My time in Melbourne is dwindling down, and as of today I officially have 3 more weeks until I travel north to Cairns. There, Laura, Dana and I will reunite for another estrogen-filled travel extraveganza complete with a motorcycle tour along the Captain Cook Highway, Bungy Jumping at A.J. Hackett, and of course, diving to spend time with the sadly disappearing Great Barrier Reef.
After a week in Cairns I'm lugging my backpack and duffel to Sydney to meet up with my Kiwi girlfriend Nicole. Orginally the plan was to wander around Australia's unofficial capital by my lonesome. But I met Nicole, a 21-year-old fellow blonde who's come to hang out in Melbourne from Wellington, NZ for about a year, with work and travel along the way. Sydney seems to be the appropriate weekend trip for any tourist, so she impulsively bought tickets to meet me for my last weekend in Oz. When you tell people you've traveled to Oz they expect to see a picture of you in front of Sydney's famous icon, the Sydney Opera House on the Darling Harbor. It's an essential.
But until my backpacking adventures begin, I have some imperative business to wrap up in one of my favorite cities in the world. This includes: writing my final papers for school, so I can at least pass, finish up my time at the wine bar and take care of some financial stuff before I leave, send stuff home, figure out my future situation upon arrival at O'Hare Airport, and
The To Do List
The To Do List is THE LIST. Simply put, it's a piece of computer paper Scotch-taped on the living room wall of my apartment with fun things in Melbourne I want to do before I leave, but it means so much more than that. The number of activities crossed out on the list will provide me with closure with Melbourne, because I don't want to leave. What the list looks like when we leave will be the determining factor of how much I cry on the plane ride (either crying until I hyperventilate or letting a gentle tear roll down my face while waving good-bye).
Next post I'll put up the To Do List, and fill you in on how it has been going. Rest assurred, there are already plenty of scribbles and edits, so at least I won't force the plane to land and get escorted out for being too hysterical.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Sunday, April 20, 2008
gittin' cultured
Melbourne is a city known for its culture and boasts about its arts, music, and sport. Being the bad tourist I am, I have yet to step foot into an art museum (which is very out of character for me, I’m a madman for art), but from the painted laneways to the unique architecture in Federation Square, Melbourne’s plethora of artwork is apparent.
Craving to get a sense of what being the “cultural capital in Australia” really means, over the past couple of weeks I’ve sought to dabble in all forms of entertainment that Melbourne has to offer.
Melbourne International Comedy Festival (March 19- April 13)
Since my arrival in Melbourne, I’ve been confronted with lemon-yellow advertisements for their annual comedy festival. Light posts, the train station, and even my tram card labeled with advertisements gave even the clueless enough of a reason to say, “Hm, this must be a big deal. Maybe I should check it out?”
On the equally overwhelming website, there were hundreds of comedians to chose from, with shows ranging from a couple hours to a 24-hour stand up gig, and ticket prices all across the board. After doing a little bit of research we saw Daniel Kitson from the U.K. who won last year’s Barry Award. The Barry is the International Festival’s most prestigious award and is given out at the closing of the massive event.
Daniel Kitson’s show, “The Impotent Fury of the Privileged” was absolutely brilliant. I not only laughed until I felt like I was going to spew, but his act was intelligent and philosophical. There was also a joke about handing your camera to strangers while traveling that made my roommate nearly choke because we have to do it all the time. And to make my roommate cry from laughing, my friend, is a feat. Check him out: www.danielkitson.com
Australian Football League (AFL)
More commonly called, “Aussie Rules Footy,” this sport is a complete obsession for Melbournians. Along with cricket, footy is Australia’s most popular sport and nine teams are based out of Melbourne and its surrounding suburbs.
We made our way down the Yarra River to the Melbourne Cricket Grounds to check out a game of two Melbourne rivals: Carlton vs. Collingwood. Seated in the second row, it was difficult to figure out the rules of the game that seems too foreign for any American who’s used to pads and boundaries.
The stadium was packed full of families covered in their appropriate team colors. In the row in front of us a young couple with their 4-year-old boy showed off their Carlton gray and blue. When the Collingwood Magpie mascot ran onto the field, the father taught his son how to make the most effective, “Boo!” Somewhat like American football, team loyalty seems to be a hereditary trait, and picking an opposing team to side with will make you a family outcast. And if you don’t like sport… well you might as well shave your head, tattoo your entire body and say, “Look Mom and Dad!”
Pendulum at Hi-Fi
It took some convincing to get me to drop $80 for a ticket to see a band I didn’t know, but my, “Why not? I’m in Australia!” attitude took over and I ended up handing over the cash to some girl I met on e-bay in front of the Victoria State Public Library in exchange for a ticket (they were sold out).
I met up with a group of Kiwis who I’ve gotten to know through some people at work, foil-covered cake in hand after a tram ride across town in 5-inch black platform heels. We were going to the show in celebration for Jay’s 24th birthday. After gaining some new-friend brownie points and changing into flats, we tram-ed our way back to the middle of the city and descended the stairs to Hi-Fi.
I want to give you an unbiased rating of the venue, but I fell in love with an unknown band from Perth that night. I had total preconceived notions that Pendulum was a techno band and I’m all “down with the discothèque!” But it turns out they’re one of those “new genre” groups (drum and bass) and put simply, it rocks.
Craving to get a sense of what being the “cultural capital in Australia” really means, over the past couple of weeks I’ve sought to dabble in all forms of entertainment that Melbourne has to offer.
Melbourne International Comedy Festival (March 19- April 13)
Since my arrival in Melbourne, I’ve been confronted with lemon-yellow advertisements for their annual comedy festival. Light posts, the train station, and even my tram card labeled with advertisements gave even the clueless enough of a reason to say, “Hm, this must be a big deal. Maybe I should check it out?”
On the equally overwhelming website, there were hundreds of comedians to chose from, with shows ranging from a couple hours to a 24-hour stand up gig, and ticket prices all across the board. After doing a little bit of research we saw Daniel Kitson from the U.K. who won last year’s Barry Award. The Barry is the International Festival’s most prestigious award and is given out at the closing of the massive event.
Daniel Kitson’s show, “The Impotent Fury of the Privileged” was absolutely brilliant. I not only laughed until I felt like I was going to spew, but his act was intelligent and philosophical. There was also a joke about handing your camera to strangers while traveling that made my roommate nearly choke because we have to do it all the time. And to make my roommate cry from laughing, my friend, is a feat. Check him out: www.danielkitson.com
Australian Football League (AFL)
More commonly called, “Aussie Rules Footy,” this sport is a complete obsession for Melbournians. Along with cricket, footy is Australia’s most popular sport and nine teams are based out of Melbourne and its surrounding suburbs.
We made our way down the Yarra River to the Melbourne Cricket Grounds to check out a game of two Melbourne rivals: Carlton vs. Collingwood. Seated in the second row, it was difficult to figure out the rules of the game that seems too foreign for any American who’s used to pads and boundaries.
The stadium was packed full of families covered in their appropriate team colors. In the row in front of us a young couple with their 4-year-old boy showed off their Carlton gray and blue. When the Collingwood Magpie mascot ran onto the field, the father taught his son how to make the most effective, “Boo!” Somewhat like American football, team loyalty seems to be a hereditary trait, and picking an opposing team to side with will make you a family outcast. And if you don’t like sport… well you might as well shave your head, tattoo your entire body and say, “Look Mom and Dad!”
Pendulum at Hi-Fi
It took some convincing to get me to drop $80 for a ticket to see a band I didn’t know, but my, “Why not? I’m in Australia!” attitude took over and I ended up handing over the cash to some girl I met on e-bay in front of the Victoria State Public Library in exchange for a ticket (they were sold out).
I met up with a group of Kiwis who I’ve gotten to know through some people at work, foil-covered cake in hand after a tram ride across town in 5-inch black platform heels. We were going to the show in celebration for Jay’s 24th birthday. After gaining some new-friend brownie points and changing into flats, we tram-ed our way back to the middle of the city and descended the stairs to Hi-Fi.
I want to give you an unbiased rating of the venue, but I fell in love with an unknown band from Perth that night. I had total preconceived notions that Pendulum was a techno band and I’m all “down with the discothèque!” But it turns out they’re one of those “new genre” groups (drum and bass) and put simply, it rocks.
Friday, March 28, 2008
the GREAT OCEAN ROAD
Right when I began perfecting my wine-pouring skills and came to the realization that I need to actually do schoolwork, Easter Break came around transforming me from a diligent university student back to a backpacker.
Classes started in the beginning of March with Easter Break happening a mere two weeks after, so any travel plans had to be made quickly. Some students ventured to Cairns to get a gander at the Great Barrier Reef, and others went to New Zealand for a zippy weeklong tour. My roommate Laura, our friend Dana, and I decided on a much more independent and less costly excursion: taking a road trip down the Great Ocean Road.
What can normally be accomplished in a couple of days, the Great Ocean Road is the drive that must be done in one’s lifetime and, if adequately researched, is well worth a whole week. As I told the people who informed us it could be done in a weekend, “We’re taking our sweet ass time.”
And I couldn’t be happier that we did.
Melbourne to Torquay
We decided Laura was the most responsible out of the three of us when she booked the rental car, all of the hostels, and penned the agenda for the entire trip, so she became the trusted driver in our new rental car appropriately dubbed Napoleon. She braved the left-hand side of the road with trams whizzing around as we waved g’bye to Melbourne.
Our first stop was Torquay, which hosts the Rip Curl Pro Surf Competition on Easter Weekend. If you want to attend this event, book accommodation well ahead or else you might have to take refuge in the backseat of your Napoleon, like one of the girls almost did. We set our bags down on Friday in the sketchy dorm-style bunk at Bells Beach a bit suspicious. But when backpackers from the U.K., New Zealand, and parts of Australia greeted us our worries diminished and we felt right at home (not to mention we all bonded over a few coldies).
Saturday we took the free shuttle to Bells Beach to see Pros like Kelly Slater and Steph Gilmore ride the massive waves with their eyes set on the Bell Trophy, a prestigious award for any surfer. The remainder of the weekend we emptied our pockets in some of Torquay’s factory surf outlets and rented some wet suits and boards and hit the shores ourselves.
Rent some wetsuits & boards from Go-Ride-a-Wave and head down to Torquay Beach. Get ready to eat some salt water.
Dana and I took turns flipping through our Let’s Go Guidebook marking must-see places for the rest of our trip, but were distracted from the breath-taking scenery during the drive. The winding road carves along the cliffs overlooking the turquoise ocean sprinkled in rock formations. There are plenty of lookout points to stop and snap and couple of pictures including Point Addis and the Split Point Lighthouse at Airie’s Inlet.
Backpackers swarm to Lorne to hike through the luscious Great Otway National Park, a rainforest terrain which holds a variety of waterfalls, one of the most popular being Erskine Falls. Even with Bells Beach hangovers, the girls and I convinced ourselves to trek to some of the sites. I couldn’t quite convince myself to be in complete awe by such natural beauty. I felt like I was in the Rainforest Café sans the plastic animals everywhere.
Lorne to Apollo Bay
Apollo Bay to Port Campbell to Warrnambool
Laura told us it was going to be a long day. In true rainforest fashion it poured, making it a long day full of bitching. We began marking off our list of must-sees at the “Big Tree” in Otway National Park. We considered saying to hell with it when the rain shifted from a light sprinkle to a frigid downpour, but toughed it up to make the 1.5 km walk through the rainforest to get to the tree.
Mud splashed on the back of my jeans as we made the 20-minute walk in silence. I kept thinking to myself, “I’m not in Rainforest Café, I’m not in Rainforest Café,” repeatedly until a sign told us we were in front of the Big Tree.
“Wow,” I said. “A tree.”
Laura got really excited and told me it was 300 years old. Dana complained that she was really cold and wanted to go back.
Back in Napoleon we blasted the heat and Dana and I stayed in the car sighing at the sky as Laura made a bunch of other stops to take pictures of rocks in the ocean. Of course we had to get out of the car to see the famous Twelve Apostles 12 km east of Port Campbell but sprinted through heaps of tourists to get back to the car when the skies opened up again.
The Twelve Apostles
Between Port Campbell and 
Warrnambool we stopped at Childer’s Cove, a series of beautiful beaches located sort of “off the map.” Laura navigated us through the farm roads as I kept a close lookout for signs. The sun came out and the clouds disappeared. Unlike the other attractions, no tourist was in site at this spot and we were able to truly revel in the beauty of the orange limestone and crashing waves by ourselves. It was perfect.
Once we arrived to our hostel in Warrnambool we were beat and played British Monopoly until it reached an appropriate time to go out. We spent the night enjoying live music at Seanchai Irish Pub which is popular among university students who attend the nearby marine-biology school.
Childer's Cove
Warrnabool to Melbourne
The end of our trip had come. Going back to Melbourne meant assessment time at university and a long weekend of working at the bar for me. We weren’t the happiest kids on the block, but knew that we couldn’t stay on the Great Ocean Road forever. Napoleon was returned as we crossed our fingers hoping they wouldn’t charge us for the piles of sand scattered in the car.
Laura, Dana, and I grabbed some cheap Melbourne sushi and reflected on our travels.
And then I followed my I-do-weird-things-when-I-return-from-backpacking tradition and drank a whole liter of milk.
Classes started in the beginning of March with Easter Break happening a mere two weeks after, so any travel plans had to be made quickly. Some students ventured to Cairns to get a gander at the Great Barrier Reef, and others went to New Zealand for a zippy weeklong tour. My roommate Laura, our friend Dana, and I decided on a much more independent and less costly excursion: taking a road trip down the Great Ocean Road.
What can normally be accomplished in a couple of days, the Great Ocean Road is the drive that must be done in one’s lifetime and, if adequately researched, is well worth a whole week. As I told the people who informed us it could be done in a weekend, “We’re taking our sweet ass time.”
And I couldn’t be happier that we did.
Melbourne to Torquay
We decided Laura was the most responsible out of the three of us when she booked the rental car, all of the hostels, and penned the agenda for the entire trip, so she became the trusted driver in our new rental car appropriately dubbed Napoleon. She braved the left-hand side of the road with trams whizzing around as we waved g’bye to Melbourne.
Our first stop was Torquay, which hosts the Rip Curl Pro Surf Competition on Easter Weekend. If you want to attend this event, book accommodation well ahead or else you might have to take refuge in the backseat of your Napoleon, like one of the girls almost did. We set our bags down on Friday in the sketchy dorm-style bunk at Bells Beach a bit suspicious. But when backpackers from the U.K., New Zealand, and parts of Australia greeted us our worries diminished and we felt right at home (not to mention we all bonded over a few coldies).
Saturday we took the free shuttle to Bells Beach to see Pros like Kelly Slater and Steph Gilmore ride the massive waves with their eyes set on the Bell Trophy, a prestigious award for any surfer. The remainder of the weekend we emptied our pockets in some of Torquay’s factory surf outlets and rented some wet suits and boards and hit the shores ourselves.
Torquay’s nightlife is usually minimal, but the comp brought in surfers from all over the globe along with popular DJs like John Course. Beware, the bars take advantage of this event to tack on a hefty cover fee. Chilling on the lawn on our hostel after a barbie made a good enough night for us.
Hangin out with fellow backpackers
It's a surfer's dream to ring this bell
Hangin out with fellow backpackers
It's a surfer's dream to ring this bell
Rent some wetsuits & boards from Go-Ride-a-Wave and head down to Torquay Beach. Get ready to eat some salt water.Torquay to Lorne
On Monday morning we checked out of our hostel with teary eyes. It felt like leaving summer camp. I exchanged information with some of the backpackers so we could be Facebook friends forever and we hit the road.
Dana and I took turns flipping through our Let’s Go Guidebook marking must-see places for the rest of our trip, but were distracted from the breath-taking scenery during the drive. The winding road carves along the cliffs overlooking the turquoise ocean sprinkled in rock formations. There are plenty of lookout points to stop and snap and couple of pictures including Point Addis and the Split Point Lighthouse at Airie’s Inlet.
Backpackers swarm to Lorne to hike through the luscious Great Otway National Park, a rainforest terrain which holds a variety of waterfalls, one of the most popular being Erskine Falls. Even with Bells Beach hangovers, the girls and I convinced ourselves to trek to some of the sites. I couldn’t quite convince myself to be in complete awe by such natural beauty. I felt like I was in the Rainforest Café sans the plastic animals everywhere.
When the rain started a-pourin’ the three of us decided to call it an early night and enjoyed our personal room in our hillside hostel. The next morning we learned that a freakish guest decided to join our slumber party. A huntsman spider, about the size of my hand, crawled into our room to escape the rain. Though huntsman are harmless, they are scary as hell, so we screamed until I ran to reception to grab a brave blonde who killed it with a broomstick.
Lorne to Apollo Bay
Shaken up from the spider incident, we made our way to Apollo Bay. I calmed my arachnophobic shock by doing some quick yoga at Marriner’s Lookout and chilling at the beach before grabbing a $5 toasted sandwich at the Bayleaf Café. We drove to some touristy spots like the Great Otway Lighthouse and the Otway Fly Treetop Walk. Unfortunately, the lighthouse was surrounded by a fence and charged an unexpected entrance fee, and I told the girls I didn’t want to pay for the Tree Top Walk when in reality I knew I would’ve had a panic attack (I’m afraid of heights). But to the hour-long drive out of Apollo became a worthwhile trip to me when Laura chased a waddling koala across the road to get a picture.
Marriner's Lookout
Marriner's LookoutApollo Bay to Port Campbell to Warrnambool
Laura told us it was going to be a long day. In true rainforest fashion it poured, making it a long day full of bitching. We began marking off our list of must-sees at the “Big Tree” in Otway National Park. We considered saying to hell with it when the rain shifted from a light sprinkle to a frigid downpour, but toughed it up to make the 1.5 km walk through the rainforest to get to the tree.
Mud splashed on the back of my jeans as we made the 20-minute walk in silence. I kept thinking to myself, “I’m not in Rainforest Café, I’m not in Rainforest Café,” repeatedly until a sign told us we were in front of the Big Tree.
“Wow,” I said. “A tree.”
Laura got really excited and told me it was 300 years old. Dana complained that she was really cold and wanted to go back.
Back in Napoleon we blasted the heat and Dana and I stayed in the car sighing at the sky as Laura made a bunch of other stops to take pictures of rocks in the ocean. Of course we had to get out of the car to see the famous Twelve Apostles 12 km east of Port Campbell but sprinted through heaps of tourists to get back to the car when the skies opened up again.
The Twelve Apostles
Warrnambool we stopped at Childer’s Cove, a series of beautiful beaches located sort of “off the map.” Laura navigated us through the farm roads as I kept a close lookout for signs. The sun came out and the clouds disappeared. Unlike the other attractions, no tourist was in site at this spot and we were able to truly revel in the beauty of the orange limestone and crashing waves by ourselves. It was perfect.Once we arrived to our hostel in Warrnambool we were beat and played British Monopoly until it reached an appropriate time to go out. We spent the night enjoying live music at Seanchai Irish Pub which is popular among university students who attend the nearby marine-biology school.
Childer's CoveThe end of our trip had come. Going back to Melbourne meant assessment time at university and a long weekend of working at the bar for me. We weren’t the happiest kids on the block, but knew that we couldn’t stay on the Great Ocean Road forever. Napoleon was returned as we crossed our fingers hoping they wouldn’t charge us for the piles of sand scattered in the car.
Laura, Dana, and I grabbed some cheap Melbourne sushi and reflected on our travels.
And then I followed my I-do-weird-things-when-I-return-from-backpacking tradition and drank a whole liter of milk.
Monday, March 10, 2008
If I were to die, could I go to St. Kilda?
The advice I always got from study abroad veterans was, “Don’t over pack.” I reflected back to my earlier travels, where I’d be throwing my overnight bag in my friend’s car as she screamed out the window, “We’re not leaving the country!” And the time I went to New York and brought five pairs of shoes—for five days.
“Seriously,” the overseas experience always came out as being so wise. “You’ll completely regret it stumbling in the airport with a ton of luggage. You’ll realize you don’t really need half the things you think you need.”
So I took their advice. I imagined Australia being humid and scorching anyways, which made packing only a couple of shorts and tank tops easier. Since I’ve come to Melbourne though, I’ve been getting different advice. “You’ll need to wear everything—in layers,” the Melbournians say. “You can get all the seasons in a day here.”
Of course I didn’t believe them. I ended up freezing my ass off and getting a cold while sitting in the Botanical Gardens during the Midnight Cinema. I stomped my feet when it started drizzling—every day—and pouted when I had to shove my sweatshirt in my bag before going anywhere.
Lucky for me, the weather took a turn this week as the mercury raised to 86. We took advantage of this opportunity by getting in our swimmers and heading to St. Kilda Beach.
St. Kilda is just a twenty
-minute tram ride from the corner of Swanston and Lonsdale, a corner away from my apartment. Arriving to St. Kilda, you are reminded of a mini-So Cal town with a white beach, lined with bars hosting rock bands, and small shops. There are plenty of places to grab a basket of fish n’ chips (which I’ve learned is usually made from shark, yum) or a cup of gelato. It has a relaxed attitude, with its primary piece of flare being the creepiest clown entrance at Luna Park, the vibrant-looking amusement park built by the creators of Coney Island. It hosts the world's largest wooden rollercoaster, whcih I have yet to see cars go on.
The girls and I laid on the beach all day after “slip, slop, and slapping” on the sunscreen. With Australia having the highest skin cancer rates, triple-s is their campaign t
o protect people from the scorching sun. My roommate carved out states like Montana into the sand, and I met a backpacking Canadian who told us to find him on Acland Street.
After getting enough sun we trekked to the street, which is the central road for a majority of the restaurants and shops in St. Kilda. I found the Canadian on the street selling jewelry, and I supported his travels by purchasing a hemp anklet.
He made it for me on the spot. We ended the night at Espy (the Esplanade Hotel) watching funk bands killing a couple of jugs. My roommate was really excited when one of the ska bands performed Christina Aguilera’s “Ain’t No Other Man,” and sang the song the whole entire tram ride home.
“Seriously,” the overseas experience always came out as being so wise. “You’ll completely regret it stumbling in the airport with a ton of luggage. You’ll realize you don’t really need half the things you think you need.”
So I took their advice. I imagined Australia being humid and scorching anyways, which made packing only a couple of shorts and tank tops easier. Since I’ve come to Melbourne though, I’ve been getting different advice. “You’ll need to wear everything—in layers,” the Melbournians say. “You can get all the seasons in a day here.”
Of course I didn’t believe them. I ended up freezing my ass off and getting a cold while sitting in the Botanical Gardens during the Midnight Cinema. I stomped my feet when it started drizzling—every day—and pouted when I had to shove my sweatshirt in my bag before going anywhere.
Lucky for me, the weather took a turn this week as the mercury raised to 86. We took advantage of this opportunity by getting in our swimmers and heading to St. Kilda Beach.
St. Kilda is just a twenty
-minute tram ride from the corner of Swanston and Lonsdale, a corner away from my apartment. Arriving to St. Kilda, you are reminded of a mini-So Cal town with a white beach, lined with bars hosting rock bands, and small shops. There are plenty of places to grab a basket of fish n’ chips (which I’ve learned is usually made from shark, yum) or a cup of gelato. It has a relaxed attitude, with its primary piece of flare being the creepiest clown entrance at Luna Park, the vibrant-looking amusement park built by the creators of Coney Island. It hosts the world's largest wooden rollercoaster, whcih I have yet to see cars go on.The girls and I laid on the beach all day after “slip, slop, and slapping” on the sunscreen. With Australia having the highest skin cancer rates, triple-s is their campaign t
o protect people from the scorching sun. My roommate carved out states like Montana into the sand, and I met a backpacking Canadian who told us to find him on Acland Street.After getting enough sun we trekked to the street, which is the central road for a majority of the restaurants and shops in St. Kilda. I found the Canadian on the street selling jewelry, and I supported his travels by purchasing a hemp anklet.
He made it for me on the spot. We ended the night at Espy (the Esplanade Hotel) watching funk bands killing a couple of jugs. My roommate was really excited when one of the ska bands performed Christina Aguilera’s “Ain’t No Other Man,” and sang the song the whole entire tram ride home.
Sunday, March 9, 2008
Oh ya... I'm STUDYING Abroad
Originally written: March 6th
People constantly ask me what brought me to Oz.
"I'm studying abroad," I tell them. "I'm going to Melbourne Uni."
"Oh." And I always know what's coming next, "What are you studying?"
Then I'm stuck in this awkward situation where I tell them what I'm studying—Magazine Journalism and Sociology—but how I’m not really taking any classes for my majors at Uni, and how my credits just kind of transfer over. This explanation is usually accompanied with clenched teeth and a lot of avoided eye contact. Afterwards, I always follow-up with, “But I study really hard at my home university and I write all of the time!”
Since ending my trip in New Zealand, I’ve surprisingly been looking forward to starting classes in Melbourne. But as this week crept closer, my eagerness to get in the classroom sort of diminished.
Especially when I discovered this week was Melbourne Fashion Week.
I entered my first lecture Monday daydreaming about the L’Oréal Runway Show. As the thick-accented professor set up the Power Point on the history of Australia, goodie-bags filled with $75 worth makeup danced in my head. It was torture.
After attending all of my scheduled lectures and tutorials for the week, I was happy with my course choices. Unlike my home university, all of the classes I’m taking are assessed based on two written assignments—that means no homework, no quizzes, and, get ready to throw the confetti, no exams. More importantly (I guess) I’m interested in the classes I’m taking and am excited to learn about the History of Sex, hear how Australians think everything has an underlying American agenda in Media, Politics and Society, and how Ame
ricans are obese but half of the world is suffering from famine in Globalisation, Self and Society.
And I didn’t end up missing fashion week completely. To celebrate the kick-off of classes some girls and I went to the Fashion Incubator Fashion Show at Baroq House, which is beautiful bar decked out in crystal chandeliers, marbled floors and tables, and silk and velvet couches. The Baroq House is again, located in a back alley near my apartment. The show featured local designers and sadly, there were no goodie-bags but there was free champagne.
Sigh. The goodie-bags will come to me one of these days.
People constantly ask me what brought me to Oz.
"I'm studying abroad," I tell them. "I'm going to Melbourne Uni."
"Oh." And I always know what's coming next, "What are you studying?"
Then I'm stuck in this awkward situation where I tell them what I'm studying—Magazine Journalism and Sociology—but how I’m not really taking any classes for my majors at Uni, and how my credits just kind of transfer over. This explanation is usually accompanied with clenched teeth and a lot of avoided eye contact. Afterwards, I always follow-up with, “But I study really hard at my home university and I write all of the time!”
Since ending my trip in New Zealand, I’ve surprisingly been looking forward to starting classes in Melbourne. But as this week crept closer, my eagerness to get in the classroom sort of diminished.
Especially when I discovered this week was Melbourne Fashion Week.
I entered my first lecture Monday daydreaming about the L’Oréal Runway Show. As the thick-accented professor set up the Power Point on the history of Australia, goodie-bags filled with $75 worth makeup danced in my head. It was torture.
After attending all of my scheduled lectures and tutorials for the week, I was happy with my course choices. Unlike my home university, all of the classes I’m taking are assessed based on two written assignments—that means no homework, no quizzes, and, get ready to throw the confetti, no exams. More importantly (I guess) I’m interested in the classes I’m taking and am excited to learn about the History of Sex, hear how Australians think everything has an underlying American agenda in Media, Politics and Society, and how Ame
ricans are obese but half of the world is suffering from famine in Globalisation, Self and Society.And I didn’t end up missing fashion week completely. To celebrate the kick-off of classes some girls and I went to the Fashion Incubator Fashion Show at Baroq House, which is beautiful bar decked out in crystal chandeliers, marbled floors and tables, and silk and velvet couches. The Baroq House is again, located in a back alley near my apartment. The show featured local designers and sadly, there were no goodie-bags but there was free champagne.
Sigh. The goodie-bags will come to me one of these days.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Off the Map (Sort of)
Originally written: March 1st
Traveling so far has proven to be a priceless experience, but I'm definitely not in fairy-tale land. I was finally able to check my bank accounts after hooking up my internet, and it wasn't a pleasant experience.
Having fun is expensive. And having the time of your life has turned out to be really, really expensive.
Deciding that I needed some cash money to create more good-times in Oz, I considered street performing which seems to be a popular source of income for some Melbournians. But soon after I decided I lacked the talent needed to attract an audience. So I did the unthinkable: I got a real job.
My job search wasn't difficult by any means. I have no problem prancing into a crowded bar and asking the manager if they're hiring, telling them I have absolutely no bar tending experience, and by the way I'm a quick learner, I swear. It's all about confidence, isn't it?
I landed a job as a bartender at Jwow's Wine Bar, which is a fancy little place right in front of my apartment on Little Lonsdale and Swanston. From the second I descended the stairs to enter the bar I knew that this job would be perfect for while I stay in Melbourne. The environment reflects a ritzy $18 for a cocktail sort of scene, but the place is really laid back.
That chill vibe of course comes from my new coworkers. Even after I spilled two bowls of bar snacks on a couple, my new manager was still kind enough to draw me out a map of places to go in Melbourne.
To stay consistent with it's alternative reputation, some of the best bars, restaurants, and shops in Melbourne are hidden in alley ways. Me and my roommate have attempted to find a couple of clubs in the graffitied crevices near our apartment, but the Chicago part of me still shouts, "What the hell am I doing?" every time I enter a poorly-lit street lined with garbage bins.
Armed with my trusty map scribbled out on the back of receipt paper, after my first night at the bar I set out with my roommate and our friend Dana to find Degraves Street. My manager told
me it's the place I have to go to feed my vintage shopping fetish.
At first we were skeptical when we saw the tiny off-street that's located across from Melbourne Central Station. But when we peeked around the corner, it was as if we found a hidden treasure. And finding treasure is the best feeling in the world.
Degraves Street gives off a European aura filled with cafes, bakeries, and restaurants. All are hole-in-the-wall places with outdoor seating that spans the entire street.
Wandering up and down Degraves and its intersecting side streets, I was thankful for my future paychecks. The shops are too amazing to not spend my money in. There are record stores and what lured me there in the first place: heaps of unique vintage boutiques. I felt like an alcoholic in a liquor store.
The vintage shops aren't picked over like they commonly are at the ones I frequent in the States, which I believe is a result of the steep prices. The quality of the clothing in many of the shops is impeccable. A large portion of the garments are hand made from local designers. Fate brought me and the most beautiful plaid jacket together and I felt tears in my eyes and guilt in my gut as I looked at the price tag. Fortunately the boutique babe told me I could put it on lay-by (just like putting a washing machine on lay-away!) and pay it off in a month. Amazing.
Traveling so far has proven to be a priceless experience, but I'm definitely not in fairy-tale land. I was finally able to check my bank accounts after hooking up my internet, and it wasn't a pleasant experience.
Having fun is expensive. And having the time of your life has turned out to be really, really expensive.
Deciding that I needed some cash money to create more good-times in Oz, I considered street performing which seems to be a popular source of income for some Melbournians. But soon after I decided I lacked the talent needed to attract an audience. So I did the unthinkable: I got a real job.
My job search wasn't difficult by any means. I have no problem prancing into a crowded bar and asking the manager if they're hiring, telling them I have absolutely no bar tending experience, and by the way I'm a quick learner, I swear. It's all about confidence, isn't it?
I landed a job as a bartender at Jwow's Wine Bar, which is a fancy little place right in front of my apartment on Little Lonsdale and Swanston. From the second I descended the stairs to enter the bar I knew that this job would be perfect for while I stay in Melbourne. The environment reflects a ritzy $18 for a cocktail sort of scene, but the place is really laid back.
That chill vibe of course comes from my new coworkers. Even after I spilled two bowls of bar snacks on a couple, my new manager was still kind enough to draw me out a map of places to go in Melbourne.
To stay consistent with it's alternative reputation, some of the best bars, restaurants, and shops in Melbourne are hidden in alley ways. Me and my roommate have attempted to find a couple of clubs in the graffitied crevices near our apartment, but the Chicago part of me still shouts, "What the hell am I doing?" every time I enter a poorly-lit street lined with garbage bins.
Armed with my trusty map scribbled out on the back of receipt paper, after my first night at the bar I set out with my roommate and our friend Dana to find Degraves Street. My manager told
me it's the place I have to go to feed my vintage shopping fetish.At first we were skeptical when we saw the tiny off-street that's located across from Melbourne Central Station. But when we peeked around the corner, it was as if we found a hidden treasure. And finding treasure is the best feeling in the world.
Degraves Street gives off a European aura filled with cafes, bakeries, and restaurants. All are hole-in-the-wall places with outdoor seating that spans the entire street.
Wandering up and down Degraves and its intersecting side streets, I was thankful for my future paychecks. The shops are too amazing to not spend my money in. There are record stores and what lured me there in the first place: heaps of unique vintage boutiques. I felt like an alcoholic in a liquor store.
The vintage shops aren't picked over like they commonly are at the ones I frequent in the States, which I believe is a result of the steep prices. The quality of the clothing in many of the shops is impeccable. A large portion of the garments are hand made from local designers. Fate brought me and the most beautiful plaid jacket together and I felt tears in my eyes and guilt in my gut as I looked at the price tag. Fortunately the boutique babe told me I could put it on lay-by (just like putting a washing machine on lay-away!) and pay it off in a month. Amazing.
Some Pics so Far
Night Time Queen Victoria Market
the Victoria State Public Library
melbourne has amazing public transport... the tram!
at the club with our newly found aussie mates
a kangaroo outside the door of our condo at the resort
the "drake university family" at swimming in Lake McKenzie at Fraser Island
surfing lessons on the sunshine coast during orientation
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
This is Culture Shock
Originally written: February 26th
I have a tendency to talk to myself.
No, I’m not a schizo and I haven’t overdosed on hallucinogens in my lifetime. I definitely don’t have an imaginary friend.
But I do know I’m one to overreact at random occasions. I break into tears unexpectedly—not at funerals or at the end of heart-wrenching films, but instead when I see animals in cages or when I’m having a hard time doing long division.
I’m serious—in elementary school I started crying because I just couldn’t get long division. My sympathetic teacher, seeing me in an emotional fit, read deeper into my reaction, and suggested to the school nurse that I was a wreck because my parents were getting a divorce.
“Uh-huh,” I agreed with a shiny red face and a runny nose. That makes more sense.
Tears mean raised eyebrows. They mean people get concerned and they ask questions. Talking to myself has become a mechanism I’ve developed since high school to prevent the tears from flowing.
The moment I feel my face getting hot and when I feel my eyes begin to water I tell myself, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” My dialogue is internal, but it is so vivid I consider it talking to myself.
Today I wander around the University of Melbourne campus, a map clenched in my clammy hand and I feel it coming. So I do it. I talk to myself.
“You’re fine,” the voice says. “You jumped out of a plane, you can do this.”
It’s the first day I’ve become completely frustrated in Melbourne. After orientation, which was pretty much like a peaceful vacation on the Sunshine Coast complete with surfing, swimming, plenty of food, and kangaroos hopping on the lawn of our resort, I've been positively serene. I was dropped off at my apartment in the heart of downtown Melbourne a week ago, and have been in love ever since.
The city is better than I thought it would be. Our apartment sits across the street from the beautiful Victoria State Public Library where dozens of people sprawl themselves out onto the lush green lawn to picnic, read, or sunbathe. For blocks and blocks shops, restaurants, and pubs are available in every size and shape. Artists frequently visit and set up their supplies and paint the sides of buildings with neon murals of cartoon-shaped flowers and mountains.
The sidewalks are constantly buzzing. Twenty-somethings sit outside and play their guitars. Skateboarders attempt to grind the avant-guard sculptures. Girls who are so pretty they look famous (not rehab famous, but artsy and fashionable famous) walk by with arms full of shopping bags.
It seems impossible to ever get bored here. Yesterday my new roommate and I went to go return our toaster that was destroyed after a late-night bagel accident. We walked down to the department store on the corner when a large crowd caught our eye.
“What’s going on?” my roommate said. We both climbed on our tiptoes and searched for the source of attraction.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a male voice over said. It sounded like God. “Please welcome, Feist!”
“Feist?” I giddily screamed in excitement. We watched the set feeling overwhelmed. I kept the toaster lodged underneath my arm.
But today I’m so frustrated I can’t think about the warm weather or the amazing architecture surrounding me. I push my sunglasses away from my eyes and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand.
I whisper a curse and look at the map again. I’ve been running around the campus that holds more than 40,000 students with the goal of changing my class schedule. I don’t know where to go, I don’t know who to go to, and I’ve asked for help about ten times, but everyone seems to be directing me to a different building.
Why the hell won't someone just tell me what to do? Why is this so complicated? Knowing it’s stupid, I let the tears well up anyways. I exit the Old Arts building, which I have running up and down the halls for about forty minutes, and sit on a bench outside.
Breathe in, breathe out. You’re nineteen, I think. You’re not a kid anymore. I keep on bitching about wanting help but that’s why I wanted to go abroad… I need to learn to do things for myself.
A professor walks by. At least I hope it's a professor or else the glasses-briefcase-jacket thing is really throwing me off. “Excuse me,” I pop up off the bench and he stops dead in his tracks. “I need to get my timetable changed and I don’t know where to go.”
“Oh yeh,” he says and reaches for my schedule. I give it to him desperately. “You gotta go to the sociology department. It’s in the John Medley Building near Grattan, yeh?”
I finally feel like I’ve asked the right person. I practically skip to the building. A sign in the entrance says the sociology department is on the fourth floor so I hop into the lift and push the button with a smile. “Four!” I say out loud in excitement.
When I get to the fourth floor it’s empty. Hope begins to diminish. My head starts to feel heavy and I’m ready to give up. And like a sign from the heavens, a guy with pink hair passes me and notices the dismay, “O’eryadoin’?” he says.
“I’ve been on this like,” I sigh, “Wild goose chase. And I just need to change my time-”
“Oh, yeh, mate,” he motions for me to give him my schedule. “I can do that for ya.”
I want to hug him but don’t want to come off as an insane blonde-haired American. Instead I take off my shoes (a habit I picked up in New Zealand) and dance around his office while he fixes my schedule. I am what I am.
“Yeh, you’re all good,” he says as he prints my new, perfect schedule out.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“Oh, yeh,” he smiles, and hands me the timetable. “I love you too. Have a good semester at Uni, you’re gonna have a great time.”
I walk back to my apartment and soak in the sun, the people, the art. I celebrate my accomplishment by going to the Late Night Queen Victoria Market. Normally a farmer's market by day, the QV Market transforms into a mini-festival in evenings during the summer. There are tents with food from every country, not to mention a variety of makeshift-bars, and unique shops with handmade clothes and ornaments. The event is jam-packed with thousands of people. Children dance to the African band playing, and there are camels sitting outside the crowd. I buy a hot pink handmade dress, munch on a Greek kebab and a French crepe, and drink wine made in a local vineyard.
And there was no need to talk to myself. Which makes life far less creepy.
I have a tendency to talk to myself.
No, I’m not a schizo and I haven’t overdosed on hallucinogens in my lifetime. I definitely don’t have an imaginary friend.
But I do know I’m one to overreact at random occasions. I break into tears unexpectedly—not at funerals or at the end of heart-wrenching films, but instead when I see animals in cages or when I’m having a hard time doing long division.
I’m serious—in elementary school I started crying because I just couldn’t get long division. My sympathetic teacher, seeing me in an emotional fit, read deeper into my reaction, and suggested to the school nurse that I was a wreck because my parents were getting a divorce.
“Uh-huh,” I agreed with a shiny red face and a runny nose. That makes more sense.
Tears mean raised eyebrows. They mean people get concerned and they ask questions. Talking to myself has become a mechanism I’ve developed since high school to prevent the tears from flowing.
The moment I feel my face getting hot and when I feel my eyes begin to water I tell myself, “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.” My dialogue is internal, but it is so vivid I consider it talking to myself.
Today I wander around the University of Melbourne campus, a map clenched in my clammy hand and I feel it coming. So I do it. I talk to myself.
“You’re fine,” the voice says. “You jumped out of a plane, you can do this.”
It’s the first day I’ve become completely frustrated in Melbourne. After orientation, which was pretty much like a peaceful vacation on the Sunshine Coast complete with surfing, swimming, plenty of food, and kangaroos hopping on the lawn of our resort, I've been positively serene. I was dropped off at my apartment in the heart of downtown Melbourne a week ago, and have been in love ever since.
The city is better than I thought it would be. Our apartment sits across the street from the beautiful Victoria State Public Library where dozens of people sprawl themselves out onto the lush green lawn to picnic, read, or sunbathe. For blocks and blocks shops, restaurants, and pubs are available in every size and shape. Artists frequently visit and set up their supplies and paint the sides of buildings with neon murals of cartoon-shaped flowers and mountains.
The sidewalks are constantly buzzing. Twenty-somethings sit outside and play their guitars. Skateboarders attempt to grind the avant-guard sculptures. Girls who are so pretty they look famous (not rehab famous, but artsy and fashionable famous) walk by with arms full of shopping bags.
It seems impossible to ever get bored here. Yesterday my new roommate and I went to go return our toaster that was destroyed after a late-night bagel accident. We walked down to the department store on the corner when a large crowd caught our eye.
“What’s going on?” my roommate said. We both climbed on our tiptoes and searched for the source of attraction.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a male voice over said. It sounded like God. “Please welcome, Feist!”
“Feist?” I giddily screamed in excitement. We watched the set feeling overwhelmed. I kept the toaster lodged underneath my arm.
But today I’m so frustrated I can’t think about the warm weather or the amazing architecture surrounding me. I push my sunglasses away from my eyes and wipe my forehead with the back of my hand.
I whisper a curse and look at the map again. I’ve been running around the campus that holds more than 40,000 students with the goal of changing my class schedule. I don’t know where to go, I don’t know who to go to, and I’ve asked for help about ten times, but everyone seems to be directing me to a different building.
Why the hell won't someone just tell me what to do? Why is this so complicated? Knowing it’s stupid, I let the tears well up anyways. I exit the Old Arts building, which I have running up and down the halls for about forty minutes, and sit on a bench outside.
Breathe in, breathe out. You’re nineteen, I think. You’re not a kid anymore. I keep on bitching about wanting help but that’s why I wanted to go abroad… I need to learn to do things for myself.
A professor walks by. At least I hope it's a professor or else the glasses-briefcase-jacket thing is really throwing me off. “Excuse me,” I pop up off the bench and he stops dead in his tracks. “I need to get my timetable changed and I don’t know where to go.”
“Oh yeh,” he says and reaches for my schedule. I give it to him desperately. “You gotta go to the sociology department. It’s in the John Medley Building near Grattan, yeh?”
I finally feel like I’ve asked the right person. I practically skip to the building. A sign in the entrance says the sociology department is on the fourth floor so I hop into the lift and push the button with a smile. “Four!” I say out loud in excitement.
When I get to the fourth floor it’s empty. Hope begins to diminish. My head starts to feel heavy and I’m ready to give up. And like a sign from the heavens, a guy with pink hair passes me and notices the dismay, “O’eryadoin’?” he says.
“I’ve been on this like,” I sigh, “Wild goose chase. And I just need to change my time-”
“Oh, yeh, mate,” he motions for me to give him my schedule. “I can do that for ya.”
I want to hug him but don’t want to come off as an insane blonde-haired American. Instead I take off my shoes (a habit I picked up in New Zealand) and dance around his office while he fixes my schedule. I am what I am.
“Yeh, you’re all good,” he says as he prints my new, perfect schedule out.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“Oh, yeh,” he smiles, and hands me the timetable. “I love you too. Have a good semester at Uni, you’re gonna have a great time.”
I walk back to my apartment and soak in the sun, the people, the art. I celebrate my accomplishment by going to the Late Night Queen Victoria Market. Normally a farmer's market by day, the QV Market transforms into a mini-festival in evenings during the summer. There are tents with food from every country, not to mention a variety of makeshift-bars, and unique shops with handmade clothes and ornaments. The event is jam-packed with thousands of people. Children dance to the African band playing, and there are camels sitting outside the crowd. I buy a hot pink handmade dress, munch on a Greek kebab and a French crepe, and drink wine made in a local vineyard.
And there was no need to talk to myself. Which makes life far less creepy.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
The Beginning
Originally written: February 21st
After two and a half weeks of traveling in New Zealand, I have adapted to the life of a backpacker. This transition was accidental... Keep in mind, I didn't have plans to even go to NZ when I first started planning my trip abroad.
I decided I wanted to study abroad as a freshman, and when I look back now, I can't remember the specific reasons why. I'm a pretty restless girl who gets bored when she stays in one place with the same routine. At the time, I thought that going abroad would be a nice change of pace in my four-year plan of studying my ass off to accomplish... who knows.
I'm not much of an advocate for the American Dream. Sure, I want to be successful and have children and maybe get married but I don't believe in graduating-college-with-the-perfect job, married-at-25, kids-at-28, rolling-in-the dough, white-picket-fence, achieve-perfection-before-I-die stuff. I'm a writer. I strive for new experiences and I want to be challenged. I want to know who I am before all of the materialistic, corporate shit forces itself into my life.
I'm going to stop myself from preaching...
When I first went to the Study Abroad Office, I had plans on heading to London. A girl in my sorority mentioned a hook up for an internship at a fashion magazine which is my dream job (see above: I am a hypocrite, who is very confused). After taking a gander at the exchange rate, I sensibly realized that I had to change my destination. Some random upperclassmen suggested Australia and without really considering the options I signed up. The exchange rate looked good and from what I heard, so did the locals.
Australia it is.
A friend from school, Jonathan, also had plans of going to Australia and suggested the University of Melbourne as our new home for spring semester. After Googling Melbourne for about three minutes I said sure, why not. It was voted the Most Liveable City in the World by... someone. Bottom line, the pictures looked pretty and it's the fashion capital of Australia. Good 'nuff.
We had the option of a group flight to Oz (which is what I'll now refer to Australia as; it's the local nickname and I'm lazy), but with the same why-the-hell-not attitude Jonathan and I made our way into a travel agency and came out with tickets to New Zealand for before our study abroad program started, and Fiji for after the program ended.
So here I am now: sitting on the plane to Brisbane, Oz, preparing to start our program orientation on the Sunshine Coast before heading to Melbourne. In NZ Jon and I rented a car and have been independently touring the North and South Island for the past sixteen days. We've encountered the most beautiful scenery in the world, been skydiving, jumped off the wall of a canyon, swam in the ocean, ate Fergburgers in Queenstown, partied with backpackers from around the globe, and stayed up for nights on end. We're run-down, dirty, a little broke, and hungry.
When the stewardess comes down the narrow pathway of the 747 plane on our Air Zealand flight and places a pre-packaged meal in front of me, the now natural instincts of a backpacker emerge and I scarf it down like I haven't eaten in weeks. I kill the mini-bottle of Chardonnay to wash down the food I didn't even taste. Seeing this, the flight attendant hands me two more bottles of Chardonnay and whispers, "Drink responsibly," with a slight smile.
I don't know if it was the altitude, the poor diet, or the exhaustion, but I somehow get a little tanked on the flight to Oz. After the time change we end up at the Brisbane Airport at 10 a.m. Jon calls our hostel in Brisbane, whose website promised a free shuttle from the airport but who now tells us they forgot to update their website and they don't offer that service anymore. The 21-year-old Kiwi (a New Zealander), Adam, who we sat next to on the plane is also stuck at the airport. His friends who are supposed to pick him up went to the wrong one. We're all incredibly frustrated, so we go to the airport bar and get a bottle of every single Australian beer we've never heard of and drink them while we wait for the Kiwi's friends to pick us up.
We originally wanted a ride to our hostel in Brisbane, but we ended up going to Adam's friend's house near Surfer's Paradise. There, we drink Pure Blonde (Aussies swear they don't drink Foster's, but Pure Blonde is brewed by Foster's), have a Bar-B and play "Australian" Circle of Death. The Kiwi and his friends end the night by jamming out with Adam on the guitar, one guy beat-boxing, and another free-style rapping.
I spent my first night in Australia crashing on a stranger's couch near Surfer's Paradise.
This is going to be a good trip.
After two and a half weeks of traveling in New Zealand, I have adapted to the life of a backpacker. This transition was accidental... Keep in mind, I didn't have plans to even go to NZ when I first started planning my trip abroad.
I decided I wanted to study abroad as a freshman, and when I look back now, I can't remember the specific reasons why. I'm a pretty restless girl who gets bored when she stays in one place with the same routine. At the time, I thought that going abroad would be a nice change of pace in my four-year plan of studying my ass off to accomplish... who knows.
I'm not much of an advocate for the American Dream. Sure, I want to be successful and have children and maybe get married but I don't believe in graduating-college-with-the-perfect job, married-at-25, kids-at-28, rolling-in-the dough, white-picket-fence, achieve-perfection-before-I-die stuff. I'm a writer. I strive for new experiences and I want to be challenged. I want to know who I am before all of the materialistic, corporate shit forces itself into my life.
I'm going to stop myself from preaching...
When I first went to the Study Abroad Office, I had plans on heading to London. A girl in my sorority mentioned a hook up for an internship at a fashion magazine which is my dream job (see above: I am a hypocrite, who is very confused). After taking a gander at the exchange rate, I sensibly realized that I had to change my destination. Some random upperclassmen suggested Australia and without really considering the options I signed up. The exchange rate looked good and from what I heard, so did the locals.
Australia it is.
A friend from school, Jonathan, also had plans of going to Australia and suggested the University of Melbourne as our new home for spring semester. After Googling Melbourne for about three minutes I said sure, why not. It was voted the Most Liveable City in the World by... someone. Bottom line, the pictures looked pretty and it's the fashion capital of Australia. Good 'nuff.
We had the option of a group flight to Oz (which is what I'll now refer to Australia as; it's the local nickname and I'm lazy), but with the same why-the-hell-not attitude Jonathan and I made our way into a travel agency and came out with tickets to New Zealand for before our study abroad program started, and Fiji for after the program ended.
So here I am now: sitting on the plane to Brisbane, Oz, preparing to start our program orientation on the Sunshine Coast before heading to Melbourne. In NZ Jon and I rented a car and have been independently touring the North and South Island for the past sixteen days. We've encountered the most beautiful scenery in the world, been skydiving, jumped off the wall of a canyon, swam in the ocean, ate Fergburgers in Queenstown, partied with backpackers from around the globe, and stayed up for nights on end. We're run-down, dirty, a little broke, and hungry.
When the stewardess comes down the narrow pathway of the 747 plane on our Air Zealand flight and places a pre-packaged meal in front of me, the now natural instincts of a backpacker emerge and I scarf it down like I haven't eaten in weeks. I kill the mini-bottle of Chardonnay to wash down the food I didn't even taste. Seeing this, the flight attendant hands me two more bottles of Chardonnay and whispers, "Drink responsibly," with a slight smile.
I don't know if it was the altitude, the poor diet, or the exhaustion, but I somehow get a little tanked on the flight to Oz. After the time change we end up at the Brisbane Airport at 10 a.m. Jon calls our hostel in Brisbane, whose website promised a free shuttle from the airport but who now tells us they forgot to update their website and they don't offer that service anymore. The 21-year-old Kiwi (a New Zealander), Adam, who we sat next to on the plane is also stuck at the airport. His friends who are supposed to pick him up went to the wrong one. We're all incredibly frustrated, so we go to the airport bar and get a bottle of every single Australian beer we've never heard of and drink them while we wait for the Kiwi's friends to pick us up.
We originally wanted a ride to our hostel in Brisbane, but we ended up going to Adam's friend's house near Surfer's Paradise. There, we drink Pure Blonde (Aussies swear they don't drink Foster's, but Pure Blonde is brewed by Foster's), have a Bar-B and play "Australian" Circle of Death. The Kiwi and his friends end the night by jamming out with Adam on the guitar, one guy beat-boxing, and another free-style rapping.
I spent my first night in Australia crashing on a stranger's couch near Surfer's Paradise.
This is going to be a good trip.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
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