Alrightie. How’s everyone going? Life down unda continues to be awesome as usual. If not for the paper I had to write this week, I would still be reveling in the absolute bliss that is Easter Break. Just a quick, tiny heads up….its really no big deal. Um, this entry is pushing 6,000 words. So grab a coffee, maybe use the toilet. Haha sorry. I included a Cliffnotes version at the very end, but it is really just some short notes. As I recall, my last entry mentioned that I would be heading to Tasmania for a five day adventure. And what an adventure it was.
But before that, I headed out into the boondocks for Bells Beach Rip Curl Pro surf competition. When I say boondocks, I mean literally nothing around but sheep. We took a train at the butt crack of dawn from the hood into the city’s Southern Cross Station and then literally ran to grab a charter bus to Geelong, Victoria’s second largest city, population 200,000, tallest building being the mall at a staggering three stories. From Geelong (say Jah-long) we took a city bus to Torquay (say Tor-key), a small surf town right on the beach, venue to the Bells Beach competition, which apparently is actually pretty famous. Who knew. It was a beautiful day out on the beach and the surf was up. Kelly Slater casually walked by the crowd a few times after riding in with the tide. No big deal. Other crowd favorites included Australian surfer, the Ginja Ninja (an awesome nickname for a ranga aka redhead) and Brazilian Marco Polo. Yes, that is his real name. Toward the late afternoon, the tide was coming in a bit too close, meaning the beach quickly was lost to the thunderous waves and the announcers made multiple comments about watching young children lest be swept into the bonny sea, and so we cleared out.
After a quick grocery run, we headed to the beach near the motel and ran into the water at sunset, Baywatch style. No matter it was 55 degrees and blustery; wind doesn’t Hassel the Hoff! So we sucked it up swam in the breakers, watching some guys catch the last golden waves. Then it was back to the hotel for some delicious $2 microwave lasagna and good old fashioned fun. Night life in Torquay was bumping! There were people everywhere, strictly because of the surf competition, otherwise I am pretty sure the most happening place would be a front porch with a swing and a longneck. The line at one joint was pretty long and it seemed like a good place, but only two of the girls got in…by hopping the wall. As the rest of us tried to shimmy up, a bouncer poked his head over the wall and, with a menacing look, told us to ‘not even think about it!’ Righto, mate! So we left haha naturally, and instead gave our business to a quaint pub by the name of GROWLERZ! Despite being the youngest people by a good 8 years or so, we still had fun, tucked away in a corner, shouting jugs and playing make-believe Kings (make up the card you pick…sounds stupid but is actually much more fun haha). Back at the motel we started planning our trip to Tassie, what we would do, where we would go, etc. The notes I took that night are completely incoherent and proved totally useless, but who needs plans?
We arrived back in Melbourne on Sunday afteroon (I don’t know if I have mentioned this before, but it’s pronounced Mel-bin, you can get away with Mel-bern as well, but definitely NOT Mel-born; you will, and I am living testament, get laughed at in the face). I headed back to the hood on the good ol’ 86 tram route, packed my stuff for Tassie and then got right back on the tram to spend the night at Alex aka Harv and Danielle’s place, two of the girls going on the trip, accompanied by Kelsey, Kealoha, and Will, who, as Kelsey pointed out later in the week, is not part of the program. More on that later. (The program = UC Education Abroad Program). But Will’s a native Californian (East Yay), and even though he goes to Columbia, we figured he could come along on the trip haha. We had a great sleepover, the highlight of which was watching The Devil Wears Prada on Channel Ten and, for the second time that week, sleeping on the floor. At least this time I had a sleeping bag (thanks Harv…holding out on me at Bells…). The sleep was a short one, lasting about two and half hours. No, we didn’t stay up all night. We woke up at 3:30 in the morning. Why? We had a 6am flight out of Melbourne to Hobart. On Tiger Airways.
A sidenote about Tiger. It is commonly featured (in bad light) on a reality tv show called ‘Airways.’ Mostly for things like denying patrons their boarding pass if they arrive too late. You need to check in more than 45 minutes to departure. I know what you’re thinking, it’s probably because of baggage. No that’s not it actually. On Tiger you cannot check luggage. Well, you can, but it will cost you an arm, leg and first born son. So carry-on it is. But don’t go over 7kg, or you are up shit creek without a paddle. For the metrically disinclined, 7kg is roughly 15 lbs. The average carryon item on US domestic flights is 35 lbs. Just throwing it out there. Got fluids? NO WORRIES. Seriously, they could care less that I was bringing with me a Nalgene full of water (known as plastic explosive in America) or spray-can deodorant (aka flamethrower). When we waltzed through security, the security official looked at us like we were insane when we asked if we needed to take off our jackets or shoes. Need to see my ID? No, you’re right. Okay then.
So anyways, the taxi picked us up and drove roughly 250 clicks per hour, tailgated on the EMPTY freeway at this speed, and then threw all our crap on the ground before speeding off. Thank god we got to the airport when we did (FOUR AM), seeing as they don’t start service until 4:30. Sweet. But we eventually got thru the 30 seconds of security and before we knew it were walking outside on the runway to get to our plane. Oh yea, no boarding gates at Tiger. We do it the old fashioned way, up the stairs of the plane and all. We were up in the air in no time, and sunrise midflight over the Tasman Sea was pretty nice. We arrived in Hobart at 7am and holy hell, it was cold. Well, colder than we have been used to, probably about 50 F. A nice lady stopped us on our way into the airport from the plane to remind us that no fruit or nuts or fish etc is allowed to be brought into the island state, and then took our word for it that we had none. Environmentalism at its finest. PS we planted poison oak everywhere and released rabid squirrels into the national parks.
We made our way to the car rental place to get our ‘sedans.’ Well, one was a sedan, a stately looking grey-greenish car. The other was a powder blue hatchback. Guess which one I droooove??? Haha we named her Tinkerbell, Tink or Tinky B for short. Team Tink consisted of myself, my wife Alex and our children Will and Kelsey. Team Toad was headed by Captain Jeremy and his Corporal Casey, and the chatty kathies Danielle and Kealoha (note: I have already included the pronunciation of this name in an earlier post [kay-aloha, like Hawaiian for hello/goodbye] but since aussies have an odd inability to say it this way, we settle for their version: Kuh-loha, not to be confused with Kahlua, the Johnston family after-dinner drink of choice).
So driving on the opposite side of the road was interesting. I had to voice aloud which lane I had to go into when crossing intersections, or turning across traffic, just to make sure I did it. I also flipped on the windshield wipers a grand total of 16 times throughout the 5 days while attempting to put on the blinker. Minor issues, really, and I only drove on the right side of the road one time, but no car’s were coming at me, nobody died; great success! Hills were an issue for Tink. I don’t think it was a car fit for traveling cross country, on rugged terrain and perpetual ups-and-downs thru the Tasmanian countryside. Especially not with four adults and our 28kgs of luggage. Running starts to get up hills at a decent pace were necessary. A few times I made everyone lean forward. And sometimes Tink would rev out of control, topping at about 6,000 rpm. Yikes. But she was a trooper, and again, nobody died. Go Team Tink!
We left the airport, got some breaky, and made our way into Tasmania’s biggest city (extra large town), Hobart. It actually reminded me A LOT of Seattle. Like the little neighborhoods and wharf areas… More like West Seattle, where we went to Cactus and got free nachos and “inchaloddies” hahaha ahhh that was so funny Team Hipp. We stayed at the Hobart Hostel, which is run by a handful of nice elderly women, and only cost us $40 bucks each for two nights. After checking in, we headed straight away to Hobart’s Mount Wellington and began our 6 hour round trip death march. Team Hipp, I don’t think this one would have flown haha it was great, but super intense. Like literally a staircase to the top of the mountain. We took a break to do some rock climbing off the trail to the top of a big pile of rocks. Sorry that sounded really unimpressive, it was actually quite large and the going was for sure thrilling and dangerous. It would have been a really cool view if not for the cloud surrounding us. We finally reached the summit area and went to John Smith’s tomb; this poor guy died on Mount Wellington in 18-something and they just threw a bunch of rocks on top of him instead of bringing his body down the mountain. The shrine was a bit lack luster, but it’s cool because on the way to the shrine we found a large flat rock to sit on and break for some peanut-butter-jelly time as well as some self-timer photos, which by the end of the week we were total pros at.
After lunch we wandered around aimlessly in what can only be described as the Land of Mordor. Dead serious. Fog so dense we couldn’t see anything past a 30 meter radius; little rock ponds everywhere. I was expecting dead bodies to just start popping out of them, like in Lord of the Rings…Smeeeeeeeeeagle. Yea it was a little scary after about an hour of just following trailmarkers (small orange arrows) and not having an idea where we were, what direction we were headed, etc. But then we saw a person! And not long after we saw a car! SAVED! We eventually got to the summit carpark and checked out the viewing platform. As fate would have it, the sun broke through the fog and we were granted an angel’s eye-view of the Large Town of Hobart. Absolutely amazing and well worth being soaked in sweat and dewdrops. We took a different route, more treacherous as it were, back down to the trailhead, and all but kissed the ground upon arrival.
We grabbed some grub back in the Town and then passed out at 8:30pm. Okay, yes, a bit early. But it was a long day. And nightlife in Hobart is only an illusion, (quite literally, as my travel guide puts it, “the Salamanca area of Hobart provides the ILLUSION there might be life after 10pm”) and the hostel was packed with young people all sitting quietly watching Australia’s favorite show, Two and a Half Men. I don’t get it, they love it down here, and think it’s weird that I have never watched a full episode. So we opted for bed, and woke up after a good 11 hours of sleep. After some hearty cornflakes we were off for that day’s adventure, Bruny Island! First we drove to the ferry dock, which took about 30 minutes, where, at the tollbooth, I was greeted by the definition of a bogin (say Boh-gin; derogatory term for countryfolk, along the lines of redneck, hillbilly, whitetrash). The scene went something like this:
Tim stops car at tollbooth and rolls down window.
Bogin Girl: [speaking as fast as possible in a rather drab manner] Its 28 dollars guys, thanks.
Tim: [befuddled, but smiling] Oh, um, good morning. 28? Right, 7 per person. Is there concession price?
Bogin Girl: [looking perturbed] There’s pension. Have you got a pension card?
Tim: [confused] Uuuuh, I have this. [pulls out metrolink concession pass]
Bogin Girl: [quickly looking at card, and then flatly] Nahr. 28 dollars, thanks.
Tim: Righto.
Really, probably the most cheerful and helpful person I have ever met. She then told us the next ferry, the 11:05, would start boarding at 10:35, and to be back ready to go by then. She neglected to tell us that what she just told us was a big fat lie and that really we should be ready to board at 10:05, and that we were leaving closer to, oh, 10:15. Where were we at 10:05? Collecting seashells on the beach down the road. Luckily intuition served us well and we ran back to catch the ferry. Bogin Girl thoughtfully let us know as we ran by that ‘the ferry was leaving now.’ Thanks for that, I couldn’t tell by the heaps of cars already loaded onto the barge. But we made it, noooo worries mate.
Bruny Island was even more empty than mainland Tassie. It is a skinny island, about 50km long and 10km wide at the widest part, approximately the San Fran peninsula from the Bridge to just past San Mateo. Total number of permanent residents barely tops 600. But it is gorgeous. We were lucky to be there on a sunny day. The beaches are the whitest sand you have ever seen, and there are seashells and sea snails and sea stars of every color and pattern in the tidepools. There is a really neat part of the island, called the Neck. Its width consists of a dirt road, a thin strip of bush, and a beach, and it is a few km long; it connects the northern and southern halves of the island. At night, fairy penguins come up onto the beach and waddle around, but we didn’t stay for that; the last ferry was leaving before it. We did a whole driving tour of the island, stopping at various beaches, a pub, and a berry farm to get, as we called it, a classy Jell-O shot (champagne jell-o mixed with berries, topped with homemade cream and ice cream). May be the best $4 ever spent.
We eventually made it to the lighthouse, which, as Will pointed out, could be the closest we will ever get to Antarctica (less than 800 nautical miles). At the lighthouse we were greeted by one of Australia’s not-so-cuddly creatures, the echidna. The size of a rabbit, long skinny snout, covered in spines like a porcupine, waddles on all fours in a slow canter, and lays eggs. I went ape shit. I think I took a thousand pictures, and followed it around for a good ten minutes, trying to convince myself to pick it up, or at least touch it. But I guess I wasn’t channeling the late Steve Irwin enough because I pansied out and settled for just observing from a safe distance of 6 inches.
After our encounter with the echidna, or “anaconda,” according to Harv hahaha we booked it north back to the ferry depot to catch the 5:30 ferry, stopping only to slurp down fresh oysters (the stand is a 3 minute walk to the beach, and the guy just collects the oysters and sells them, pretty cool). Not a huge fan, I found out, but not half bad. The texture was a bit off, and the seawater taste mixed, um, interestingly, with the lemon, Worchester and hot sauce. We got to the ferry, took the 10 minute ride back, and after disembarking we drove back to Hobart, stopping to pick up supplies for pasta. I was executive chef that night, but Harv was a great co-exec, and all the sous chefs did great following orders haha. As we all know, a good pasta sauce does not come from a jar, and so we made one from scratch. It was absolutely loaded with veggies, some snags, and a nice healthy amount of Stanely’s Shiraz (before judgement is passed for using goon in a pasta sauce, Mom and Dad, you use 2 Buck Chuck Merlot. Just saying.) Stuffed from eating, walking around all day, driving, the sun, and chasing monotremes, we again passed out, though this time on the earlier side of midnight, long after Two and A Half Men had ended.
Rise and shine, and give god your glory-glory. We checked out of the hostel, said so long to Hobart and off we went to Port Arthur, a site of second imprisonment, which is similar to large scale isolation/maximum security. These sites are where the hard criminals went, you know, the ones that stole a loaf of bread or maybe some linens. Maybe, just maybe, you killed someone. Seriously, the British were a tough crowd. Stole those shoes? Uh oh, have fun in Tasmania/New South Wales/America/Africa/India/Middle of Nowhere for the next decade of your life. We paid $28 for a half-ass tour that lasted 40 minutes and a boat cruise around the harbor. Our tour guide was Fiona. I think she took two breaths during her speech, and she was not what you might call personable. Or nice. Or engaging. Sounds like she has found the perfect job for herself as a tour guide greeting thousands of visitors each year. So, yea Port Arthur was pretty lame, but also sort of cool. Lots of old buildings, and architecture, and ghost stories. I just wish I hadn’t paid. We could have walked around on our own and skipped the harbor cruise, which we just used as lunch time anyways. Afterwards, Harv and I wanted to go to this place on the side of the road to feed Tasmanian devils and kangaroos, but we got shut down by the group. Because it too cost $28. How ironic.
Anyways, it absolutely poured on the way up to our second stop, Bicheno, a small beachtown halfway up the island on the east coast. We really don’t know how to pronounce it. We heard Bee-sheno, Bish-eno, as well as, pardon my French, Bitch-eno, and Bitch-in-ho. We used the last one most frequently. We finally made it just after dark, and luckily after the rain subsided, to the Bicheno Backpackers Hostel. We were greeted enthusiastically by Deny, the dreadlocked dog, and his owner, the hostel’s manager, who oddly enough also had dreadlocks...they seriously belong in that book where owners look like their dogs. After settling in a bit, we tried our luck at going down to the water to view the fairy penguins that reside there, but it was much too windy, and apparently the penguins cannot fight the current in those conditions, so we did not see any. We did however see the Bicheno Blowhole, which is really quite impressive, even in the pitch black night.
After failing at seeing the penguins, we made our way to the opposite side of town (about a 2 minute drive) to the famed Pork’s Place for some grub. The waitress seemed to not enjoy the company of 8 American adolescents, but hey, business is business! After dinner, we swung by the bottle shop for some g and j, goon and juice. After a few rounds of Kings in the hostel, we decided to go swimming in the ocean at midnight. Probably not the best idea we had all week, but, again, nobody died. People got hurt, there were some bleeders; but nobody died! Still a success. Why bleeding? Oh, well, you see, we picked the rockiest most hazardous part of the beach to swim in; in the morning we drove by and saw that it was in fact a boat launch. There may or may not have been a pristine white sand beach 100 meters to our left, but would that really have been as fun, or make for a better story? No, definitely not. We live on the edge.
So after a bit of a lie in, and saying our goodbyes to Deny, and revisiting our swimming hole, we were off to Freycinet National Park, about a 40 minute drive off into a peninsula. It was a BEAUTIFUL day, crisp blue sky, slight breeze, 76 F. PERFECT. At Freycinet (say Fray-sin-ay), we walked up a mountain, which took about 45 minutes, and then looked down at the breathtaking Wineglass Bay, so named for its goblet-like shape (voted Top Ten most beautiful places in the WORLD, by whom I do not know haha, probably the good people of Tassie). We then hiked down to the bay to have a nice beach day, and what a day it was! The sun was out, the sand was white, and the waves were MASSIVE. We body surfed until we started fearing for our lives, and then had a picnic. As soon as the box of Ritz crackers opened, the bush behind us started stirring, and out popped two ears, followed by the sniffing snout of a wallaby! Yes, I WENT APE SHIT!!!!! AHHHH FINALLY SAW ONE. Thinking it wouldn’t come out of the bushes, we just sort of ignored it and went about lunch. Then it decided to join us, especially eyeing the peanut butter and apple Kelsey was munching on. Then some tool came over and starts feeding it.
Tim: “Hey, dude, you’re not supposed to feed it.”
Bogin: “They feed them in the zoo!”
Tim: “Uh, those are captive; this is wild. This is a national park, you’re not supposed to feed them.”
Bogin: “Its’ already here, and everyone does it!”
Tim: “Yea, people like YOU feed them, so they keep coming back. That’s why he’s here in the first place.”
Bogin: “I’m not worried about it, mate.” (this was a not a friendly use of the word mate, by the way)
Tim: “Well, I’m glad you’re not worried; wouldn’t want you losing any sleep over it.”
[Bogin walks away] Danielle: “F—kin bogins.”
Haha, so that was an interesting altercation. After hanging out with the wallaby for a bit more and attempting to pet it, we decided it was time to head out, and we made our way back up to the summit, and to the car park, where we found two more wallabies lounging in the late arvo sun by Tink and Toad. Oh hey guys, can we get into our cars? So we climbed in, and one of the wallabies must have thought he was part of the group because it practically hopped on Danielle’s lap into their back seat, but eventually they got shooed away and we were off.
We took the midland highway up to our final destination, Launceston, which, as with nearly everything in Australia, is shortened into a cutesy nickname. In this case, Launie. The midlands are beautiful. Very rustic, reminds me a lot of the roads through Sonoma and Glenn Ellen area, and it was a glorious sunset, so all was good. We made it into Launie, which is the second largest town in Tassie, and found our hostel, the Arthouse (art-house, not Arth-ooose), a renovated, 3 story 19th century Victorian that would put Noe Valley homes to shame. Really, quite an elegant place for only $20 bucks a night. Even the tarantula we found outside couldn’t steal away any of its charm (actually a Huntsman spider, nonvenomous). We asked if we could all be put in the same room, but the most they could fit together was 7. Who is gonna be by themselves? Well, according to Kelsey, Will’s not in the program, sooo…. Hahaha no we, just split the boys and girls as we had done in Bicheno. In the guy’s room, we had a fellow ex-patriot from Georgia Tech, holla! He was a cool guy, but called Melbourne, “mel-born.” As you now know, that’s a bad sign. He was hitting the hay early for a flight so he politely declined our invite to hang out for the night, which was a special screening of 40 Year Old Virgin in the hostel’s lounge.
We woke up on our last day (insert sad face) and plowed through the rest of our cornflakes, packed Tink and Toad, and headed to Launie’s famous Cataract Gorge, which is, yes, a 2 minute drive away. We hiked around for a bit, checked out the old hydropower station, and sulked about it being our last day in Tassie. We completed the loop, and then decided to call Boag’s Brewery to get a tour (the Tassie beer factory is only a 2 minute drive away!) They were full. I guess all 5 residents of Launie wanted to check out Boag’s that day. So instead we decided to cruise through Tamar Valley, just to the north of Launie, world famous for its wine. Apparently Tasmanian wine is a recent birth, most wineries being less than a decade old. It was great fun, and a nice change from drinking goon.
We went to three different places, all of which offered a fairly similar spread of wines. To start, a Riesling (my uncontested favorite), followed by a few Chardonnays, Shiraz, and Pinots. One place had a fresh squeezed grape juice, which we all loved, and another had a musket (spelling?), a really interesting desert wine, falling somewhere between whiskey and a bouquet of flowers. Highlights of the day include the owners commenting on how quickly some of us (I wont mention names…) drank our wine, how tipsy one of our members was becoming after the first tasting, the PROFESSIONAL photographer taking photos of us during the tasting, and even directing us (like, hey move of there, and ok now lets all walk in and out of the building, oooo go on the patio, that’ll look great. Thank god I have extensive years of experience with modeling, I would have had no idea what I was doing otherwise), Duke the friendly wine Weimaraner, and Pinot the blind pig, at whose face Harv maliciously chucked an apple. Hahaha, not really. We didn’t know he was blind, and there was a bale of apples to feed him with, but you have to make him sit on command before feeding him. So Harv tells him to sit, and like a good pig he does, and she tosses the apple to him over the fence, and he just sits there as it hits right between the eyes. HAHAHAHAHA! I’m sorry but it was the funniest thing I have ever seen. Then we read the sign on the fence that told us he was blind… whoops! No worries, he’ll be right!
After heading back to the city, and grabbing dinner at THE food court in Launie, we got to the Launie airport, dropped the keys in a hole outside the car rental place, and waited in the ONE terminal for our 9pm flight back home to Melbin. We got a ride back to college from one of Kelsey’s friends, and settled back in to the swing of things. The next night Vaguey and I went into the city to meet up with some Glennies at the Rochie (Rochester Hotel and Bar) and then to Crown Casino! Walking into the casino, a large man yelled at me and everyone else walking in to call emergency services. Why? His friend fell on the ground, hit his head, was unconscious and oozing blood. The cops were already coming over to deal with it, but I was ready and waiting to apply my first aid certification skills! Not sure if I am right in this, but aren’t cops certified first responders? Well, they did nothing, save calling the ambulance and looking at the guy laying on the concrete. They must have also called the paparazzi because the scene was featured on the 5 o’clock news. The guy turned out to be fine, but sadly Vaguey nor I ended up on the news. We wandered around the casino and watched some of our mates lose their money, and the ridiculous betting at one of the roulette tables (what’s the point of putting money on EVERY number on the wheel?).
This week brought just a microbio quiz Tuesday and essay due Thursday. Stolly’s missed my presence I am sure. But Thursday we had a Jungle Party, everyone dressing as cave people, animals, safari men, etc. Lots of fun, and as always, we ended up at the Eagle, still in jungle attire. PS The Eagle friended me on Facebook.
I was its first friend. ……. Either greatest or most pathetic moment of my life, I haven’t yet decided.
That brings me to this beautiful moment, sitting in a beanbag on my porch in the warm late afternoon breeze, sunkissed from laying by the moat in the Saturday sun, and blasting Huey Lewis and the News, trying to drown out the kookaburra in the nearby gum tree. It’s a rough life, what can I say. Not sure when the next entry is coming…Maybe after Anzac Day? (see below) Hope everyone is doing well!
Random Funny Things about Australia and its People
-You pump your gas and then pay. The pump does not automatically shut off when the tank is full, so you need to be watching the numbers ticking otherwise you may create a fire hazard.
-They do not have root beer. They have sarsaparilla and “creamy brown soda.” Which they reckon are feral (gross), but I am drinking one now and it is quite nice. Ginger beer is really good too; it’s a bit crisper than our ginger ale back home.
-When you ask someone how they are going/how their weekend was/etc, they 99% of the time answer with “yea, alright,” (which sounds like “yer alroit”) even though what you are asking is not a yes-or-no question.
-On a car, the hood is the bonnet and the trunk is the boot. They do not say ‘pop the boot,’ they just say open the boot.
-Last night we had a heated debate about who has been the most influential to music and pop culture for our generation. The Americans decided Britney Spears, and the Aussies reckon it’s Pink. PINK. …?
-Thick French fries are called chips. You eat them with gravy (straight-up Thanksgiving style gravy, out of a gravy boat) and sometimes ketchup. Thin McDonald’s (Macca’s) fries are just called fries; I think Macca’s has tiny packets of gravy… Potato wedges are just called wedges and they are not eaten with ketchup aka tomahto sowce, they are eaten with sour cream and sweet chili.
-Aussies love sweet chili. Like the lumpia sauce.
-Aussies love to publicly humiliate people, in jest. You’re expected to be a good sport. Perfect example is my college’s Tool of the Week Award, which is given out in front of all of Glenn (roughly 300 kids) at dinner on Mondays, and goes to whoever did the stupidest, most degrading, or most embarrassing thing over the previous week and/or weekend. Your anecdote is recounted by a member of the Social Crew, and everyone laughs and applauds as the Tool stands up. I don’t think it likely, but if I were to win Tool of the Week, be sure it will (DEFINTELY NOT) make its way to this blog.
-ANZAC (Australia and New Zealand Army Corps) Day is coming up in a week. It was originally established to commemorate the Battle of Galipoli, which occurred April 25, 1915. Bear with me, I just wrote a paper on it. It’s a public holiday that can best be equated to a combination of our Veteran’s Day/Memorial Day/D-Day/4th of July. It is a super pride filled day, a good day to be Aussie, and as some say, the figurative birth of Australia as a nation as this battle was their first fought as an independent nation. Why do I think this is the oddest thing ever? The Battle of Galipoli was a total and complete FAILURE. It was horribly executed and resulted in over 8,000 Anzac deaths. But Aussies couldn’t be prouder. Even odder, my professor alleged that this holiday is now all about drinking. Many young people make the pilgrimage to Galipoli (which is in Turkey) to get pissed (drunk) and attend the dawn memorial service. This would be similar to going to Oahu, drinking all night and showing up at Pearl Harbor at dawn on December 7. To be fair, when asking my peers how true this was, none of them felt the same way, and thought my professor should be fired for slandering Anzac Day. Yikes.
-Aussies love and wear jorts. Jean shorts. And cut-offs. Men, women and children.
Cliffnotes I wrote Friday night after getting back to Melbin to aid me in writing this masterpiece:
Bells Beach – pro surfers – kamakazi/Baywatch run – imaginary kings cup – middle of nowhere – Geelong is 2nd largest city in Victoria -- daylight savings!! haha
Sleepover – Devil Wears Prada – a few hours of sleep – speeding to the airport – tiger airways – security in Asutralia is a nonissue – walk onto plane
Monday – arrive 7am – driving on the wrong side of the road with Tink my love. – Hobart, biggest city – hostel – mt wellington hike, fog, mordor, john smith, sun comes out at perfect moment – fish and chips for dinner – passed out at 9pm –
Tuesday
woke up 7am – Bruny Island - bitchy ferry girl tollbooth – cute little town – bruny island, desolate. – “no offroading, whoops!” – the neck, penguins – tide pools, shells, seastars – berry farm, champagne jello – 500 to 6,000 - café on beach cascade beer and chips and gravy – “Um can I take your photo?” - lighthouse – echidna – edge of the world practically 800 nautical miles to Antarctica – ferry back – pasta for dinner
Wednesday
Wake up – Port Arthur – Fupa Fiona – blowhole – pouring rain – Bicheno, Deny and hostel in general (“nice French guy who needs girlfriend”) – attempt at penguins, blowhole – Porks place and wonderful service – goon – swimming – almost dying – should have gone to beach near by
Thursday
Bit of a lie-in – freycinet, wine glass – waves, huge – wallabies, everywhere – idiot feeds them – beautiful day – driving thru the midlands, gorgeous – arrive Launie – arthouse hostel – huntsman spider to greet us – dinner – 40 year old virgin – debating on cradle mtn – nixing cradle mtn
Friday
Gorge skilift – Tamar valley – wine tasting, reisling! – pinot the wonderpig is blind bahahahaha the apple hitting him – wine dogs – “he’s easy” – “wow you downed that pretty quick” “can I take you photos?” “I don’t drink” – airport is empty. No one asked for ID, no one weighed our carry on bags, which btw must be 7kg or less.
Hilaaaaaaaaaaarious.
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