On Friday, my co-workers organized a going-away happy hour and dinner for me. The timing coincidentally corresponded to our monthly paycheck deposit, which is usually accompanied with a happy hour, and so it appeared like I was extra special because a lot of people showed up. On top of that, they paid for my drinks and food and picked a venue near my apartment in Sydney, so perhaps, yes, I felt special.
That evening I started what I will call "a wicked bender" of a weekend. It is the type of weekend fueled by the desperation of an individual trying to extract everything fun possible from a city before he leaves it behind. It started tame: Sangria, a margarita, a very dirty martini. (There's a pun in there somewhere, I'm sure). Then a brisk walk to Darling Harbor, a few drinks at a sports bar, and an awkward yet non-threatening moonwalk around a group of nonplussed young ladies. Somehow that turned into gambling at the casino until 5am with two accomplices. That will happen. Fortunately, I won $600 playing Blackjack, which meant I paid for half of my flights around Australia. A similar experience happened again on Saturday night (sans the gambling), woke up a few hours after going to bed to have breakfast with a friend, and then returned home to pack my bag. After five minutes, I gave up and accomplished a nap instead. Packing is hard.
In a sort of awkward arrangement, my last day was a Monday. I said my goodbyes and tried not to think too much about how I would like to stay if circumstances were different (i.e mainly, Australia being closer to eastern USA). I returned to my apartment that afternoon where my first task was to sort my belongings into four piles: Things I will ship home, things I will donate to the salvation army, things I will throw away, and things I will carry around for the next few weeks. I did this apathetically for 30 minutes, gave up and went climbing instead. Somewhere around midnight I summoned the motivation to finished the job, and when it was finished, I crashed on my bed. It was a long previous three days.
So it was early Tuesday morning, the day of my flight to Cairns, that I went to the post office to ship my box of things home. When I plonked the large box on the counter, the postal worker's blank emotionless countenance told me my task would not be so simple. She notified me, with a condescending frown only a disgruntled union worker can give, that the girth of my box was too large. Indeed. I pleadingly asked her if she could find another box in the back room instead of having me purchases multiple tiny boxes (sold for $5 a pop) and have to pay separate shipping charges. She waddled, oh so slowly, to the back room to "look". I imagine her closing the door behind her, counting to 10, and coming out to tell me with a slight nod of the head that, "No, there are no boxes". I wanted to ask if she is always so helpful to customers.
$400 dollars poorer and an agonizing hour of my time stolen from my life, I walked out of the post office to head to the airport. On the walk and train ride there, I realized that I had still over-packed, despite all the things I've learned in two years on the road. To be fair, my pack weighed 13 kilograms at check-in, but I know I can do better for a 2 to 3 week trek -- I just didn't want to worry about not having certain things. (In contrast, when I went to Korea two years ago, it was 22 kilograms). Sometimes piece of mind is worth a few kilograms.
I'll be flying from Sydney to Cairns to Darwin to Alice Springs, road trip to Uluru, and back to Sydney in less than two weeks. It isn't cheap but at least domestic flying in Australia is sort of what I imagine domestic flying must have been like in the USA during the late 80s and early 90s. In Sydney, no one asked me to take off my shoes. My Pennsylvania driver's license was taken as suitable ID. No one really gave me a "does he look like a terrorist?" once-over evaluation (I have a slight beard mind you). I high-fived the guard as I walked through the metal detector. Well, maybe not that last one.
Three relatively painless hours later (at least compared to the post office in Sydney), I arrived in Cairns. I walked to baggage claim and my friendly green backpack birthed itself through the carousel flaps. I threw it over my shoulders, sinched the straps, and walked toward the shuttle pick up area. Two sliding glass doors parted, a cricket (just one it seemed) chirped quietly nearby, as a gentle evening breeze welcomed me to Cairns. It feels good to be back on the road, I thought to myself.
Oh! And happy birthday Mom!
That evening I started what I will call "a wicked bender" of a weekend. It is the type of weekend fueled by the desperation of an individual trying to extract everything fun possible from a city before he leaves it behind. It started tame: Sangria, a margarita, a very dirty martini. (There's a pun in there somewhere, I'm sure). Then a brisk walk to Darling Harbor, a few drinks at a sports bar, and an awkward yet non-threatening moonwalk around a group of nonplussed young ladies. Somehow that turned into gambling at the casino until 5am with two accomplices. That will happen. Fortunately, I won $600 playing Blackjack, which meant I paid for half of my flights around Australia. A similar experience happened again on Saturday night (sans the gambling), woke up a few hours after going to bed to have breakfast with a friend, and then returned home to pack my bag. After five minutes, I gave up and accomplished a nap instead. Packing is hard.
In a sort of awkward arrangement, my last day was a Monday. I said my goodbyes and tried not to think too much about how I would like to stay if circumstances were different (i.e mainly, Australia being closer to eastern USA). I returned to my apartment that afternoon where my first task was to sort my belongings into four piles: Things I will ship home, things I will donate to the salvation army, things I will throw away, and things I will carry around for the next few weeks. I did this apathetically for 30 minutes, gave up and went climbing instead. Somewhere around midnight I summoned the motivation to finished the job, and when it was finished, I crashed on my bed. It was a long previous three days.
So it was early Tuesday morning, the day of my flight to Cairns, that I went to the post office to ship my box of things home. When I plonked the large box on the counter, the postal worker's blank emotionless countenance told me my task would not be so simple. She notified me, with a condescending frown only a disgruntled union worker can give, that the girth of my box was too large. Indeed. I pleadingly asked her if she could find another box in the back room instead of having me purchases multiple tiny boxes (sold for $5 a pop) and have to pay separate shipping charges. She waddled, oh so slowly, to the back room to "look". I imagine her closing the door behind her, counting to 10, and coming out to tell me with a slight nod of the head that, "No, there are no boxes". I wanted to ask if she is always so helpful to customers.
$400 dollars poorer and an agonizing hour of my time stolen from my life, I walked out of the post office to head to the airport. On the walk and train ride there, I realized that I had still over-packed, despite all the things I've learned in two years on the road. To be fair, my pack weighed 13 kilograms at check-in, but I know I can do better for a 2 to 3 week trek -- I just didn't want to worry about not having certain things. (In contrast, when I went to Korea two years ago, it was 22 kilograms). Sometimes piece of mind is worth a few kilograms.
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| My whirlwind tour of Ozzieland. Keep in mind that Australia is about the size of continental USA. |
I'll be flying from Sydney to Cairns to Darwin to Alice Springs, road trip to Uluru, and back to Sydney in less than two weeks. It isn't cheap but at least domestic flying in Australia is sort of what I imagine domestic flying must have been like in the USA during the late 80s and early 90s. In Sydney, no one asked me to take off my shoes. My Pennsylvania driver's license was taken as suitable ID. No one really gave me a "does he look like a terrorist?" once-over evaluation (I have a slight beard mind you). I high-fived the guard as I walked through the metal detector. Well, maybe not that last one.
Three relatively painless hours later (at least compared to the post office in Sydney), I arrived in Cairns. I walked to baggage claim and my friendly green backpack birthed itself through the carousel flaps. I threw it over my shoulders, sinched the straps, and walked toward the shuttle pick up area. Two sliding glass doors parted, a cricket (just one it seemed) chirped quietly nearby, as a gentle evening breeze welcomed me to Cairns. It feels good to be back on the road, I thought to myself.
Oh! And happy birthday Mom!
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