out bread and nuts immediately.

 

The airport was lightly decorated with tinsel and other festive decorations. Four men were singing traditional carols dressed in Santa coats and I quickly got away and continued my exploration. I know there was a big city out there waiting for me but first things first. The Sydney airport makes the Brisbane airport look like some outback pub with a tin roof, no wait, that’s the Cairns airport. It wasn’t as big as the London Heathrow but is probably the biggest in Australia. I continued securing the perimeters when….a bar! It’s 11am, people are enjoying a “primer” as I call it, so why not. I enjoyed the puniest $7 vodka tonic to date but I have exploration ahead of me and need to keep it light. Shots are smaller here (30ml as to the US 44.36ml) in Australia then in the US. I need to research and find the facts but it’s just one of those things that kind of bothers me. (Well I did the research, click the above link, but the US has on average the largest sized shots. Are you surprised?)

 

The Sydney airport has some of the nicest taxis I’ve seen in Australia. Silver, V8 Holden’s and Fords with pleather interior. I was eyeballing the drivers meter as I tend to do and it was $5 before we even got out of the airport. The thing that drives me crazy about taxi’s is on average they are trying to rip you off. The fees are always different and they always tack on tolls that you have to take their word on. $40 later I realized I should have taken the train.

 

I was staying at the Merriton Hotel on Kent Street that was a very nice, serviced, studio apartment that The German found a great $99 a night deal on www.wotif.com . After almost getting sucked Prince’s “Purple Rain” which was on the telly I ventured out of the schizophrenic elevators and out and into the city.

 

I walked around with no bad thing to say about the city. It’s like Melbourne sort of. I can’t really pin point it. I stopped by a bar on Kent and Druitt called the Scary Canary and had a schooner of Heineken. I heard two African American women commenting on the weather saying “pfft, this aint cold! Why yall wearing sweaters!?!” This isn’t me sounding racist, it’s just a direct quote.

 

The fashion is different in Sydney and very apparent from the minute I walked off the plane and into the airport. Males and females dress much more chique here and I don’t see the suburban bogan kids in hoodies and large sunnies (sun glasses) like you do in Melbourne.

 

The weather was a grey 19C/66F that threatened us with showers all day but failed to deliver in rain. Sydney is a much bigger Melbourne whose streets and city layout I would like to get more familiar with if I had more time. The thing I like the most about this city is the streets are very clearly and repeatedly named in nice old style signs. Melbourne is shocking in its lack of use of street signs. They put warning signs around everywhere but you have not idea what street you should be turning on. Maybe if they had proper direction signage there wouldn’t be as much of a need for warning about crossing the street. Look at me here! I’m in Sydney and talking trash about Melbourne. The snobbery is seeping in.

I’ve talked enough trash about
Sydney to justify a trip there to experience it myself. It’s the Holiday season of the world right now and in the US this means cold weather and mobs of cut throat people trying to spend as much or as little as they can whilst waiting in long lines and traffic followed by heavy drinking, fighting, mass depression, and the occasional murder or infidelity. Wow that’s not really what I think of this season is it? It is.

 

Well here in Australia the ancient Roman celebration of Saturnalia that we now call Christmas is not that big of an event compared to the US thankfully. It is Summer and very hot so the whole “white Christmas” façade is lost here. I had planned to lock myself in my room with a few movies, games, and my new guitar amp, but a German friend of mine dropped a “I’m going to Sydney you should come along” comment Friday night over some drinks.

 

Well, this Wednesday I fly out to battle my nemesis city Sydney for 3 days and 2 nights. Hopefully I won’t procrastinate on writing abut it like I have for my last Brisbane trip and my Great Barrier Reef trip, but I will take notes for when I do.

Stay tuned….again.

Bad America! Bad!