The Start of Australia
It ends here - in Melbourne.
One can't hide from the present here -- every day one must build from scratch and then abandon. It's a bit like this…
Sydney is dirty, vital, and frantic. I spent the minimum time possible there - enough to set up my phone, top-up my Twinrix vaccination, and see Bondi Beach. I run into the Irish guy from my dorm in a Thai restaurant - we both having fled the room to escape the impossibly gloomy stories of an aging Kiwi who seems deeply saddened by the end of imperialism. At my spiritual peril, I trade advice on Las Vegas for advice on India.
At first, Canberra seems clean, mature and sure of itself but as is documented elsewhere it does not hold my fancy for long. The hostel proves to be a lousy place for sleeping. Doors make an impossible amount of noise on closing and the metal steps of the central staircase loudly announce any ascents or descents. In the middle of the night, the fire alarm goes off. The hostel is full of teenage field hockey players, the culprit surely among them in my opinion. They spill in droves on to the street while fire brigade arrives and investigates. Nick, the sort of Canadian that Toronto produces, makes an extensive photo record of the event. The next day, I visit the reasonably interesting National Gallery. As a bonus, it features a water gallery in a quiet basement corner that proves highly suitable for a nap. Sarah comes to Canberra for a wedding at which she will know only the bride.
Bateman's Bay proves to a good place to do nothing but bask in the sun. I hang out with two young British guys who are in a slow race to politely admit to one another that they would rather travel separately. In the town pub, I watch some hyped-up boxing event in two Australian boxers each pummel some polooka as a tune-up for their subsequent collision in February. The crowd loves one and hates the other. As I leave, I ask a tipsy local for the background story which he happily slurs. He then hops in the car and drives away.
Back in Canberra, my luck with the roommates is considerably worse. I share with two highly uncommunicative fellows, once of whom owns the most rancid towel in existence which airs near my bunk around the clock. I rent a bike and find that this seems to be an effective way to avoid flies as long as one keeps one's mouth closed.
Suddenly, nothing happens.
I save a day by flying to Melbourne.
There's no other way
One can't hide from the present here -- every day one must build from scratch and then abandon. It's a bit like this…
Sydney is dirty, vital, and frantic. I spent the minimum time possible there - enough to set up my phone, top-up my Twinrix vaccination, and see Bondi Beach. I run into the Irish guy from my dorm in a Thai restaurant - we both having fled the room to escape the impossibly gloomy stories of an aging Kiwi who seems deeply saddened by the end of imperialism. At my spiritual peril, I trade advice on Las Vegas for advice on India.
At first, Canberra seems clean, mature and sure of itself but as is documented elsewhere it does not hold my fancy for long. The hostel proves to be a lousy place for sleeping. Doors make an impossible amount of noise on closing and the metal steps of the central staircase loudly announce any ascents or descents. In the middle of the night, the fire alarm goes off. The hostel is full of teenage field hockey players, the culprit surely among them in my opinion. They spill in droves on to the street while fire brigade arrives and investigates. Nick, the sort of Canadian that Toronto produces, makes an extensive photo record of the event. The next day, I visit the reasonably interesting National Gallery. As a bonus, it features a water gallery in a quiet basement corner that proves highly suitable for a nap. Sarah comes to Canberra for a wedding at which she will know only the bride.
Bateman's Bay proves to a good place to do nothing but bask in the sun. I hang out with two young British guys who are in a slow race to politely admit to one another that they would rather travel separately. In the town pub, I watch some hyped-up boxing event in two Australian boxers each pummel some polooka as a tune-up for their subsequent collision in February. The crowd loves one and hates the other. As I leave, I ask a tipsy local for the background story which he happily slurs. He then hops in the car and drives away.
Back in Canberra, my luck with the roommates is considerably worse. I share with two highly uncommunicative fellows, once of whom owns the most rancid towel in existence which airs near my bunk around the clock. I rent a bike and find that this seems to be an effective way to avoid flies as long as one keeps one's mouth closed.
Suddenly, nothing happens.
I save a day by flying to Melbourne.
There's no other way
posted by Steve at 8:12 PM
1 Comments:
Well I guess that settles the falling off the edge question. After I looked at your photos on flickr I ended up checking out some other sites there...this one was pretty interesting reading too, you should check it out
http://www.flickr.com/photos/fubuki/797036/
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