Take 1

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Attention

The plane landed hard lurching my neck out of its kinked position. I wiped the drool off the side of my face and silently said thank you to my doctor for the valium prescription. I left on Wednesday and all of a sudden its almost Friday night. A whole entire day has just past and I can’t even remember eating lunch.

Wondering why distance city lights are glowing with blurry halos, I remember my contact lenses are somewhere else. Ah, yes, in the pocket next to the vomit bag. I struggle to find them and now need a mirror. The big man next to me is so large that I straddle him when I go past and I think he likes it. The stewardess…oh…PC term, flight attendant, stops me mid-straddle and points to the seat belt sign. The big man looks like he just blew his load and I sit back next to him while he shifts in discomfort.

The seat belt sign is off. The herd are anxious and out of their seats and I watch them become irritated that the line isn’t moving. They drop they’re overhead luggage on little old ladies and look onward to see what the hold up is, similar to the same rush hour traffic idiocy that we all question. Learning long ago that airports are not created to swift us along but to delay our anticipation, I sit and wait. The doors open and the air is instantly damp with bad breath. The hazy night outside is mine to discover and I follow the big man out, minding the back of his tweed jacket so I don’t have to judge how bad I look from the facial expressions of others.

Ladies room to the left and I dawn my comb and KFC wet towel then brush my furry teeth. My feet are swollen up to my ankles and I envision being pregnant and shutter.

“Exercise me, your next”, says the uniformed customs official.

Through thick brown glasses a man with the power of the president stares right through me and my backpack, scanning for illicit substances and chicken feathers. If I had seen this guy at a bar, I could look at him and he would go home and drown in his own insecurity. But at the airport, he is the man with the power. The goal keeper, the crossing guard, the stiffness in your neck, the twitch in your eye. I give him my passport which has a wet mark from holding it in my sweaty palms. He now knows I have done it. He swipes my name and looks at the screen like I am on 'Americas Most Wanted' list and for reasons beyond me, I feel as though I am .

“What’s the purpose of your trip?”

Well, lets see, to work under the table and not pay taxes, spend all my hard earned money on alcohol and drugs and explore the deep nooks and crannies of the ‘things your should not do in another country’ list.

“Pleasure", I say.

He looks at me and like Dr. Jeckel, smiles and says, “Have a good one”, like he’s been my neighbor for twenty years.

I made it past the line. I march through the airport with my overstuffed backpack and my guitar and can hardly wait. For what, I have yet to determine but I am sure it will be great. It always is when you’re a million miles from home, from routine, from Tuesdays. The life I will start here in Australia will be as life should be, a working holiday.

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Balderdash

Depth is lacking in my thoughts as the English guy driving the free hostel van wave’s goodbye en route to his next pickup. The Sydney airport was 5 star compared to where I have chosen to stay in town. I head into the rundown building at Kings Cross, where the cheap and trashed, come together to create an environment not dissimilar to the downtown east side of Vancouver. There is a mix of culturally lashing accents at the hostel desk. They check me into a four bed air-conditioned co-ed dorm and I head to my room to attempt to gather the rest of myself as it is seems that I left a few pieces of my body in back home in Canada.

Similar to the common cold, jetlag is a disease for which there is no cure. Herbal treatments and natural remedies offer you symptom relief but there is no end to the sleep deprived haziness but time itself. I theorize that only some of your body’s neurons and protons make it with you on a 20 hour flight and the other ones are cruising at a more natural speed, slowly filling up the empty spaces and gaps in your mind and body. My favorite artificial and temporary filler of this short term emptiness is wine. I have my duty- free tucked ready for opening and hope the Canadian Chardonnay is enough to get me to sleep.

My room is nicer than I expected with two bunk beds, a fridge, TV and private locker. The backpack spilling with clothes and a tampon on the floor next to the bed indicates I am sharing with a girl which is a relief. I take the top bunk which in past experience offers more privacy. On the top you are exposed to the elements; light, bugs and a higher risk of falling down. But there are greater woes on the bottom. It seems that visitors in your room sit on the bottom regardless of its owner. And lets not forget about the late night partiers whom were unlucky at the bar waking you up with sweaty bourbon breath looking for a snog or stumbling in to the most convenient bed. Gross…

Top bunk it is…

The sun has set and I am lucky to have landed in the evening and can get straight to bed. Dizzy from the sleep deprivation I feel, I drink straight from the bottle, the wine goes down smooth. The left over Valium is nearby in case of an early morning wake up and I crash, drifting to sleep with dreams of magnificent blue beaches and warm sun. I can barely believe that I here in Australia.

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Carpe Diem

There is noise in the hallway and I hear deep breathing next to me in the lower bunk. There is a girl with long blonde hair fast asleep in her clothes. The air conditioning is on full blast and I feel a slight chill and hope that there is warm weather outside. Quickly getting ready for my day by the beach, I look out the window and sigh in anticipation.

Prior to leaving for my big OE (overseas experience), there were many complications in my life that have all recently been left to fade and die. The weight off my shoulders has yet to sink in and I feel a light load of transformation still sitting there. How did it all happen so smoothly? I was in lock down with a secure job, a nice, safe boyfriend and a cat. Then all of a sudden, my feet started shuffling underneath my desk at the office and there was no way I could stop them.

I tried everything. I started going out more often with my single girlfriends. I made Richard take me camping and although we shared some special moments, it was forced, it wasn’t natural. There was something missing. Some need for excitement and adrenaline that not even bungee jumping could fill (believe me, I tried). I finally figured out that it was an adventure. I had done some travelling, to Mexico and California but since I had been with Richard, the broke one, I had become a home body, sucking on a bong for relief of the boredom, eating homemade cookies and watching the sunset from our balcony withErnie the cat. Nice, but stale. I suddenly found myself sitting in a trap with no easy way out. Stuck with a cat, a sensitive, sweet Richard and a job that I absolutely hated. The only thing to do was run.

Though I did not really runaway in the actual sense, managed to convince myself that the best thing for me and Richard was some space. I described to him my rubber band analogy. That we just needed to stretch so we could loosen our grip on each other. I didn't mention to him that I secretly thought our elastic band would break once I stretched it half way around the world. He let me go with good graces which made me want to leave even more. When the man you are meant to be in love with is permanently in a state of stoner, leaving the picture becomes alot less stressful. He will still have his bong to suck on in my absense, not that he kissed me much. In fact, I can't recall the last time that sex wasn't a chore for him. So I packed up, moved my few earthly possessions out of our apartment and kissed Richard goodbye.

My job was an entirely different scenario. I had a good position with room for growth, I was managing a restaurant in the downtown core of Vancouver called Fettinelli's. I had a Tuesday to Saturday lunch shift that allowed me to have a life. I also got many management perks such as a core staff that basically ran themselves, a nice meal everyday and a clothing allowence. The clientele at the restaurant were business men and women having business type lunches and spending their companies money to wine and dine their clients and assocaites. They were all very familiar with me. Most of my friends also came to eat at the Fettinelli but purely out of their love for rich Italian food. Richard waited at home for take out. I gave my boss three weeks notice and he cryed like any fat Italian womanizing wino would. He said I was going to be irreplacable and offered me more salary. I said no and that was the end of it. Ciao bella.
I had my farewell party at the restaurant and all my friends and family came. Even Richard managed to dig himself out of his cave and celebrate my departure.

Ernie the cat was bound for greater things. I did not want him at stoner Richards house for fear that Richard might eat him on one of his late night food binges. My parents said no with their already full plate of cats in the house. So I told them that I was going to give him to the SPCA as where he could be adopted. Their obvious response was to take him. My parents have always been easy targets when it comes to stray animals and once Ernie had no home and was off to the cages, they broke. Ernie moved to their house and found out there was a bigger world out there than the 600 sqare foot apartment we had him boxed since birth, and so did I.

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DodgeBall

Hostels are funny places. They offer safety and affordibility and an instant social life to the solo traveller. Freaks, students, dropouts, runaways, refugees, lost souls and even the rich and wealthy can all come together under one roof and start as equals. With hemp bracelets and strings and shells around their necks, baggy pants collected from the eastern world, and a golden tan that refelcts a life of lacking and relaxing, there is no responsibility but for the next dollar made. Though Australia is not Thailand, or Bali and there is no secret 'Beach' and the city life of Sydney does not come particularily cheap, there is still a certain feeling in the air of a hostel that is universal. Once you enter, you get the feeling of communion. A reunion of like minded souls searching for a similar unnamable experience. A quest for something different. Something profound.

Walking into the commom area of the hostel, I found empty casks of wine, stray tobacco, rolling papers and journals ontop of the long picnic tables. There were a few stray souls who did not quite make it to their bunks. The outdoor air area smelled of stale tobacco smoke and I couldn't even fathom how people could sit there and eat breakfast. The pool was riff with lounging travellors of all races and creeds without a spare seat to be had and that was all I needed to see to make my exit.

Getting out of the hostel was easy enough but the bustling streets of Sydney was another story. Almost enough to push me towards the nearest Flight Centre and get me the hell out of the urban jungle. I walked into traffic looking the wrong way and nearly had a head on collision with a ten speed and an angry courier in a speedo body suit. The attractions of the innercity overwhemed me so I headed straight to the famous Bondi Beach.

The summer month of January is a far cry from the gloom of Vancouvers dreary winter. The summer holiday was out in full force. Schoolies in gangles of ten doing the cool, hangin out on the street thing. Families under beach umbreallas and children running around in long sun suits burying toys in the sand. I sat down for twenty minutes and was sweaty and bored. I brought no water along with me for such an occassion and pondered my options. The city I was faced with was not at all what I was looking for. The busting culture and hectic energy I felt lingered all around me with people rollar blading at frantic speeds up and down the espanade and business meetings held on the lawn. Suits strangled men and women all around me even in this paradise and decided that Sydney was to be an experience saved for a later date. I wanted Thailand, I wanted to be as in the movie 'The Beach', searching for that new adventure. That new experience. That orginality that only comes with taking risks. I wanted the shark bites, the adrenaline, the fields of weed growing around me. I wanted to be just as the rest of the world wanted to be after reading that book. I wanted to be different.

The bus came before me and dropped me off just near the hostel and when I reached the pool I sat with my feet in the water reading through my Lonely Planet Guide considering my next plan. I sifted through the pages of the great destinations, the hot spots, the attractions and closed it after two hours of dizzying information. Australia is a big country with lots of room to move. It is just the kind of place you can get lost in. Anywhere si somewhere it seemed. I closed the book. Sifted through the pages with my thumb, I decided the next page that stopped upon was to be my destination . No questions. No redo's. Just once. I closed my eyes and with great anticipation, I stopped a page, my next step, full of possibility.

"Manly", I said outloud in delight.

"Manly Beach?"

Reviewing the page, I realized that it is a part of Sydney in the Northern suburbs easily accessible by ferry or car from exactly where I was sitting. Only a 20 minute drive away. An extension of the city. In my hazy jetlagged state, I went to my room, packed up my few belongings and had the last pulls off my almost empty warm chardonnay and left. I checked out feeling lighter. I sold my guitar to an Agentinian soccer nut named Ruez and he threw in my Lonely Planet Guide for free.

Elimintaion