All That Glitters

Posted on May 24, 2012 | Leave a comment

A relationship with long-term travel is really no different from any other; there’s a lot of give and take involved. I’ll be the first to admit that, most of the time, it leans more heavily towards the taking side. You float along, sustaining yourself on the feeling that the world seems to exist just for you; it’s at your fingertips and you don’t have to think twice about being selfish as you grab at it, take as much as you want of it, make it your own. Occasionally though, as you’re sitting contentedly admiring your newfound possessions, still glittering with the excitement of discovery, something will remind you of the part of the relationship that, as a traveler, you consciously avoid dwelling on. Sometimes it’s impossible to ignore what you’re giving in order to take with such carefree abandon.

The past week was a pretty difficult one for me, as far as weeks go. One of my closest friends got married on Saturday, and even though I desperately tried to stay awake past 2 am so that I could talk to her in between her bridal luncheon and pre-wedding pictures, I ended up falling asleep with our only communication having been a few text messages back and forth…nowhere even close to sufficing as a replacement for what would have been a place in her wedding party. The following day, I skyped with my parents and found out that my Grandpa isn’t doing well with his battle against mesothelioma. As I watched the computer screen relay the scene, a multitude of emotions crossed my mom’s face while my dad tried to explain the situation logically in the background. At that moment, I  despised the fact that I was traveling and wouldn’t be able to be there when they  visit him and my Grandma in June. On top of all of these occurrences (although by far the least dramatic), I had been in Sydney far longer than I had intended because I ended up catching a nasty cold after my return from Cairns; I was getting restless.

Sometimes it doesn’t matter how many glittering jewels life places in front of you, you just want to slip on the familiarity of that old ring that’s tarnished and faded and so old it stains your finger green every time you wear it. Then you remember that you lost it somewhere along the way, so you reach out voraciously to the world again, taking something with the hopes of hastily filling what you have given away.

For me, that something was Bali.

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Faces of Oz: Mick the Bushman

Posted on May 20, 2012 | 2 Comments

Any of us could go any place in the entire world that we ever imagined or thought to imagine and make it our own. That’s a pretty exhilarating thought. You’re only as stuck as you think you are, as you allow yourself to be. But that’s not the tangent that I want to go off on, at least not right now. Tonight I want to acknowledge what I think is one of the most understated aspects of traveling: people. People make a place. They can also, just as easily, ruin a place. Most of my lingering memories of somewhere, whether good or bad, involve the spirit of the people there and my interaction with them. It has been no different on my travels so far this trip. While I truly haven’t had any horribly bad interactions or met any horribly bad individuals, I have had the pleasure of experiencing the other end of the spectrum; I want to share these wonderful people with you, preserving them and their positive impact on my travels for as long as I possibly can. I may not begin traveling for the sake of those that I meet along the way, but they will undoubtedly be a great majority of what I take away at the end of it all.

My first “Faces of” can belong to none other than Mick, the fantastic Bushman that I had the absolute privilege of getting to know during my month at Twisted River Wines. Mick is as authentic Australian as you could ever hope to come across; born practically next door to where his house is now, not going anywhere anytime soon. He was raised by his grandparents on a large dairy farm where he used to milk the cows by lantern light every morning before school, and continued on to work with horses, tractors, plows, chainsaws and just about every other piece of farm equipment known to man. Mick has worked hard and lived hard (he was a Hell’s Angel for a few years) every day of his life, and as a result has a tremendous respect for good work and good hearts. Cassandra and I absolutely adored him. I honestly don’t think that either of us would have stayed at Twisted River for so long if it weren’t for our occasional days with Mick. Around 9:30 am (he was notoriously late…I could completely empathize), you would see the white ute come rolling up the driveway, Mick’s bush hat, beard, and Bitty’s head-his chunky Kelpie and best mate-the only things visible until the ute pulled up to the mudbrick’s front door step. Cassandra and I would practically squeal with delight at his arrival, hurrying out to exchange our familiar greeting.

“G’day mate! How ya goin?” we would call out, in near unison.

“G’day Sheilas! Ok, ok, how ya goin? Ready to go chop some wood?” Mick would ask us as he sharpened the saw that he would be taking to turn the nearest red or yellow box into a stack of firewood.

Mick taught us all sorts of fascinating things: secrets of the bush, typical lingo, the pleasures of cider and port when consumed during the day with some bush scone or damper. One of the best days that I had at Twisted River was when, after a morning of collecting wood, Mick decided to show us how to find, gather, grill, and consume a sawdust-eating grub called the Witchetty Grub. Off we headed towards the fallen tree near the stream that Mick had spotted earlier. Now what you do, he explained with plenty of animated hand movements, is look for the gathering of small amounts of sawdust on the ground next to the tree; that’s where the Witchetty are. After you find them, you somehow get inside that portion of the tree, and there they’ll be…slowly consuming the sawdust they create as they burrow their way deeper into the tree.  A full-grown Witchetty is no joke-think Timon & Pumba style.

After we had gathered our feast, which Mick had named George as a collective whole, it was off to the barbie. A little butter thrown on as she heated up, then came the Georges, doomed to meet their demise as Mick’s expert hand rolled their plump bodies from one side to the other, sprinkling a generous portion of salt on top as they made their slow journey across the fiery slab of Witchetty hell. One couldn’t handle the pressure and promptly exploded on Mick’s face, but the others ended up slightly toasted and on our plates. Tough skin, slightly nutty paste of a center, salty aftertaste; one by one the grubs were consumed by an enthralled Mick, a slightly disturbed and disgusted (but participatory) Cassandra, and myself, overly eager and loving every minute. George’s cousins had actually won first place at a local Bush Tucker contest that Mick participated in not too long ago, and they really weren’t too bad…although the Bush Scone and Damper that we were also taught how to make-in the campfire, and always accompanied with a plentiful supply of cider-were pretty fantastic as well and just might have the advantage of appealing to a greater audience.

The last day that Cassandra and I were at Twisted River, Mick and Young Mick’s (his son) wife Catherine picked us up and took us to see what used to be Parks’ water supply, a lake called Endeavor. We then continued on to Parks, where we did some shopping; Mick insisted on having us over and grilling for us that afternoon. We also picked up the usual case of pear cider, which we promptly cracked open as soon as we got back into the Ute. Luckily Mick was just as big of a fan of day drinking as us two Yank Sheilas were. Joining us that afternoon was the infamous Gordon, Mick’s best mate (besides Bitty, of course) and fellow Bushman. Also joining the party were Catherine and Young Mick, who took us on a quad bike (4-wheeler) ride around the property to see the dozen or so kangaroos that gathered at dusk. Full of great tucker, immense appreciation and enough cider for a pleasant buzz, we said our reluctant goodbyes as the dusk settled in, exchanging contact information and vowing to keep in touch.

Ta, Mick. You’re the best.

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Young Winewalker

Posted on May 16, 2012 | 6 Comments

I have been experiencing a slight writer’s block these past couple of weeks. I think the initial cause of my run-in with lacking motivation was the fact that as soon as I arrived at Twisted River Wines-my second WWOOF adventure-my schedule was completely consumed with festivals, amateur attempts at wine making, vineyard maintenance, and hanging out with Mick the fabulous Bushman and my new friend Cassandra, a fellow American WWOOFer who happened to be there at the same time as I was. During the time that I was at Twisted River (in total just a few days short of a month), Cassandra and I worked seven days a week; even when we weren’t technically doing work, our schedules were tightly controlled, which as you can imagine, allowed for very limited personal time or space. Not to mention that our internet access was severely restricted as well because we were locked out of the house during the day while the hosts were at work…but all of that is another facet of what has now, due to my delay in posting, turned into a very long story. I suppose I could conquer the daunting task of telling my tale in a conventional “start at the beginning fashion”, but I happened to have caught an episode of Family Guy earlier this evening that had a Star Wars theme, and luckily for all of you I can’t deny the chance to give my dad a shout-out and go with this unexpected inspiration.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…

Twisted River Wines

It is a period of civil war. Rebel WWOOFers, striking from a hidden base known as the Mudbrick-have won their first victory against the evil Galactic Lesbians. During the battle, Rebel spies Courtney and Cassandra managed to steal chook eggs and a couple of diet cokes to sustain their existence, but steered clear of the Empire’s ultimate weapon, The 2011 Twisted River Viognier, a wine which, when heavily consumed, could destroy an entire planet…

Ahem. On second thought, maybe I should just start at the beginning, then? Right.

My first weekend at Twisted River was spent mostly in Orange, which is a small-ish country town in central NSW. While not exactly big enough to be considered a city, it is the largest town in the immediate area, and attracts quite a bit of visitors due to the fact that Orange is a pretty well known G.I. (wine region) in Australia. On this particular weekend, Orange was kicking off their annual Food & Wine Festival-a two week affair that has an impressive turn-out, both from local vineyards and cafes as well as visitors, a large number of whom had made the four hour drive from Sydney for one of the two weekends that the event was being held. I spent the whole day in the kitchen on Friday, helping Michelle (one of my hosts) to prepare an impressive amount of sticky date pudding and vegetarian nachos, both of which were to be served at the Orange Night Market in the town center later that evening. Cassandra and Helen (my other host and Michelle’s partner) met us at our designated booth, and while they served wine, Cassandra and I served food to the growing crowd. Saturday was a repeat of the night before, except this time the event was centered around a hot air balloon race. I didn’t get to see the actual race, but when the sun went down and the balloons had all returned, they blew them back up and kept them grounded while they put on a really impressive light show that was set to music. I would like to tell you that was the last time in my life that I had to see sticky date pudding and vegetarian nachos, but that simply wouldn’t be true…we had been signed up to volunteer for many, many more events in the coming weeks that would center around these two indispensable items, the supply of which was apparently limitless.

After such a busy weekend, Sunday came quickly and with it an awesome event that Helen and Michelle were scheduled to showcase their wine at, and had arranged for Cassandra and I to attend.  After doing a bit of work with the irrigation around the vineyard during the day, we all piled into the car and made our way to another vineyard for a tour and a guided wine tasting that evening. The event was being held especially for a small group; all of them were young professionals in the wine industry whose positions ranged from head sommeliers at esteemed restaurants to pub owners to wine writers to a couple of guys who ran the wine tasting association at Oxford. Each individual in the group had won or been sponsored for the trip, which consisted of a guided tour around Australia’s wine regions.  During their tour, they were invited to different vineyards and wineries, where they partook in the sort of event that we attended that night.

The tour began with the vineyard owner taking us out into the vines to showcase and explain the soil, elevation, and special terroir of the Orange Wine Region. Orange is a relatively young Region-the first vines were planted in the early 80’s-that produces cool-climate, high altitude wines, and is particularly revered for their Sauvignon Blanc (although I much preferred the Viognier that I tried, but that could also be personal tastes as Viognier is one of my favorite white varietals). The Region extends around Mt. Canobolas (an extinct volcano which is 1395m at its highest elevation; the highest vineyards are found around 600m), and down in the valleys surrounding the mountain, so there is quite a range of temperatures and grape-growing soils in the Region. The vineyard that we were at that evening was mostly limestone covered by sandstone-the difference of which was clear when pointed out. After the walking tour, we all piled inside the Cellar Door to commence the tasting. Prior to our glasses being filled, however, we had the opportunity to try some grapes. Laid out on a table at the front of the room were whole, fresh bunches of the main varietals that we would be sampling that evening. The Sauvignon Blanc grape was crisp, tart and citrusy, which was a stark contrast to the sweet squishiness of the Riesling. The Viognier had a tougher, waxy skin, which was unlike any of the other grapes. The Cabernet Sauvignon was juicy and spicy, while the Tempranillo was smoky with more condensed and understated flavors. It was  the first time that I had had an opportunity to try the actual grape outside of the wine, and it was seriously fascinating.

After a great introduction, the drinking began. We must’ve gone through about 10 flights of four; each time a new wine was introduced either the winemaker or the vineyard owner would step up and take the time to explain what his vision was for the particular varietal, or perhaps what hardships he faced with growing and producing that vintage. And, in typical Aussie fashion, the event ended with throwing a few snags (sausages) on the barbie and finishing up the opened bottles. It was a great night that I was truly privileged to have been a part of, but I have to be honest and admit that, out of forty or so wines, I was only really impressed with about three of them. The oddest part about it was that (with the exception of Cassandra), everyone else seemed to really enjoy the majority of what was being poured. Maybe you’ve heard people mention the different palates of wine drinkers around the world? Well that night in Orange, I witnessed the extent of that difference first hand. Because I obviously have been drinking wines that are typically imported into and produced in the States, I had created my own specific palate…a fact of which I don’t really even think I was aware of. It was this predetermined palate that left me unimpressed with the wines that night-and, as it would turn out, Orange wines in general. I began to contemplate the fact that it would be incredibly difficult to create a market for a wine that people hadn’t developed a palate for yet, or perhaps a wine that greatly differed from what was usually consumed somewhere. I was even told that South Australians produce and consume different wines than what they export around the world, because they know what Americans and Europeans expect of wines out of Barossa and Yarra, but that’s not necessarily what they themselves prefer to drink. This was exactly the sort of information, experience and exposure that I was hoping to gain by traveling the world and drinking wine.

Me and my palate…a lot to learn, we have.

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Travel Rules and Reminders

Posted on April 29, 2012 | 4 Comments

When I travel, I try to live by the Rule of Three. This particular personal philosophy was manifested as a direct result of my first time living in Austria, and has proven itself to be accurate on multiple occasions since. The general idea behind the concept of Rule of Three is that you can’t accurately judge a place or experience until you have given it-and yourself-the appropriate interval of three. If you’re heading into the unknown for a couple of weeks, give yourself three days to adjust and then start figuring out how you feel about it all. If you have a year, give yourself three months. A day or two gets three hours…you get the idea. What I’ve discovered is that this is a pretty great rule of thumb. You’re not backing out or judging something before you’ve really had a chance to immerse yourself, but you’re also not spending an unnecessary amount of time and effort deciding how you really feel about a situation; I think it’s rare that your opinion would change much after the appropriate length of 3 had expired. Of course, if you like a situation or place right off the bat that’s awesome, and all of this need not apply. But if you’re unsure, uncomfortable, overwhelmed, underwhelmed or lonely, force yourself to wait it out. You never know, the third time might really be the charm.

The train pulled out of Sydney’s Central Station and began its slow, winding journey through the beautiful countryside to Singleton, NSW. As I stared out the window at the forest filtered sunshine and small lakeside towns, the last thing on my mind was the Rule of Three, or any travel philosophies for that matter. I was finally heading towards Hunter Valley (Broke Fordwich to be exact, which is known as the “Tranquil Side of Hunter”), where I would begin my first WWOOFing experience at a place called Hunterstay, which was advertised in the WWOOF book as a small vineyard with horses that experienced riders could work. It sounded like heaven to me, and the timing had worked out perfectly since my original plans for my first WWOOFing experience had fallen through at the last-minute. Five hours, a frantic train switch and a crowded standing-room- only last leg later, I arrived in Singleton and was greeted by Eden, the owner of Hunterstay. We piled into his van and he gave me the run down as we drove through the scenic Valley, picturesquely bathed in the vibrant colors of the setting sun.

“Now, Courtney, the vineyards have actually been pulled up a while ago; a lot of the people around here have done the same with their vines recently. Just not a lot of money to be had in it. There are still a few places left though, and I have good connections in the community so we can get you tours of some places and they always need help in their cellar doors. I also manage five different accommodations throughout Broke Fordwich, and the girl I had cleaning the places was recently let go, so I’ll need your help with that.”

I was a little put off by the opening conversation, but I decided to not let it get to me since I honestly now had no idea what was in store. Besides, Eden, his delightful wife Rebecca, and their son Nick were all exceptionally friendly and welcomed me into their beautiful house with open arms and a fantastic dinner. I arrived on a Wednesday evening, and the next two days looked like this:

7:30 am-wake up, head downstairs to make yourself breakfast (muesli & Greek yogurt with a cup or two of coffee for me, thanks!)

8:30 am-load the van with cleaning supplies, bedding, towels, soaps, etc. and head to whichever of the 5 properties needed to be cleaned first

12:00 pm-drive back to the house for lunch

1:00 pm-head back out to do more cleaning

5:00 pm-drive back to the house; done for the day

7:30 pm-dinner

Rinse, repeat.

Please do not give me undue credit and assume that I maintained my sunny disposition throughout these first couple of days. I was absolutely, positively miserable. The work wasn’t hard, the house I was staying in was nice, and I was being treated like a part of the family. But despite all of this, I felt like karma had finally caught up with me…and somewhere along the road I had done something really, really wrong to deserve the personally specific torturous punishment that I was being subjected to. You may think I’m being over dramatic, but please put yourself in my shoes. Here I was, surrounded by breathtaking scenery and acres upon acres of perfectly manicured vineyards…and I was inside cleaning. The weather was brilliantly sunny and a perfect, balmy temperature…and I was inside cleaning.  There were five horses that greeted me as I loaded the van every morning, which I hoped to ride every evening, but never arrived home before it was too late and the sun was setting…because I was inside cleaning. Would you like to know the worst part? After a long day of being stuck inside, plotting my escape to the nearest vineyard where I could drink my body weight in the phenomenal wine that Hunter is known for, I was given sweet white Riesling out of a box to accompany dinner. Out. of. a. box. Oh yes, spirits were low my friends. Then, somewhere amidst my misery, things started to look up. The weekend arrived and I was allowed complete freedom. I chose my trusty steed, Warrior, and rode through the untouched woods every morning. An old family friend, Roy, drove up from Sydney and spent Easter weekend with us; he used to be a winemaker down the road from Hunterstay and was the epitome of fabulous. Rebecca opened up and told story after story of her childhood growing up as the daughter of a British spy who moved all around the world and finally ended up in Portugal, where she had many a steamy fling before moving back to London and meeting Eden. Nick and Eden quickly picked up on my sarcastic sense of humor, which easily blended with their own. I had time to explore their library, which contained dust-covered copies of Poe’s poetry, Australian wine making instructionals, and a multitude of cookbooks. After discovering my love of cooking, Eden even invited me into the kitchen one night-which was typically Rebecca’s domain (and rightly so)-and he, Nick and I threw together an authentic homemade Australian pie with Gipsy Kings serenading us in the background. I was lying in bed one night about a week after I had been there, happy in a state of existence enhanced by Roy’s 2000 Pinot and delicious Muscat, when I suddenly remembered the Rule of Three; it had once again proven itself to be true. I was genuinely sad to leave Hunterstay when the time came, and I’d like to assume that the feeling was mutual. I have to be careful about stagnancy, however, because my three months in Australia is quickly winding down and there’s still so much to see and do.

For the record, I never visited an actual vineyard or winery while in Hunter, although as a parting gift Eden gave me a bottle of 2002 Merlot Cabernet from Nightingale Wines, which turned out to be surprisingly good. Someday I might have to take him up on his invite to have me back as a guest, so that I can fill in the pieces of this particular puzzle that I missed out on this time around.

But for now, I’m back on that wine road again-trying my best to remember to take it three wonderful days at a time.

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Sydney II

Posted on April 15, 2012 | Leave a comment

All in all I was in Sydney for a total of just over a week, so while that hardly qualifies me as an expert of any sorts, I do have some further suggestions (a few are also mentioned in part I) should you decide to venture to this beautiful city any time in the near future.

Please take the time to go on a run or walk. There are miles of paved trail through and around the Botanical Gardens; enough so that even with hundreds of other runners and even more tourists all sharing the same path, your run will still be pleasant. The views don’t hurt either.

You can book a sailing trip around the Harbor, which I’m sure is spectacular, but if you’re not able or willing to spend the extra money then take the $12 ferry to Manly Beach. It departs every half hour or so from the main terminal (close to the Opera House and Bridge), and the ride takes about 20-25 minutes. Just make sure you get there about 15 minutes early so that when the gates open, you can fight for a seat on the back deck on the way there and the front deck on the way back.

Since you’re taking the ferry to Manly Beach anyways, you might as well make a beach day out of it! To get to the main beach, you have to walk through the charming beach town that is Manly. The white sand is perfect for lying out to get a tan and the waves are spectacular if you’re into surfing. Supposedly the fish and chips are also delicious at the little shops around the beach, but we opted for a cool gelato instead. Just be sure to watch for sharks if you jump in to cool yourself off…there were two sightings the day that we were there, which resulted in the complete evacuation of the water.

Before I came to Australia, someone told me that it was a very “casual society”. This may be the case in the bush, but it couldn’t be further from the truth in Sydney. When I say that everyone is beautiful in this city, I am not exaggerating. The men look like models dressed in business suits whose weekend activities must consist of playing sports outside in the hot Aussie sun. The women look like they literally stepped off of the runway and on to the streets to go about their daily business (which I can assume is, in large part, looking spectacular). And they are all wearing heels. Every single one of them, everywhere they go. As I walked around in my plain t-shirts and basic flip-flops (or thongs, as they call them here), I felt extremely envious and deeply regretted not having brought my heels, especially when we went out at night. Ladies, do yourself a favor if you’re coming to Sydney and bring at least one pair that can compete with the locals.

Speaking of getting dressed up, you have to go out and have some fun! If you’re looking for a crazy time, head to Kings Cross. This is the area where my hostel was located, and it had a lot of bars and clubs to keep you busy for the night. If you’re bored on a Thursday, for instance, you can go to Sugar Mill and participate in Tranny Bingo while enjoying a pitcher of VB. Trust me on this, it’s a blast. Or if you’re looking for something a little swankier, check out Piano Bar. It’s $10 to get in and the drinks are a little expensive (about $15 for a cocktail), but they play great music and there’s a good mix of people there. If the whole crazy clubbing bar scene isn’t your cup o’ tea, then you have to check out Surry Hills. It’s a little out of the way (especially if you’re walking from Kings Cross), but it’s awesome. This neighborhood would be where I would live in Sydney if I ever decided to relocate. It’s artsy and eclectic with tons of different places to sit outside on a deck and drink or have dinner; it reminded me a lot of some of the places that I visited while I was in NYC for vacation last year.

Since you’re going to be hungry after all that drinking, there is no question where you need to head next: Harry’s Cafe de Wheels. This free-standing shop on the water between Kings Cross and the Gardens is famous in it’s longevity and clientele; the walls outside are lined with pictures of celebrities from all over enjoying their delicious concoction, the Tiger.

 The Tiger is a pie (like a Sheppard’s pie) topped with a heaping pile of mashed potatoes, mushy peas (literally peas that have been mushed up), and brown gravy. This is the ultimate drunk food, and tastes pretty amazing when you’re sober as well…although you might feel a little more guilty after consumption if you’re acutely aware of your actions.

In order to redeem yourself the next day, you could try to book a ticket to a show at the Sydney Opera House. What I didn’t realize before I actually went and explored myself is that the Opera House consists of multiple rooms, not just one “opera room”, which is what I had always assumed. The surface is also completely tiled and not just big sheets of white metal or something, which I had also assumed. Anyways, if you ask for a program of their latest shows you can often book them online for a special price of $35. Make sure you do this about a week in advance, though, because they will sell out quickly-especially on the weekends. My friend Kat and I had booked tickets to see Macbeth the Sunday before I left, but unfortunately the cast had a serious bout of food poisoning, so the show was canceled. When I head back to Sydney in a few weeks we are going to try our luck again. Seriously, it’s $35…how could you miss that? If theater doesn’t interest you, they play movies outside in the Botanical Gardens at the St. George OpenAir Cinema on a big screen with the Opera House and the Bridge as the background, which I can only imagine is extremely impressive. That wasn’t an option for me though, as the screen was shut down for the “winter”, but will reopen next summer. Sydney is also home to the world’s largest IMAX theater (about $30 a movie), so there’s always that option as well.

And finally, I have to recommend the hostel that I stayed at-The Blue Parrot. This was nothing like the hostels that I stayed at in NZ in the sense that it wasn’t someone’s farm house or located right across the beach with free dinner awaiting in the sand, but it was really great as far as (I imagine) city hostels go. Everyone who works there is incredibly sweet and willing to help, the location is great, they have unlimited (Your eyes don’t deceive you!! It’s true!) wifi, and they organize events at night for the entire hostel to join-they were actually recently voted the #1 party hostel in Sydney, I believe, but it wasn’t too crazy and generally everyone was quiet when it was time to be. The age group is a little young-I would say 19-22-but there was a pretty nice mix of people and age groups for the majority of time that I was there. Also, there’s an incredible coffee shop about two steps away, which I’m extremely grateful I didn’t discover until the last day for the sake of my wallet.

Sydney was an exceptionally picturesque city with enough activity to keep you busy for as long as you could possibly want…but after a week I was ready to continue on to my next adventure; I’m not someone who can resist the call of Hunter Valley for long.

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Sydney Ala Bones

Posted on April 5, 2012 | 4 Comments

After a relatively rough start to my time Down Under, things settled down nicely. My first night after arriving, I went out with a group from the hostel to a place called World Bar. In one area, there was a karaoke bar (and a bartender who made the best caprioska ever) and in the next area over, there was a silent disco. The concept of this odd event is that when walking through the door, everyone gets a pair of large headphones that you can set on one of two stations. You can see who is listening to what because there is a light on the front of the headphones that is either green or red, depending on the station that you’re listening to. So everyone dances and sings to whatever they’ve got on which may be completely different from the person standing next to them, who they generally aren’t talking to anyways because they can’t hear them without removing their headphones.Like I said…odd.

The next few days were spent walking (a lot) around various areas of Sydney. One rainy day, I went to the free Art Museum right outside of the Botanical Gardens and filled a few hours taking in their impressive collection. One of my favorite parts was an entire floor dedicated to students who had filled the space with their own interpretation of various mediums of art. Beside each display  there was a small panel that explained what had inspired their work; I was truly taken aback by the level of intelligence and original thoughts and ideas that these kids exhibited.  Afterwards, I intended on visiting another museum down the road, but my rumbling stomach convinced me otherwise so I headed towards China Town.  Upon my arrival, I quickly cornered someone who looked to be a local in the area (plus, we were both buying a bubble tea, so she had to be legit) and asked her where she recommended I go for authentic cuisine. She looked at me thoughtfully for a second and then quickly turned around and pointed to a small restaurant that would apparently satisfy my needs. I nodded in appreciation, walked around for about another hour to delay the inevitable, and then returned to the front door. Due to the early hour-or so I told myself-I was the only one who appeared to be dining there. No problem. I took up a table intended for four, removed the multiple massive maps that I had hidden away in my purse in an attempt to not be so blatant a clueless tourist, and settled in to study them while I waited for my food. I had gone on gut instinct, because when I asked the waitress her recommendation she looked at me like I was speaking Chinese or something (ha…ha..) and walked away. After that I just pointed. I ended up ordering a bean curd and seafood soup and some noodle dish with duck.

The soup came first and was huge (I thought Asian portions were smaller?), so by the time I was done eating it I was full. But then the duck and noodles showed up and it looked delicious enough to return my appetite in full force. Excited, I took a gigantic hunk and stuffed it in my mouth, only to start choking on what seemed to be the entire skeletal system of the duck. As every waiter, hostess, cook and passerby watched me, I attempted to discreetly remove the bones-still attached to the meat and skin, mind you-from my mouth. This was not an easy task and I’m afraid that despite my best efforts, I failed miserably. 1 China Town, 0 Courtney.

The next day, I was bound and determined to make it to the Sydney Fish Market. Luckily, the radiant sunshine had reappeared, and I guess I didn’t scare Doug off too badly on our traipse through the Gardens, because he volunteered to join me on my adventure. It was a bit of a walk (but then again, everything in Sydney is), but it was so worth it. I was like a kid in a candy store. Everywhere, they had fish of every color, shape, and size that had all been caught that morning. There were lobsters so red they looked like hard candy versions of themselves, chunks of raw tuna bigger than my thigh, and fresh oysters…so many deliciously different kinds of oysters just begging to be consumed. We settled on a plate of fresh sashimi and a half-dozen of two different kinds of oysters and prepared for a feast.  Little did we know that our pre-dining entertainment would be a dock worker smashing in a rat’s head basically right next to the table we were sitting at. Despite the fact that I received an in-depth play-by-play to the show, I managed to maintain my appetite and relished every single bite of the fresh seafood. 

Now, I have to get to work (more about that later), so part II of my time in Sydney Ala Bones will have to wait a bit. Hope everyone is having/will have a great Easter weekend! Bis bald~

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Sippin’ Sider

Posted on April 2, 2012 | Leave a comment

The sun in Australia has an uncanny brightness to it. It casts a spotlight on the entire city of Sydney, illuminating everything it touches with the sort of brightness typically reserved for sandy white beaches or big open spaces. Coincidentally, I’ve heard multiple times that this is the skin cancer capital of the world, but when I woke up to a world of potentially deadly rays streaming through my open hostel room window, I smiled and immediately scooted myself into the warmth to lazily watch people on the streets below go about their morning routine.

At breakfast, I was quickly pulled into a plan to go visit the elusive Rocks Museum with Doug, an American who got a job at the hostel for a couple of months before he returns to the U.S. for grad school. I was happy to have a partner in crime and tour guide for the day so we set out, Doug leading the way with credible conviction. We wound our way through the shady (literally and figuratively) streets of Kings Cross and emerged at a small bay inhabited by military vessels and small cafés. From there we climbed a disturbing number of steps which led to a quiet street; directly across from where we stood was a gate leading into the Botanical Gardens. Walking through the imposing iron rod structures was like stepping straight into the set of Jurassic Park-minus the beautiful fountains, wide brick path, and abundance of relatively civilized people as opposed to T-rex, of course. There were screeches and howls and buzzing and a distinctive bird call that sounded disturbingly like a young boy hitting puberty at the exact moment he was being punched in the gut. The vegetation was thick, lush, and colorfully diversified in collection. I walked around in wonder, looking up through the greenness of the trees to spot the hundreds of Flying Foxes (gigantic furry bats) that inhabit the Gardens. They were extremely loud and I might have had time to contemplate the possibility of an organized air assault if it weren’t for the dozen of shiny webs that caught my eye, each of which was inhabited by a spider the size of my fist and, given it’s Australia, probably capable of administering a painful and deadly bite. What Doug didn’t know-and I wasn’t about to tell him-is that he was navigating this danger zone with a walking magnet for disaster, and we were both lucky to have made it out alive. But make it we did, and onwards we pushed, past the iconic glaring white Opera House and the majestic grey steel of the Bridge, towards the museum.

The Rocks is a very historical part of Sydney, and is really attractive in its quaintness. The streets are lined with old buildings, stone pubs with secrets to tell, and historic landmarks. It’s also a pretty small area, so when we couldn’t find the Rocks Museum despite multiple attempts and changed directions, I suggested that we ask someone.

“What’s the place called again?” I asked Doug, determined to put an end to our wandering.

“Sydneysider.” He answered without hesitation.

Not two seconds later, an unsuspecting man in a construction worker’s vest crosses the street towards us. Under my breath, I proclaimed that this is the individual that I’d decided to ask, disregarding the sarcastic remarks from my companion about how he was obviously a great choice. I quickened my pace a bit and met the guy head on, blocking any hope he might’ve had of sidestepping us.

“Excuse me! Hi! Um could you please tell us where the Sydneysider is?” I ask in a hopeful and friendly (aka American) tone.

In the second that immediately followed my inquiry, two things happened. The first is that the construction worker furrowed his brow in a look of extreme confusion. The second is that Doug, standing beside me, made a sound halfway between a cough and quiet “NOOOOO!” said in slow motion like someone who’s just realized he’s falling off of a cliff. While this all happened, I started to second-guess my decision to ask this particular individual; maybe I should’ve looked for a business suit or something.

“No, the Rocks….the Rocks Museum. We’re looking for the Museum.” Doug says apologetically, maybe even slightly embarrassed. The guy doesn’t know where it’s at, and quickly excuses himself from the conversation. It is then that I’m informed that “Sydneysider” is a term (although thankfully not derogatory) that the locals in Sydney are known by, and that I had somehow been misunderstood when asking what the museum was called. Right.

All of our efforts having failed, we decided to retreat to one of the inviting bars, the Hero of Waterloo, for a few drinks.

So that’s where the Sydneysiders are, I thought as I glanced around. Next time I’ll know.

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