Sydney

Stop three in Australia: the iconic Australian port town of Sydney. We spent our first day here strolling through the incredible botanical gardens and walking along the harbor. The houses on the harbor are built on steep hillsides overlooking the water. It's like San Francisco with a sexy accent.

And then there's the Opera House. In an effort to be culturally educated, Clare and I read a brief history and explanation of the Opera House's construction and architectural inspirations-- one of which was "copulating turtles." I swear. I couldn't make up something so absurd. And once you know that, you can never look at those crouching, clustered domes with the same reverant regard. The main theatre is eyeing the box office from behind if you know what I'm saying.

Next we took a ferry from the main Sydney port to Manly Beach, an isthmus (not to be confused with an island, mind you) famous for its surfing waves on the beach facing the open sea. The difference between the two sides of this tiny strip of land are really remarkable. The ferry ride over was still water across a harbor crowded with sailboats. Crossing over to Manly Beach (literally a one-block walk) reveals the full fury of the ocean. The wind whips across the beach there, and huge white-capped waves break over the swarms of brave surfers who flock to Manly for some of the best surfing in Sydney. An Aussie told us later that day that winter is the best surfing in Manly because the waves are bigger. Maybe so, but it was darn cold and we were never once tempted near the water.

When we got back from Manly Beach we walked around Rock Hill, which is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Sydney. We stopped to regroup at a German beer hall when it started to pour. One beer to wait it out didn't work, so Clare proposed one of her most brilliant plans of all time: a pub crawl home. But then this snag....




Clare: I left the map at the internet cafe.
Me: The only one we have that tells us where our hostel is?
Clare: Yep. That one.
Me: Hmm....
Clare: Don't worry. (Taps her forehead). Photographic memory.

So off we went to (hopefully) find our way home in the drenching rain. Stop two: a darling Irish pub in Rock Hill with a live band that invited us to sing harmonies with them. I'm sure they only meant Clare. Stop three: a wine bar on the harbor overlooking the bridge and opera house. Stop four: a chocolate themed cafe. Stop five: another Irish pub of sorts with a live band playing Irish drinking songs. Again we became band favorites and had a pint with them on their break. I tried to get Clare to jig-- I got shot down. Stop six: it was a bar... look the story gets fuzzy at a point but we definitely found our way home.

Speaking of home. We are living in the red light district. I'm not sure how this always happens to us. Our first night here, we left the hostel and turned the corner to find strip clubs, fetish shops, and working ladies abound. In a charming refusal to delineate ordinary vices from the arguably more sinister ones, the red light district in Sydney doubles as a trendy evening spot for the young and beautiful. Designer-clad youngsters line up to pay large covers at posh lounges next to Thai massage parlors where your standard backrub is not on the menu. Quick history lesson: apparently Darlinghurst Road (near our hostel) was solidified as the epicenter of Sydney's vices when American soldiers flocked here during WWII. Our legacy in Australia. You are welcome. See? This blog is not a total waste of time-- today we've learned about military indiscretion and cavorting turtles.

Tomorrow we are off to Melbourne for some relaxation in Victoria wine country. If there are any fewer than twelve screaming children on our flight, I will be in a spectacular mood. The proud American tradition of putting Xanax in baby bottles has not made its way over here, and we are suffering for it every time we fly.


'Till next time.