An Australian in New York Land (And a New Yorker Back Home)

Feb 8, 2011

Home sweet home! After nearly six months abroad in Australia, I was back home on U.S. soil. When I left Australia it was over 100 degrees, and when I landed in New York it was below zero. What a welcome home. I went from sandy beaches to snowy streets in one day. I looked at Natasha and said, "Todo, I don't think we're in Australia anymore." She jumped up and down excitedly. While I wasn't in warm Aussie land anymore, at least I had an Aussie in my freezing land. I won't go into a day by day, minute by minute replay of our New York adventure (mainly because I didn't write everything down, and my memory isn't that good), but it is certainly worth mentioning some of the many highlights.

NYC from up above

This trip was full of firsts for Natasha. It was her  first time on an international flight. She freaked out. Fortunately, she had her knitting to keep her calm. Oh, and the free flight wine. Nothing soothes the flight nerves like a mini bottles of Chardonnay. It was her first time seeing snow. She freaked out. She ran outside like a giddy child spinning round and round with her arms wide open and head lifted to the sky. Then she dove in the snow and began making snow angels across our front lawn. It was her first time driving on the right (and also the correct) side of the road. She freaked out. I could go on and on. No doubt, watching Natasha's reactions to these novelties was absolutely priceless.

Natasha's first snowfall

Snow angel making

We spent the first few nights in Saugerties, which Natasha thought was the cutest "friendly, historical" town her eyes had seen. She thought all the houses were so nice, and loved the small vintage shops and cozy town bars. It was nice to see an outsider's fascination and appreciation for my hometown, which I admittedly take for granted at times. When you've lived in a place for 25 years, you tend to become immune to its subtle splendor, from the Catskill Mountains to the Hudson River and everything in between. Natasha's fondness of Saugerties reminded me to appreciate the beauty that resides right outside my front door.

Bundled up, waiting at the Poughkeepsie train station

The two of us spent most of our time in New York City, however. Natasha fell in love with the city the moment we walked out of Grand Central Station and into the heart of the madness. As the week passed, her love deepened and deepened. She didn't want to leave. We stayed busy each day running all over the city seeing this and doing that. Natasha's list of things to see and do was ridiculously long. I explained to her that not even people who have lived in the city for a year have time to do all the things she wanted to do. But that didn't stop us from trying to do it all in a week. We hauled our little booties all over town, cramming in as much food eating, museum visiting, sight seeing, shopping and booty shaking as we could each day. Natasha had questions about everything. I felt like a horrible tour guide because I didn't know the answer to any of her inquiries. Usually, I just spat out an answer that I thought was correct and hoped that she would accept it as good enough. She was like a little child whose developing, sponge-like mind kept asking, "Mommy, what's that? Mommy, why does __(fill in the blank)___? Mommy, what's sex?" And then I would blabber something about birds and bees, cars and garages hoping it would quiet her. Don't get me wrong, I love that she was so curious about and fascinated with the city- I just didn't have a clue. I'm not that NYC savvy.

Our reflections in a piece of art at the MOMA

Natasha in the city. Doesn't she look like a New Yorker?

Drinking warm beverages at a rooftop bar that supplied us with red cloaks for warmth. We felt like we were in a cult.

We took a one day detour from New York City to visit Laura in Philly. Natasha also thoroughly enjoyed this northeast city. She was a huge fan of Philly's architecture, from the cobble streets to the mosaic tiles that were embedded in the buildings to the murals painted on the sides of buildings. She was also thrilled to indulge in a Philly Cheese Steak, Philly pretzel, and root beer soda. Some of Natasha's other favorite American foods were Cinnamon Toast Crunch, Ranch dressing, sushi, New York City pizza, Tasty D'Light ice cream, corn bread, and last but not least, bagels with cream cheese and lox.

In Philly

All in all we had a fabulous, action packed two weeks. I'm so glad that I got to share my home with Natasha,  and that her dream of going to New York City finally came true. Plus, it was great that my mom and dad could meet one of my Australian friends in the flesh after reading so much about them in my blog. They of course adored her, and were ready to adopt her as their third, Aussie child. Did I mention that she knit them socks? No? Well, she did. That's not something this child has ever done for them, nor ever will. Knitting is one skill that I haven't acquired. Oh well. I'll add it to the bottom of my "to do" list.

It was sad to send Natasha off. Her departure finalized the end of my Australian adventure. It also finalizes the end of my blog. So let's all take one large inhale together, and now let out a long, loud sigh. Ahhhh. Did you do it? Do you feel better? No? Me either. Go grab tissues, we can cry together. But I will only permit you to cry for one minute. After that you must wipe a smile back on your face, and be comforted knowing that you can come back and read this blog any time you experience nostalgia. It will be here waiting for you, I promise. And I promise that I will be back to blogging the moment I embark on my next great adventure. But for now, let's go out with a hearty group "CHEERS!"

My Last, Final, Ultimate Week in Sydney AUSTRALIAAAA

This was it. My nearly two-month long travel expedition through New Zealand and Australia had come to an end, and now I was back in Sydney for one last week. I couldn't believe it. It felt like just yesterday that I stepped off the plane and stared in amazement at the Sydney Opera House and bridge, and now in just a few more days I would be stepping on a plane that would take me away from it all and bring me back to my real home in New York. It was a bitter, but sweet thought.

I spent my final week crashing at Natasha's place in Leichhardt, the Little Italy of Sydney. I focused my time and energy on three things: 1) seeing as many of my Sydney friends as possible, from my dozens of foreign roommates back at 60 Bourke Street to my Summit mates to my American companions (such as Aubrey, Sara was back home for the holidays); 2) spending as much time at the fabulous Sydney beaches as possible (mainly Manly, Bondi and Coogee); and 3) eating the best cuisine that Sydney had to offer including Greek, Italian and Chinese deliciousness. My final night in Sydney I had a goodbye dinner with some of my favorites: Natasha, Aubrey, Matt and Andy (both mutual friends of Sara's who became mine too). Matt, the unbelievably kind gentleman that he is, treated us all to the finest pizza that Sydney has to offer at Lucio's (it's no New York pizza, but it was good). Then we went to his favorite cocktail bar where I was treated to a magical potion of a cocktail which required wearing goggles to enjoy the smoky preparation of the drink concoction. Fortunately, it didn't taste like a chemistry experiment. Then the bunch ventured onward to another laid back lounge where we sipped on wine and played jenga for the remainder of the evening. I couldn't think of a better way to spend my final night in Sydney. I was in a state of bliss as I enjoyed the evening with these fantastic people whom I was proud to call friends. There was no doubt I was going to miss them, and there was certainly no doubt that I was going to miss Sydney and Australia.

Out for Pizza (Natasha and Matt)

My chemistry cocktail

Sad to say goodbye

With Aussie Andy

Playing Jenga

With my girl Aubrey

I think I would have been in a state of depression were it not for the fact that miss Natasha was coming back with me to New York for two weeks. She had never been outside of Australia and had always dreamed of going to New York. As an avid fan of Sex and The City, an art history major, a classical pianist, a model, and a shopaholic, New York City was Natasha's heaven on earth. She had stacks of New York City books in her room (and by stacks I mean two or three books). Visions of the Empire State Building, Metropolitan Museum of Art and Burberry fluttered through her mind at night as she slept. She was excited to come to New York as I was to come to Sydney. Now was her chance, and I was so excited to be there to share this momentous occasion with her. I had just spent six months in Natasha's world, and now she was going to get to experience mine. How cool. This coupled with my eagerness to see my beloved parents, sister and friends was a powerful enough antidote to ward off any depression I would have otherwise felt. My exciting journey wasn't over quite yet.

What more can I say that I haven't already said in this blog? My time in Australia wasn't everything I had hoped it would be; it was so much more. I developed friendships with amazing people from around the world; saw astonishing, mind-bogglingly beautiful places; and participated in one thrilling adventure after another.  It's hard to express how grateful I am to have had this experience and how I've changed and grown as a person, but undoubtedly I am departing Australia a different but better Sarah than the one who arrived.  I will forever cherish my time in Australia, my second home away from home. Already I am looking forward to the day I return to Oz. I saw a lot, but there is still so much more of Australia I have yet to see, like the inside of the Sydney Opera House (oops, how did I manage to forgo that one?) and wild kangaroos (six months in Australia and I didn't see a single wild kangaroo! That's just not right). It's funny, many people I talk to about my travels to Australia tell me, "Good for you! Do it now while you can and get it out of your system" but I don't want to get this out of my system. I want to keep this passion for travelling, thrill for adventures and joy of life in my system always. And that means one very important thing: that there will be many more "travel diaries in foreign lands" to come. So stay tuned!

I'd like to give a shout out to my very dedicated and loyal followers (Greg, Mom & Dad). You rock. This girl is almost officially signing out (I will be posting one more follow-up blog about my time in NY with Natasha). As the Aussie's say, "G'day Mate!"

East Coast Expedition: Bouncing Through Byron Back To Sydney

Feb 1, 2011

I woke in my hostel bed in Brisbane, refreshed for the final leg of my trip. I decided that I would spend the day in Byron Bay before climbing on a night bus back to Sydney. This was my second time in Byron Bay. If you rewind your memories (or back track through my blogs) you will recall that Natasha and I spent a day of our Christmas vacation there. It was the hippie, Woodstock-like town located on the coast that radiated rainbows and fuzzy warm things. I had liked it there so much the first time, that I wanted to go again. I arrived around noon and stood at the bus stop weighed down by the heavy load of bags I was carrying. I was pleased that it was a gorgeous day out, but I wasn't too fond of the sweat that I was starting to perspire. There was no way I was going to enjoy a leisurely afternoon in Byron with all this crap dangling off my back and arms. I could barely haul it off the bus nonetheless carry it around town all day. Normally, I would check into a hostel and leave my stuff in a secure place there, but because I was taking a night bus home I hadn't reserved a hostel room. I needed a solution, and fast.

Suddenly, a lightening bolt of genius hit me smack dab in the head. I achingly dragged myself a few blocks away to the hostel Natasha and I had stayed in a few months prior. When we had checked out, they let us store our baggage in a secure luggage room. All we had to do was ask for the key. Logic told me that if I politely asked for the key now they would hand it over, no questions asked. How would the front desk person know that I wasn't a current hostel guest? Luckily for me, she didn't. First, I snuck into the bathroom (which fortunately didn't require a key to get into) and changed into my bathing suit. A swim was necessary on a hot day like this. Then I hid my luggage around the corner, approached the reception desk nonchalantly, and asked if I could have the key to the luggage room. And voila! Just like magic the keys were in my hand. Am I smart, or am I smart? I felt like I was some spy on a top secret mission. Mrs. James Bond in action. I stealthy slipped around the corner, grabbed my bags and tossed them in the luggage room. Then I handed the keys back to the receptionist, flashed my pearly whites and wished her a nice day. I skipped down the road all the way back to town, whistling as I went.

After strolling the streets and nifty shops, and munching on a macadamia nut white chocolate muffin and sushi (an odd but scrumptious combo, when eaten separately) I made my way down to the beach for a swim. The sun had grown hotter, and the sweat was now tumbling off my body. It was time for a cool down. Byron Bay beach was lovely. I enjoyed drifting with the waves for a while, basking in the memories of my incredible past  few months of travel. I probably could have stayed there for hours, but lo and behold some dang jellyfish began to creep up on me. Chances are they were harmless, but then again in Australia the chances are also pretty good that they are lethal.  I had no intention of getting stung and/or killed by a deadly boxer jelly fish on my last day of travels, so I battled my way through the rough ocean currents back to shore where I resumed my reflective lounging on the beach.  Once dry, I decided to walk up to the Byron Bay lighthouse. Natasha and I had attempted to do this, but somehow managed to failed back in December. Despite following the signs that said "Lighthouse this way" we ended up at the bottom of the cliff that the lighthouse was perched atop. I was determined to make it this time. I quickly realized, however, that determination is only a part of the equation. Knowing where you're going is the other half, and I did not know where I was going. How foolish of me to assume that I would miraculously reach the lighthouse by following the same signs that had lead Natasha and I astray the first time. I won't drag this on folks, I failed again. Somehow I ended up back on the beach beneath the lighthouse. It's quite embarrassing actually. How is it that I can manage to navigate my way across all of New Zealand, both the north and south islands, and down the east coast of Australia with no trouble at all yet I can't find my way up a measly path to a lighthouse? Can someone please explain this to me, because I was and still am baffled. All I can reason is that someone decided to play a lighthearted prank on us backpackers and turned the "Lighthouse this way" signs in the wrong direction. That must be it, because I refuse to believe I am that stupid or incompetent. Where's a GPS when you need it?

I spent the rest of the evening doing my least favorite activity: you guessed it, waiting. Once back from my unsuccessful hike, I transformed into Mrs. Bond again and retrieved my luggage from the hostel. Then I spent a couple of hours at the bus stop waiting for my final Greyhound bus to come pick me up and take me back to Sydney. On board, I curled up in my seat like a baby and dozed the entire length of the ten hour trip. When I opened my eyes and peered out the window I saw none other than the Sydeny Opera House standing majestically in the distance. I broke into a smile and sighed. It was good to be back.

East Coast Expedition: Adios Airlie, Bienvenidos Brisbane (Again)

Jan 31, 2011

I woke Monday morning afraid to open my eyes, wondering if the hostel walls were still standing. I pried one eyelid open and then the other. Unless I was still dreaming, the hostel had not crumbled down. Phew. I climbed down from the top bunk and crept to the window to peer at the damage outside. I was relieved to see that the buildings outside were still standing in one piece too, although there was palm tree branches and debris thrown across the streets. Cyclone Anthony had spared Airlie, but had it killed my chance to climb on board the Tongarra again? The suspense was gnawing at me, and so I wasted no time making my way back to ABC Travel to see Andy where I expected to finally get my yes/no answer. How foolish of me to assume. Again, I was met with an ambiguous answer. "Well," Andy said. "They have to go down and check the boat for damages. It it's ok then we are planning to run the trip this afternoon. But right now the boat marina is closed, and if the owner doesn't open the marina then we won't be able to go regardless of the Tongarra's condition. Why don't you come back at noon. We should know by then." Seriously? Didn't these people know that us backpackers had travel plans to make? If this boat wasn't sailing then I wanted to get a move on back to Sydney, but I didn't want to bail just yet. After all the effort I had put into getting back to Airlie, it seemed like a waste to just walk away if there was still a chance of sailing again. Oy Vey! That's all I could say as I headed out the door, oy vey.

I had three hours to kill until noon. I decided first to get some breakfast since my stomach had started growling. I walked down the street to the grocery store only to find a hand written sign taped to the entrance that read: "Closed due to no power. Will open as soon as power comes back." Great. I had forgotten that Anthony had wiped out Airlie Beach's power. I wondered further down the street expecting the Mc Donalds or Subway to be open; those mega-chains always have generators, don't they? They answer, I soon discovered, was no. After doing two full laps up and down the main street the reality of the situation was confirmed: nobody was open for business because nobody had power. Weren't hurricanes a common occurrence around here? Why weren't these Aussies prepared? This could be a problem, I thought. I had no food, and there was no food to be bought. What was a hungry girl to do? Wait, of course.

I quickly learned that the impact of Cyclone Anthony and the power outage affected more than my ability to eat. Since I couldn't eat, I changed my game plan and decided that I would pass the three hours swimming at the lagoon. When I got to the lagoon it was lined with yellow caution tape with signs announcing it was closed until the debris in the water was cleaned. So I changed my game plan again and decided that I would buy a book from the outside book stand (which was the only thing open) and pass the three hours reading. I had spent all my cash (they only accepted cash), so I went to the ATM which was silly of me because I realized as I stood staring at the blank screen that no power meant no ATM access. Duh. It also meant that I couldn't charge my phone which was almost dead, and I couldn't go on the Internet to look up the bus and flight schedules. Oh, and I couldn't call Mick to see if he knew the status of the trip because the cell towers were down. Oy vey. I was starting to get quite anxious.

I retreated back to the hostel and plopped my butt down on a bench to wait for the miracle of power to return. Moments later, in walks none other than that random Canadian guy who accompanied us to Monkey's friend's house party back at Rainbow Beach (remember, I told you he would come back into play). The guy sits down next to me and strikes up a conversation with me, but it wasn't a "Oh hey! I remember you from Rainbow Beach. How are you?" type of conversation. No, instead it was a "Hi! We've never met before so lets get acquainted" type of conversation. I was cracking up inside but maintained a neutral face as he told me all about himself...again. "Yes, I know you're from Toronto," I wanted to say, "because we've had this conversation once before. And yes, I know you just came from Rainbow Beach because I was just there with you dummie." But I didn't. I let the man ramble. I still had a lot of time left to kill.

I almost lost my composure when Mr. Clueless Canadian (as he shall now be called) started to tell me about "this awesome party with the locals" that he went to in Rainbow Beach. "Oh yea?" I replied as fought my cheeks together to avoid bursting out laughing. He indulged me: "Yea it was at this house and there were all these people there playing bongos and guitars and singing. It was awesome. I got to know a lot of the locals really well." I squeezed my cheeks together a little harder. I was dumbfounded. Mr. Clueless Canadian didn't have the slightest clue that I was there too, sitting directly by his side as we banged on bongo drums and sang together. I didn't dare tell him either. Instead, I inquired further. "Oh yea? Which locals?" I asked. "Well," he said pausing to think. "I don't really remember their names (that didn't come as a shocker), but there was this one dude who was really built. I think they called him Monster. And he had this massive beard."  I was now squeezing my legs together to prevent myself from peeing my pants. Was this guy serious? "MONKEY!" I wanted to shout. "His name was Monkey, not Monster you bimbo. And he had massive dreads, not a beard! Clearly, you knew him very well." Was this guy really that idiotic? Apparently, yes. But it is not in my nature to call someone out on their stupidity. It is only in my nature to blab of their stupidity to the world in my blog. But since you all only know him as Mr. Clueless Canadian, I think his identity is pretty well protected.  He will not suffer an ounce of embarrassment. I wonder if he even knows his own name? I wonder if he will ever make it back to Toronto? Oh the things we will never know.

But back to the more urgent matter: the power, the sailing trip, and my sanity. Around 11:00 a.m. I received my first saving grace: the Vodaphone cellphone service was back. I immediately texted Mick to see if he knew the status of the marina and today's sailing trip. After what felt like hours, he messaged me back and informed me that the trip had been canceled. Finally! A definite answer. It wasn't the one I wanted to read, but at least it was a final verdict. After my agonizing morning in Airlie with no power and absolutely nothing to do, there was no way I was going to stick around the desolate place longer than I had too. And there was definitely no way I was going to stick around for the next cyclone to strike in a few days. Anthony was a category two, this next one was suppose to be a category five. I could only imagine that being like ten Cyclone Anthony's on steroids; I had no desire to stick around and find out. So I put my efforts into finding the quickest, easiest way out of town. Fortunately, I found another travel company that was open and running on generators. I booked the next bus to the airport, from where I would catch a plane back to Brisbane. The shuttle bus wasn't until 3:00 p.m. however, which meant I had another three hours to kill. I wanted to cry. God was giving me a mandatory lesson in patience and waiting. I had also learned a few important lessons about how to best prepare for a hurricane: 1) Stock up on food 2) Stock up on cash (not plastic cards, but the flimsy paper stuff), and 3) Stock up on books and/or reading materials. Crossword or sudoku puzzles would suffice too.

Eventually, the power returned to Airlie and I was able to get myself a Subway wrap, check my email and charge my phone. And eventually, 3 o'clock rolled around and I was able to get on the bus and go to the airport. Eventually, after much fumbling and enduring many technical and payment difficulties I was able to purchase my flight back to Brisbane that evening. And after taking off at 7:00 p.m. I eventually made it to my hostel in Brisbane around 10:00 p.m. where I literally went to the bathroom and then passed out. I was disappointed that mother nature had ruined my near perfect plan to get back on the Tongarra, but I was extremely grateful that I had been able to sail the Whitsunday Islands at all. For many travelers, this was there one and only opportunity to embark on the sailing trip and now they had no choice but to carry on without ever witnessing the grander and beauty of the islands. I had been fortunate enough seen this splendor for which I felt blessed. Thus, I couldn't hold a grudge against mother nature. She was still cool in my book. Now I had my sights set on Sydney. I was ready to be back in familiar territory and to see all my friends again before I returned home. This east coast expedition had been a fabulous and surreal adventure, but my second home was calling. It was time to go home.

East Coast Expedition: Cyclone Anthony At Airlie

Jan 30, 2011

This morning I woke depressed that my E-team had left me, but optimistic that the weather would cooperate and I would get the green light to sail aboard the Tongarra again. After a morning run along the bicentennial walkway and a dip in the lagoon, I paid Andy a visit at ABC Travel. When I walked in he smiled, and then gave me a look that said, "You aren't going to like the words that are about to come out of my mouth." I gulped. "What's the word?" I asked less optimistic. Andy signaled for me to come around the desk and look at his computer screen, which showed the hour by hour path of the storm predicted to hit land today. The cyclone's name was Anthony, and there was no doubt that this category 2 cyclone was going to strike Airlie Beach. And a category 5 cyclone was suppose to strike on Thursday, four days from now. "All the boats are shut up right now," Andy said. "In the morning they will go out and look at the damage. If the boats are okay then they are planning on going out as scheduled tomorrow." So there was still a chance, but based on the red swirls and twirls I saw on the computer screen the odds didn't seem too good. All I could do was wait...some more. The anticipation was killing me. I just wanted a yes/no answer already! The answer I had to settle for was: maybe yes, maybe no.

Cyclone Anthony

That evening I met up with Patrick and some Irish gals who were on the Fraser Island trip with us. We met at the hostel bar Beaches for dinner and to watch the Australian Open men's final which was happening in real time in Melbourne. When we sat down there was heavy rain outside, a sure sign that Anthony was approaching. Gradually, the wind and rain picked up more and more. That's when we lost power. Goodbye tennis. Goodbye lights. Hello darkness. The bar was packed with patrons, and not a single soul retreated. Where else would we go? What else was there to do? The answer was nothing, nothing but to continue drinking our drinks, eating our food, and carrying on chatting. And that's precisely what we did. Before I knew it, the powerful wind was madly blowing the dense rain horizontally. The palm trees were bent in half, gripping the ground tightly with their roots to avoid being ripped out of the earth. It was intense. Suddenly it occurred to me that I was in the middle of a hurricane. Anthony had arrived, and he was fierce and frightening. Someone needs to sign that cyclone up for anger management classes. But the travelers surrounding me loved it. The wilder Anthony got, the louder they cheered. Hurricanes, apparently, were an occurrence worthy of a celebration. And celebrate they did.

Minutes later, the bar announced that it was closing (it was only 8:00 pm). We were instructed to leave immediately and retreat to the safety of our hostel rooms. As everyone felt their way blindly out of the bar, the staff frantically tried to secure the bar, boarding up its windows and doors. Patrick and the Irish girls were staying at a hostel down the road. They invited me to join them there for more Cyclone Anthony festivities, but I declined. Beaches Bar was attached to the hostel I was staying at, and I figured it was wisest to stay put rather than chance venturing out into the wrath of Anthony. So I made my way back to my room. My floor hallway was overrun with loud, jovial backpackers. It seemed that the bar patrons had regrouped in my hallway now making it the bar. I wasn't interested in frolicking in the dark with strangers whose faces I couldn't even see, so I hurried into my room where I hoped I would find some solace. No such luck. Instead, I opened the door to find one of my Irish roommates hysterically crying while her travel companions tried to console her. She was deathly afraid of Anthony. "I want to go home," she wailed. "I wish I was home." Nothing and no one could comfort her, and so her friends abandoned her to join the hallway jamboree. Thus I was the lucky soul who got to endure her melt down as she sat on her bunk clutching her teddy bear and rocking back and forth sobbing. I'm not even sure if she knew I was there, but I thought it best to let her be. With time her sobbing ceased, until I lay in my bunk in total silence and darkness. It wasn't even 9:00 yes, but  I snuggled under my covers. "When in dark," I decided, "go to sleep." While Anthony waged war outside, I slept peacefully inside.

East Coast Expedition: Brisbane Back to Airlie Beach

Jan 29, 2011

I wasted no time getting my behind back to Airlie Beach. I took at 10:00 am flight from Brisbane to Hamilton Island (one of the Whitsunday Islands) where I caught a ferry back to the mainland. When I arrived I had a message on my phone from Mick, the skipper of Tongarra. He said he had spoken to Andy and that it would be fine if I came out on the boat as a volunteer (whoopie!). The only issue was that there were two cyclones (hurricanes in our lingo) making their way towards Airlie Beach, and he wasn't sure yet if they would be sailing.  We just had to sit tight and wait and see what move mother nature made. She can be rather unpredictable, so there was a chance she would strike with fury or simple pass us by untouched. Only time would tell.

In the meantime, I reunited with my children from Fraser Island. I joined Kit, Joe, Nicola and Olivia at the lagoon where we lounged by the water and rested in the grassy field. They were so cute. They told me that they cheered on the bus when I told them I was coming to Airlie. It felt oh-so good to be together once more. We spent the first part of our evening at Magnums, an outdoor hostel bar, where we played the most amusing guessing game. Each person at the table wrote down a name of a person or character (famous or real, human or non-human, living or dead) on a piece of paper and then passed it to the person to their right who stuck the the name on their forehead for everyone else to see. Then we each had to guess the name on our forehead by asking yes/no questions. I know it doesn't sound all that exciting, but trust me it was ridiculously fun way to pass the time. Of course, the company added to the fun factor, but I'm certain it would still be fun playing with complete strangers. The name on my forehead was "Jesus." I was the second one to guess correctly, but it took what felt like an eternity to get it. I was stumped for a good while. I had narrowed it down to a dead historical figure which leaves, well, a lot of options. When in doubt, guess Jesus. It worked for me. The other forehead names were: James Bond (I came up with that one), Bilbo Baggins, Frosty the Snowman, Paddington Bear, and Lord Voldamort.

Lil spit is all you need to stick the paper to your head. Hah

Next we went to KC's where we dined on $10 dinners before heading over to the Phoenix Bar for a night of dancing. We danced liked maniacs to the Aussie techno beats, shaking our groove thangs and tapping our happy feet. Poor Kit, with his blonde hair and blue eyes, was quite popular among some of the other male patrons (if you know what I mean). Each time he got hit on, we would look at me and pipe, "Save me mommy!" It was hilarious. I would shuffle my feet in his direction, throw him my imaginary fish line at him, and reel him away from the prowling bystanders. Momma bear always protects her cubs. That evening I was on chaperon duty, interjecting whenever things got a tad uncomfortable. Of course, it was all in good fun. And fun we had.

Dinner at KC's with Patrick

Me, The E-team and some other English lads in Airlie Beach 

Then that dreaded time came to say goodbye to my children-- again. I barely survived the first time. Round two was no easier. Kit, bless his soul, told me that he was going to be homesick back in Melbourne because he would be missing his mummy (me, not his real mom although I'm sure he misses her too). Doesn't that just melt your heart? Mine was dripping on the floor. This was definitely the last time I was going to see my darling E-team in Australia. They were catching an early flight from Airlie Beach back to Melbourne where they worked at a high school as gym teacher assistants. A trip to Melbourne wasn't feasible for me, I was running out of time and money. We made promises to come visit each other in the near futures. Until then, we made a pack to stalk each other on facebook. What would I do without that piece of social media genius? Thank you Mark Zuckerberg, you are keeping my family together.

East Coast Expedition: At The End of The Rainbow; Onward To Noosa

Jan 28, 2011

I woke this morning groggy and tired. I wasn't visited in the night by an angel; rather, I was visited by the ghost of the Greyhound bus driver, clad in a worn blue uniform with socks up to his knees, who said that a Greyhound bus would be arriving at 9:30 a.m. that morning to pick me up and take me forward on my journey. So I reluctantly got up. After packing up my belongings, I went and found my beloved Dream Team children to say goodbye. I was dreading this parting. The nine of us had such an amazing time together on Fraser Island, I didn't want the fun to end. I had developed a special bond with those youngsters, especially with the E-team, and was super sad to part with them. This is when the the song "It's So Hard To Say Goodbye To Yesterday" (A Boyz II Men classic) begins to play. "And I'll take with me the memories, to be my sunshine after the rain. It's so hard to say goodbye to yesterday." Man, this blog needs a soundtrack. There's always a song that perfectly conveys the emotions and moods of the moments I'm telling. TV and movies use music for this effect; why shouldn't my blog too?

The ghost of the Greyhound bus driver spoke the truth; the big red bus appeared at 9:30 sharp to take me away. "By Speersy!" the Dream Team shouted, waving farewell. I climbed on the bus with sad puppy eyes and a frown, staring out the window longingly at my travel family the way a 5-year-old stares at him mother teary-eyed as the school bus carries him off to his first day of kindergarten. I cried myself to sleep on that Greyhound bus. Ok, now I'm being over dramatic and a tad exaggerative. But my heart was crying inside, and I did sleep the entire bus ride to Noosa, which I had decided would be my next stop on this whirlwind trip. On the way we stopped for a break at a rest stop which just happened to be the famed location of Rooey II, the Big Kangaroo. This big thing was bigger and better than any big thing I had seen thus far, mainly because Miss Rooey II moved. Oh yes, she batted her eyes, twirled her head and wiggled her ears like the diva kangaroo that she was. And it frightened the daylight out of me because I wasn't expecting the giant, plastic kangaroo before me to move. I thought I was hallucinating at first because Rooey II would move and then freeze for a long period of time before moving again. But other bus passengers confirmed that she was indeed moving, making me sane and Rooey II the coolest big thing I had ever seen.

Miss Rooey II

Oh, real quick: there's one thing I forgot to mention about Fraser Island that I actually hated- the march flies (also know as horse flies). There were a gazillion march flies on Fraser Island. They were huge compared to your standard fly, about the size of a quarter, and they loved to feed on our human blood. When we weren't warding off dingos, we were swatting, catching and killing the march flies that parked themselves all over our bodies. There was never a moment when a march fly was not perched on me during the day. The only time I was freed of their terrible annoyance and painful bites was at night or when I was swimming. Those big suckers brought a whole new meaning to the song "Shoo fly, don't bother me." I became an exceptional march fly assassin. Kit and I had a competition going to see who could take down more. Need I say I won? I am not proud of this victory, but it was the only way of maintaining my sanity. Why can't dingos prey on march flies? Then I wouldn't have to grapple with the moral issues of killing flies.

Fortunately, there were no march flies or dingos in Noosa, which is known worldwide for its spectacular beaches (so they claim). I had heard that Noosa was a lovely place, but that it was ritzy and glitzy compared to other coastal surf towns. Word in the airplane magazine was that it is a favorite spot of many Australian and international celebrities. So I decided to check it out for myself. The verdict? Noosa was nice indeed. It was a tidy, well-kept and put together town that was situated along a beautiful stretch of beach. It had a Cape Cod meets Miami feel, with lots of shops, cafes and restaurants lining the architecturally appealing streets. I liked it. I liked it a lot.

Noosa

Shortly after I arrived in Noosa, my dear sandal broke. I watched in horror as the strap that held my foot in place snapped right off.  I had been dreading this moment. That strap had been hanging on be a mere thread for weeks now. These sturdy sandals had carried me across New Zealand and Australia on my numerous adventures without so much as a wine, whimper or complaint. Understandably, they were tired and worn. And now, they were finished. They also happened to be the only sandals I had. Thus I spent my afternoon strolling the streets of Noosa looking for a cheap and comfy replacement. I'm sure I looked awkward to onlookers with my lopsided gait as I dragged my right foot along trying to keep the broken sandal on with clenched toes. Eventually I found footwear that met my requirements: an ugly pair of white flip flops that said "Frangipani" in bold black lettering all over them. At the time I didn't even know what frangipani was, and I hoped as I handed the cashier my crumpled dollars that it wasn't some cult or offensive slang word that was going to get me beat up for wearing. I learned later that a frangipani is a flower. I don't know which is a worse fashion offense: wearing flip flops with the name of a flower or curse words written all over them. But this wasn't about having fabulous looking feet, it was about functionality and these frangipani flip flops did just the trick.

Frangipanis

After two hours I had pretty much seen all of Noosa that I cared too. My mind kept drifting back to the offer Mick had made to sail the Whitsunday Islands as a volunteer on the Tongarra. Maybe it wasn't too late to accept this offer, I wondered. I found a pay phone and gave Andy, the travel guy who was on the original trip with me, a call. He worked for the company that schedules and coordinates Tongarra's trips, so I figured he could help this sister out. Plus, he was the only person whose contact information I had. To my delight, Andy answered the phone and was elated to learn I was the voice on the other end. I asked him if he thought I could volunteer on the Tongarra if I returned to Airlie Beach. He didn't see why not. He said that he would talk to Mick about it and that I should give him a call once I was in Airlie. I hung up the phone and clapped my hands happily. Operation "Get back on the Tongarra" was in motion! Maybe I could have my cake and eat it too. Maybe I hadn't blown my one opportunity to sail the Whitsundays again for free. Of course, I realized that I hadn't received a definite YES from Andy. There was the chance that Mick and his superiors would say "Sorry Charlie, that ship sailed without you. Better luck next time." But I was bored with Noosa, my back was practically broken from lugging around my heavy bags, and there was no where else between here and Sydney that I was dying to see. So I figured, why not? Plus, the E-team and Patrick were currently on their way to Airlie Beach, making this a win-win situation. Even if I couldn't volunteer on Tongarra, I would get to see my beloved kids again. In my eyes, that was a best case scenario itself.

So I hopped on a bus to Brisbane, one of Australia's major cities. From there I would figure out the best means to get back up to Airlie Beach. I wasn't sure what to expect in Brisbane because it had recently endured the worst flooding disaster to date in Australia. People at home tell me it was international news, so you may recall hearing about it. By this time the flood waters had drained back into the Brisbane river, but there was still excessive water damage to buildings and properties. However, the city was up and running again from what I had been told by other travelers. It was late when I arrived to the city. Had I not known there had been a disastrous flood just weeks prior I wouldn't have even known. It looked unscathed. I hiked up a few blocks and checked into the first hostel I could find. I was tired, having not re-cooperated fully from the prior night's festivities on Rainbow Beach, and hungry. I ordered a $7.00 apple and pork burger from the hostel bar and crossed my fingers that it would be edible. Ladies and gentlemen, it was one of the tastiest things I ate in Australia. So tasty that I felt compelled to tell you about it because a) I love food and b) I love cheap, good food. It's a shame I can't remember the hostel name. Evidently, the hostel was forgettable but it's food made a lasting impression.

East Coast Expedition: Final Day of Fun on Fraser Island and Rainbow Beach

Jan 27, 2011

It was another early morning on Fraser Island. We woke, ate brekky, and packed up camp all before 8:00 a.m. Then we piled into Dolly and headed off to Lake Wabby, our final stop on Fraser Island.  Lake Wabby is both a window lake (when the ground level falls below the water table) and a barrage lake (when a sand blow blocks the waters of a natural spring). Getting to this splendorous lake required first hiking through a never ending forest trail and then climbing up a massively high sand blow. The real issue was that I had left my sandals back on the beach with Dolly because Monkey said "Nah, you don't need em." I should have known better than to listen to this superhuman. My poor feet were getting punctured, jabbed and scratched by the twigs, rocks and rubble lining the mile-long trail (and by mile I mean a couple miles. It was rough). When I finally reached the bottom of the sand dune I wanted to kick my heels up and shout. The soft sand looked so inviting. I dashed madly onto it and began the near vertical hike up to the top. And then my feet suddenly began to experience a pain unlike the kind I had endured in the woods. . The pads of my feet were burning on fire. The sand was hot. Scorching. I felt like I was walking across coals with no end in sight. Why, oh why, didn't I bring my sandals? I was practically dragging my body across the sand on my forearms when I finally reached the top and saw the water of Lake Wabby glistening below. Salvation! I tumbled down the other side of the sand blow and splashed desperately into the cool, refreshing water. It was glorious. We passed the morning floating in the lake among cat fish, turtles, and other little critters.

The peak: sighting my salvation

Lake Wabby

And then Monkey and Byron gave the "Let's go" signal. Unfortunately, getting back to Dolly meant going back over the hell terrain of scalding sand and rocky roads. Oye. The walk back would have been more bearable had there been a foot masseuse waiting for me on the other side. Alas, just Dolly was there for me with my sandals. The Dream Team piled into Dolly for the last time (tear). Then we took off down the sand highway to the ferry, which carried us to Rainbow Beach. Back at the mainland we had the daunting task of cleaning up poor Dolly, whose inside was a disaster full of sand, crumbs and lord knows what else. With a brush in my hand I swept every last granule of sand out of Dolly. Then Monkey dropped us off at the hostel, passing on the way one of his amigos at the gas station. After honking at him, Monkey turned to us and said, "That's Luigi. He's getting married Saturday to our other friend Guido. The entire town is coming to the wedding. It's gonna be awesome. If anyone is still gonna be around you're more than welcome to come too. Everyone is invited!" We looked at each other slightly confused. "Wait," I said, needing clarification."They're getting married for real?" I am a complete supporter of gay marriage, but wanted to make sure I had understood him correctly. "Oh no," Monkey replied. "They're both straight. We're just throwing together a wedding for them for fun. It's a reason for everyone in town to get together and celebrate." I was dying inside with disbelief and laughter. Only in a small beach town in Australia would an entire town gather for a placebo wedding of two best guy friends (who happened to be Italian, not Australian) just so they could dress up and drink the night away with friends. That needed to be filmed for a television show. Sure enough, back at hostel there were posters hanging all over announcing the upcoming Luigi-Guido nuptials taking place that weekend. It was too funny to bare, and so I retreated back to my room for a much needed shower and power-nap.

The Dream Team and Dolly. Are we cool or what?

Around 4:00 pm that afternoon the Dream Team regrouped and set off in search of Monkey's abode. He had offered to take us to the Carlo Sand Blow which was right past his house, and so we made plans to swing by his place before continuing onward to Rainbow Beach's most exquisite spot (which I will get to in a minute). Monkey's crib was located at the very top of a steep hill (its no wonder he has buns of steel walking up that thing every day) that had the most amazing view of Rainbow; definitely the best of any resident in that town. You could see the greenery and beach stretch on for miles in every direction. I wish I could have detached his front porch and the view from it, and slapped it on the front of my home here in New York. What I wouldn't give to wake up each morning, walk onto my front porch barefoot and in pajamas, and sit gazing at the stunning scene I saw that evening. Little did I know that the scenery was going to get better atop the sand blow.

The view from Monkey's pad

The Carlo Sand Blow is a enormous sand mass that offers a 360 view of towering cliffs of colored sand, the rainbow beach, Fraser Island and the other surrounding landscapes. Monkey insisted that we couldn't leave Rainbow Beach until we had experienced a sunset atop the Carlo Sand Blow. He didn't have to twist our arms. We arrived to his house like a group of giddy 5th graders about to go on their first school field trip. An onlooker would have thought that Monkey was some celebrity and we were a bunch of obsessed groupies following him around like enamored puppies. For whatever reason, I found this quite amusing. Monkey took us to the reservoir at the top of Cooloola Drive (what a cool name) and then through a rocky, winding forest path (thankfully I had worn my sandals this time) that eventually lead to the sand blow. Wow. That was the only word I could sputter when I set foot on the sand blow. It was incredible. I was standing amidst a sea of sand that extended endlessly on both sides of me, one leading to the ocean and the other to the lush forests below. We wandered towards the beach side first, where I gazed in awe up and down the coast and out to sea. If I had been in a a harmony bubble earlier on Fraser Island than I was in a harmony globe now, a globe at least three times larger than Disney's Epcot Center Globe (you know, the one that looks like a massive golf ball? Google it.) Being there was really indescribable. I felt the urge to throw my arms out widely, open my mouth and belt the Disney classic "Colors of the Wind" from the movie Pocahontas (I apologize for my numerous references to Disney children's movies, but I can't help it. They are classics, and best express what I can't.) I refrained the urge and sang it in my head instead: "We need to sing with all the voices of the mountains. We need to paint with all the colors of the wind." Someone mastered this technique, because Carlo Sand Blow was a wind-painted masterpiece.

The Carlo Sandblow

Checking out the incredible view

In my harmony globe

The sand blow overlooking the forest

Gradually the sun began to set, but on the opposite end of the sand blow. Monkey lead the pack up and over to the other side facing the forest. I felt like the Von Trapp family from The Sound of Music climbing over the Swiss Alps; we were one big happy, hiking family. We frolicked and played in this nature-made sand box, tumbling around and goofing off. At one point the group decided to spell Monkey's name with their bodies (yes, I told you they were obsessed). As the older, more mature mother of the group, I of course refrained from this silly behavior and offered to be the camera gal instead. My eight darling kiddies sure did know how to crack me up! Once play time ended, we settled our bums into the sand and witnessed the most spectacular sunset. It was breathtaking. Heck, I think it even took my soul away momentarily. As the sun sank lower and lower, the sky changed every color of the rainbow. Perhaps Rainbow Beach should be renamed Rainbow Sky...

My lil monkies spelling Monkey. See it? Yea, no- I didn't either

The mesmerizing sunset

With my E-team kiddies

More sunset

Afterwards, the Dream Team headed back to the hostel where we spent the evening playing pool, darts and ping pong. Then Monkey extended an invitation to everyone to join him at his friend's house party where Merve and his other co-workers were gathered. I said "Count me in" the instant I heard Merve was going to be there. I was excited to get one last dose of "Be cools" from that wonderfully wacky man before I left Rainbow Beach the following morning. Joe was the only other Dream Team member who came with me, as well as our English friend Patrick and two Irish gals who were on the trip with us, and some random dude from Canada who nobody knew (I mention him only because he will come into play again in a future blog post, so make a mental note).  I wasn't sure what to expect, but when we arrived at the house I was pleasantly surprised to find a group of people on the back porch having a jam session with guitars and bongos. The group warmly welcomed us; we sat intermingled among the locals and joined in the singing session which was lead by none other than Merve. Asides from being a skilled speaker he is also a semi-skilled guitarist. Then one of their Kiwi pal, Habs, picked up the guitar and played some acoustic classics by the likes of John Mayer, Oasis and the Beatles. It was so much fun to spend time with this close-knit group of townies, and a nice change from being stuck in a hostel with a bunch of foreign backpackers. I felt like one of the locals. Oh, and I met the near-famous Luigi and Guido. I congratulated them on their big day and gave them both my sincerest apologies that I couldn't attend the event. I truly was disappointed I was missing the big wedding; something tells me that it would have been an quite a peculiar experience.

Finally, around 3:00 a.m. everyone had reached their peak of singing and bongo banging. It was time to go. I gave Monkey a heartfelt hug goodbye. He told me that I was the best American he had ever met and that "you fly your nation's flag well" (something to that affect). He even mentioned interest in coming to the states to see what all the fuss was about. I was happy that I had helped shift his impression of Americans towards a more favorable light. Let this be a lesson to you all: you can't judge an entire nation or people on one or two rotten eggs you've had the unfortunate displeasure to meet. And you certainly can't judge a people based on what you see on television. Jersey Shore is NOT America. I repeat: Jersey Shore is NOT America. (I curse the day that show hit the airwaves, but I'll save that rant for another day).

Joe and I dragged each other home, exhausted from our jam-packed adventure we had these past three days on Fraser Island and Rainbow Beach. This evening was the perfect cap to a fabulous trip. Each tour I went on seemed to get better than the last. I was truly grateful. Unfortunately, this was the final trip I had pre-booked. From this point forward I would be winging it, something I was both excited but nervous about. There was now one looming question: where, oh where, in Australia was I to go from here? Forwards? Backwards? Up? Down? I decided I would sleep on it, hopeful that the answer would be delivered to me by an angel in the middle of the night. Or perhaps the big man above would paint the answer for me with the colors of the wind. And if not, well then I would just deal with it in the morning. That's the appropriate, care-free attitude one is suppose to have on these sorts of adventures. After all my meticulous planning, I decided now was the time to embrace spontaneity.

East Coast Expedition: Fun on Fraser, Day 2

Jan 26, 2011

I was up at 5:30 a.m. this morning. I couldn't sleep a wink. The second the sun rose, I did too. The rest of the camp woke an hour later and we went about making breakfast, a much easier task if you opt for a bowl of corn flakes like I did (a more difficult task if you attempted to make scrambled eggs). We set off at 8:00 a.m. for a nearby beach where Monkey and Byron lead us on a hike through brush and tall grasses up to the top of Indian Head, a coastal headland (aka- a cliff) overlooking the Fraser Coast. It reminded me a lot of the ledge that Mufasa stands atop in the movie Lion King when the "Circle of Life" song plays, except that this one overlooked the ocean, not an entire animal kingdom. I sat perched on a jagged, uncomfortable rock taking in the stunning view and enjoying the wind whip through my hair and brush against my skin. I was in my own little harmony bubble that couldn't be popped; not even a dingo could have disturbed my zen at that moment.

Indian Head from up high

The hike up Indian Head

Monkey debriefing us about the place

The drop below

View from the cliff

It began to get hot atop the rock, so we returned back down the slope and took off for the Champagne Pools for a swim. The Champagne Pools (named so because the foaming water looks like champagne) are popular swimming holes that result from the ocean crashing over rock barriers and forming shallow, sandy pools. After working up a sweat climbing Indian Head, I was looking forward to diving into the Champagne Pools to cool off. Once there, I realized to my disappointment that these weren't the type of pools one could dive into, nor cannon ball in for that matter. In fact, it was a challenge just to wade into the pools because of all the uneven and sharp rocks that lined its floor. I wasn't interested in acting like a beached whale laying awkwardly in these big beach puddles (pool was a misleading term. Giant puddles is more accurate) with rocks jabbing into my spine. So I headed over to the other side of the pools where Monkey, Byron and their friend Joe (he was Dolly's mechanic) were chilling by the beach. We chit-chatted for a while, relaxing on the beach until the E-team returned from the pools to prepare lunch. My darling children kindly made mine, ringing the lunch bell when it was ready (another sandy roast beef sandwich, but made with love).

The Champagne Pools

Or a very big, rocky puddle

The E-Team preparing lunch (see me lounging in the background?)

Once nourished, the E-team and another English lad on the trip, Patrick, attempted to teach me how to play cricket. They had come equip with a cricket bat and ball and so we took to the beach for the humorous lesson. But not before Monkey gave me some of his heavy-duty, SPF 1,000 + sunscreen. We had been blessed with clear skies, and Mr. Sun's rays were shining powerfully down on our delicate skin. Monkey said this was the stuff surfers wear for protection. We all know my not-so-secret desire to be a surfer chick, and so I automatically squeezed out a dollop and smeared it all over my face. Cool, I thought. Until I peered in Dolly's rear view mirror: my face was ghastly white! I knew this wasn't the type of sunscreen that one rubs in fully, but I misjudged just how white it would be. It was like a clay mask one would apply at a spa. I looked like a mime. Not exactly a look that enhances my surfer chick persona. Oh well, at least I knew that not a single skin cell on my face that was going to burn. No skin cancer for this girl! Now it was time to play ball (well, cricket. You know what I mean.)

Hanging out on the beach

The concept of playing cricket was a simple one to grasp: hit the ball with the bat. "You mean like baseball?" I inquired as I imitated my best David Wright stance with the bat elevated above my shoulder ready to strike the cricket ball. "Ah, no," Patrick replied. "Well, maybe. I don't know, we don't play baseball really." He then proceeded to show me the proper cricket batting stance, which looked more like someone gearing up to strike a golf ball. Damn, I was awful at golf, but I gave it a go. Likewise, I was awful at cricket. Granted, it was my first time ever playing the sport, but it was clear I was not a born natural. Still, I had fun practicing with Patrick and pretty soon got the hang of it. Soon everyone else joined in and we played a modified cricket game. I rotated playing catcher, pitcher and outfielder. I most enjoyed being catcher because it primarily required chasing down lose balls and throwing them back to the pitcher. Throwing was something I could do, and well, so being catcher negated my awful batting performance and boosted up my self esteem. It was especially fun playing cricket on the beach because the waves would randomly come crashing over us, cooling us off and adding a surprise element to the game. Had we been standing in a grassy field without waves cooling us off, I might have been less partial to the game.

Playing cricket

Batter Up!

After our afternoon ball game, we piled back into Dolly and headed to the Maheno Shipwreck, one of Fraser Island's landmark attractions. The SS Maheno was one of the first turbine-driven steamers built in 1905. The Japanese bought her in 1935, and while towing her back to Japan a nasty cyclone broke the tow chain, leaving the Maheno stranded at sea until she drifted ashore Fraser's beach where she has remained untouched ever since. Monkey explained that the military use to use the shipwreck for training. Now it is just a cool artifact that inquiring minds like myself get to "ooh" and "ahh" at. A few yards inland from the ship was a beautiful stream that we all went for a dip in. Patrick, Joe, Kit and I took to playing skim ball; this was quickly becoming my new favorite pass-time activity. Then it was back to camp for dinner and the evening festivities.

The Maheno shipwreck

Just a tad rusty

With Kit

The stream where we took a late afternoon dip

I forgot to mention something important: today was Australia Day. So, HAPPY AUSTRALIA DAY! How rude of me, please pardon my lateness. Australia Day is the equivalent to our 4th of July, a holiday that I love. There is no better way to pass a summer day than with parades, barbeque's and fireworks. When in Australia, you most definitely celebrate Australia Day so we made certain to throw an Australia Day bash at camp that evening. First we prepared our chicken stir fry dinner (this was much less popular among the dingos). The Joe, the outgoing lad he is, gathered the entire camp together in one large circle for a game of "Never have I ever." The premise is you say something that you have never done before, and anyone in the circle who has done that thing must drink (for those of you who may not be familiar with the game). So if someone said, "Never have I ever gone sky diving" then I would drink because I have. Get it? You should. It's easy. It was the only game we could think of that a group of our size could play together in an effort to bond everyone outside of their smaller teams. It was the merging of teams A-E.

Olivia and Nicola with their Aussie Day bottles. Aren't they cute?

Circled up for Never Have I Eve.

Afterwards I was pooped. My watch read 9:00 p.m. but it felt like 3:00 a.m. to me. It must of been all that cricket playing. I quietly snuck off and crawled into my tent where I took a quick power nap. I emerged two hours later, re-energized to join back in the Australia Day celebration. "Mummy!" Kit exclaimed. "Where did you go?" Crap. I was caught. I was glad someone noticed I was missing, but what loser takes a nap at 9:00 on Australia Day? Last time I checked I was 24, not 124; I was in the prime of my youth. This was unacceptable behavior. "I was just down at the beach," I fibbed as I tried to nonchalantly wipe off the crusty drool that was cemented to my cheek. Nicola looked at me suspiciously. "You were sleeping, weren't you?" she asked. Damn her. Now I was really caught. "Shhh," I said winking at her. "Don't blow my cover." We giggled as she passed me her goon-filled Australia Day water bottle (she had bought one specifically for the occasion). Goon is the cheap Australia wine that comes in a bag in a box. It is awful. I think you'd probably be better off drinking your own piss than that stuff. But piss doesn't get you pissed (the English way of saying "drunk"). Goon does. And so it is the go-to beverage of all travelers.

A quick word about the word "pissed." My foreign friend's use of this word confused me more than any other. "I'm pissed," someone would state and I would inquire why concerned that I had done something to anger them. My reaction always amused the English or Aussie person I was speaking to. I had to explain that where I come from "piss" is something you do over a toilet and "pissed" is what you are when someone pisses on you instead of the toilet. I warned them that use of the term in the states could result in someone handing them toilet paper or a diaper. Speaking of piss (isn't this a fun topic?), there were no toilets at our camp site. Our toilet was the sand beneath our feet. If we had to piss we were instructed to do so in the foliage somewhere away from camp. You just had to squat and go, and give a little shake afterwards. This was easier for the gentlemen than it was for the ladies. However, both sexes were faced with the same dilemma when it game to going number two (the doo-doo). This act required grabbing a shovel, digging a hole in the sand a good distance away from camp, sending up a quick prayer that no one would round the corner while you relieved yourself, and squatting and going. Then one had to cover up the hot mess to keep the dingos away (apparently they are attracted to poo), and to maintain some level of sanitation around camp. Fortunately, I never had to do the dirty deed while at camp. My beloved digestive system was on its best behavior and I was lucky enough to be around an actual toilet whenever I was in need of one. I think I'll leave it at that. Moving on...

My Australia Day celebration culminated with a hearty discussion with Monkey about the most random topics. In addition to talking about our lives, we spoke about British currency; who actually owns the US (I'm still not sure who the who is); Bush and the Twin Tower conspiracy (can't avoid that topic, no matter where you go outside the US it will come up); and the Haiti earthquake being a man made disaster (I recall something about a massive harp instrument that generates vibrations and facilitates earthquakes. Or maybe that was something I dreamed?). It was an enlightening conversation to say the least. By the end of it, Monkey said that I had totally changed his perception of Americans. Mission accomplished! It was pitch black out, and so I slyly patted myself on the back. I could now go to sleep a happy camper.