Sydney

Wednesday Jan. 31
It was after 10:00 p.m. by the time I got to the YHA in downtown Sydney on Tuesday, so I basically just took the time to get my self settled and went to bed.

I say bed, not sleep. Know why? Because I DIDN'T sleep. I didn't sleep a freaking WINK.

Now, I've actually quite enjoyed my time in hostels. Despite the lack of privacy, it gives you a great opportunity to meet some fantastic people, and forces you to interact with those around you. There are only three types of hostelers whom I hate with a villainous fiery passion. They are as follows:

The Late-Night Conductor: This is the person who is leaving first thing the next morning and has decided to go out and party until 1:00 a.m. instead of packing. They then barge in, rip their bag open with a giant ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZIIIIIPP!! and begin what I like to call The Symphony of The Plastic Bags. You have your normal grocery bags, usually used for wrapping up spare shoes and other odds and ends (*rustle rustle rustle*), the thick plastic bags for dirty laundry (*rumble rumble rumble*), and the grand finale: those really sturdy, structured bags used by shoe stores because they have a flat bottom. Even the tiniest movement of these bags sends out a loud thunderous roar that will rip even the worst narcoleptic from their peaceful slumber.

The Late-Night Conductor will continue their symphony for as long as it takes. In this case, an hour. Did I mention she was sleeping in the bunk underneath me?? I'm telling you, there should be a law. If I had killed her, they probably would have given me a pass.

The Drunken Rumbler: This is the bad hostler you will encounter most often. They go out and party until 3:00 a.m., and stumble in with what I'm sure they're thinking is a series of smooth, silent, cat-like movements, but actually make an amount of noise similar to letting a small child bash you repeatedly over the head with a baseball bat. They find their bag, and in an effort to be silent, replace the roaring zip of the Late-Night Conductor with a slower, more torturous zziiiiiiiii-iiiiiiiiiii-iiiiiiiiii-iiiiiiii-iiiiiii-*pause*-iiiiiiiiii-iiiiiiip. They locate their pyjamas, somehow fall into them, crawl into bed and snore like a facking chainsaw for the rest of the night.

Now the Drunken Rumbler I don't mind so much. Their disruption tends to be quick, and the noise can usually be drowned out by a good pair of ear plugs. I'm sure I've pulled a Drunken Rumbler once or twice since I've been on the road, so I can't really complain.

The Sleep-Killer: This one is the worst. This one is the one type of hosteler I simply cannot tolerate. I will yell, I will scream, and have once almost hurled a 2L bottle of orange juice in absolute frustration.

This is the person who feels they have the right to turn on the overhead light switch whenever they bloody well want. And it isn't the soft, yellow glow of a regular overhead light. This is the razor-sharp beam of a halogen light that pierces your eyelids like needle right through your pupil. And the Sleep-Killer will flick that switch without even a SECOND of thought towards others in the room. Drunken night out ending at 4:00 in the morning: FLICK! Gotta get up at 5:30 for a tour, even though there are five other people in my room that don't: FLICK! Have to go to the bathroom at 3:00 a.m. and can't find my flip-flops: FLICK!

GAH!!

In short, that first night in Sydney I had one Conductor, two Rumblers and a Sleep-Killer. If I'd had a oozy, there would have been no survivors.

Moving on...

I slept until 10:00 in hopes of gaining some energy to make it through day. I was still quite groggy after I finished my shower, but managed to locate a strong cup of coffee and was soon in working order.

The sky was grey, but the rain had promised not to show itself until that evening, so I asked around to see what was worth visiting when the weather in Sydney is less than optimal. I was told by three different people that the Sydney Aquarium was the place to be on a grey day, so I packed a bag and headed out towards the harbour.

I had a fantastic time at the aquarium. It wasn't too crowded, and though there were a lot of kids around, it was actually kind of fun to watch them dragging their parents over to this or that window yelling "Mom! Dad! Look at THIS!!!" Too cute.

The highlight of my visit was actually the very first thing I saw: a duck-billed platypus! I had never seen one before, and had no real concept of what they look like outside of the odd cartoon character. They are definitely smaller then I thought they were, and their movements in the water are incredibly graceful. They've definitely earned a place among my favourites.

It being Sydney, the aquarium was still sailing on the success of Finding Nemo, and the evidence was everywhere. There was a tank filled with the whole Nemo clan, and every time you passed one of the secondary creatures from the movie, there was sign telling you what it was and when it had made an appearance. Marketing at its best (worst?) I suppose...

The other highlight of the day was the shark tank. There was a tube underneath that you could walk through and observe the giants from below. It was cool because the tube was cool and air-conditioned, and when the sharks needed a cool-down they would sort of beach themselves on it for a few seconds. It made for some really cool pictures.

I had managed to entertain myself in the aquarium for a solid three hours. On the way out I was spotted by--of all people--Myriam, from the tour, and her mother enjoying a cup of coffee at one the cafés next to the aquarium. I sat and chatted for a few minutes, and we made plans for the bar the next night. On the way back up George St. I realised I was starving, but was tired of paying a premium for fast food. I found a Coles and picked up some veggies, chicken, and few other things that were guaranteed to get me through the next couple days.

I made myself a chicken sandwich at the hostel, then hit the streets again. I was determined to find cheap Internet while I was in a big city, and found a small complex on George St. that fit the bill. On the way in I noticed a hair salon next to the café, and decided it might be a good idea to get a trim before heading back to New Zealand to start my internship. I booked an appointment, and killed my two-hour wait surfing the net.

It was getting dark by the time I surfaced from the salon, and I thought it might be good idea to head down to Sydney Harbour to get a view of the Opera House all lit up at night. I hadn't even seen it yet (the aquarium is on a different harbour), and thought it might be a nice introduction.

Two steps out of the salon it started to pour, and I mean POUR rain. I ran for cover under an awning, and proceeded to skip from one to anther all the way back up George St. and into my hostel. The Opera House would have to wait.

On the way back to my room I noticed a sign saying that the theatre on the 9th floor would be airing a movie that evening: The Devil Wears Prada, at 8:00, with free popcorn. A glance at my portable alarm clock informed me that it was 7:55. Kismet. I headed upstairs, watched the movie and thoroughly enjoyed it and my popcorn-dinner before shoving my earplugs in my ears, face mask over my eyes, and praying to the sleep gods to kill anyone who dared wake me.


Thursday Feb. 1
My night's sleep didn't improve much, though this time it was not entirely my roommates' fault. We had a couple more Drunken Rumblers (in fact I think it was the same two), come in at about 2:00, but I wasn't disturbed for long. No, what kept me awake that night was, of all things, my dreams. Really, really weird, disturbing dreams, with more than one that could be classified as a nightmare. I kept waking up in a sweat, wondering what had made my subconscious so bloody angry.

The next morning I got my answer, and now that I think about it, it was quite obvious. I had the flu, and along with it, a slight fever. Whenever I get sick I have the worst fever-dreams. Stuff of legends, honestly.

The flu was a pain, but I was still able to function OK. I took a long, cold shower, popped a couple Tylenol, shoved the bottle in my bag and decided to go out and sight-see for as long as I felt good enough to do it.

I figured my best bet would be to head to Sydney Harbour. It was a long walk (45 minutes or thereabouts), but I'd take it slow, and when I got there I'd be able to find a bench and rest while enjoying the view of the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge. I'd been told that the Opera House doesn't look very impressive without the backdrop of a blue sky (as I found out, it just looks yellow against the grey), but I checked the forecast the day before at the café, and it seemed there would be no improvement between then and when I was set to leave the next day. Oh well, it was now or never.

It was humid and the walk was long. When I finally reached the Harbour I flopped onto the nearest bench and guzzled down the entire 1.5L water bottle I'd thrown in my pack. When I felt better I walked around, took a few photos and decided that the only option for the rest of the day was bed. I had a plane to catch the next day, nowhere to sleep the following night (my plane got in at midnight, and my plan had been to simply sleep in the airport), and a bus to catch from Auckland to Tauranga the day after that. I needed rest, and plenty of it.

Halfway back I gave in and decided it might be a good idea to grab a room in an airport motel the following night. I grabbed another half hour at the same Internet café, looked up a few places that seemed reasonably affordable, and then headed for a payphone. The Airport Skyway Lodge had an airport shuttle, cheap rooms ($60, which was expensive for a backpacker, but less than half the price of a night at a hotel), and they were willing to wait up for my late arrival. Done and done.

I grabbed a bottle of OJ (the same 2L I would later brandish at the Sleep-Killer) and a bottle of Gatorade on the way back to my room, and was able to get a few hours of restful sleep. Then I woke up.

As soon as I awoke I knew my stomach was not happy. Not happy AT ALL. Back and forth to the bathroom every 15 minutes for FIVE HOURS. It sucked. HARD. I don't think anyone, anywhere, has ever had a stomach as empty as mine was that night. I managed to get a hold of Myriam at the bar around 10:00 to let them know that I wouldn't be joining them, and as soon as my stomach settled enough to tolerate a Gravol, I collapsed into a merciful sleep. Someone flicked on the light around 1:00 a.m., marking the first time I have actually screamed at a total stranger. Absolute silence followed my outburst, and I was soon able to go back to sleep.


Friday Feb. 2
Enter the longest day of my LIFE.

I woke up feeling a lot better than I had the day before. Sleep does wonders and apparently my stomach had already ejected everything else that could have caused me harm. I still had a runny nose to deal with, but that was a picnic compared to what could have been, so I was quite relieved.

My plane didn't leave until almost 7:00 p.m., meaning I would have to be at the airport by 5:00, meaning I would have grab the shuttle by 4:00, meaning I would have to be back at the hostel by 3:30. Check-out is at 10:00 a.m., so I packed up and shoved my bag into a locker. All of the beautiful food I had bought two days previous would go to waste, as I hadn't eaten a thing the day before, and was not about to risk much that morning. I offered the rest of the chicken and salad fixin's to the only person in my room who had been remotely civil, and she was very appreciative.

I went down to the fridge, wrapped up everything in a plastic bag and slapped on a new tag with her name on it (couldn't tell you what it was now. She was Irish, so we'll say it was Heather... or something). The only thing I kept for myself was a banana to consume throughout the day or on the plane.

The sky had a bluish tinge to it by the time I had myself organised, and I was tempted to go back down to the Harbour to get another look at the Opera House (I had been thoroughly unimpressed the day before). I still felt weak from my activities the night before, though, and decided instead to get a bunch of "stuff" done. Things I could have done in Z-land when I got back, but it would be good to get them out of the way as soon as I could.

1. More blog (those posts were LONG): Another hour at the Internet café.

2. Postcards: It's kind of tacky to send Oz postcards with Kiwi stamps, so I wrote them out and found a post office.

3. Package for the 'rents: I decided instead of carting around their Aussie souvenirs I would send them home along with a bunch of pamphlets I wanted to keep for scrapbooking. Again, post office.

4. LATE Lunch: do you know how hard it is to find a restaurant that will serve you dry toast? It's HOT BREAD, people. This shouldn't be that difficult!!

I got back to the hostel just after 3:00, and figured I would just catch an early shuttle to the airport and crash on a bench until my flight. Turns out the shuttle is actually run by retarded monkeys because they didn't even bother to show until 4:15, and found me sleeping on the sidewalk like a hobo. Whatever, I made it.

Airport. Plane. Airport.

It was just before midnight by the time we arrived, and despite my little street-nap, I was absolutely zonked. My goal was to get through immigration and security as quickly as possible, locate the shuttle, offer the driver my first born to get to the Skyway Lodge in less than ten minutes and then collapse into sleep for an long as physically possible.

That was my plan. The cosmos, it seems, had other ideas.

Four planes arrived into Auckland at the same time. That would be four international flights, each filled with at least a hundred people, all of whom needed to collect their bags and go through the same four immigration gates. It was a MESS. Luckily, we were one of the first planes to land, and I just kind of pulled an "Out of my way, jack-ass!!" type attitude, and was able to get fairly far ahead in line (about 50 people back). The wait was still almost half an hour, so I'm sure there are still people waiting to enter the frigging country.

Now before I go any further, let me explain something about New Zealand and its immigration. New Zealand is an isolated country. If stuff happens it's usually their problem, and their problem alone (Australia would intervene if necessary I suppose, but for the most part they're on their own). It's also a small country, but with a very large, dense amount of resources. One small thing can spread, move quickly, and cause an irreparable amount of damage.

For this reason, New Zealand couldn't give two farts about carrying your liquids and gels in 100 ml bottles or less, shoved into a clear plastic bag. They don't care at all if your best friend's uncle's second cousin had lunch with a guy in al Qaeda in 1962. But if you're carrying a piece of contaminated fruit or veg, or pretty well anything fresh that wasn't grown right here in the rolling hills of Z-land, you, my friend, are f*cked.

On the plane they give you an immigration card where you declare any food you might be carrying, or if you've got any special sort of camping, hiking, or fishing gear that's been spending time rolling around on foreign soil. That way they can decide what might or might not be a problem, and if something happens it's on them, not you. Fair enough.

I had dutifully filled out my card and had it ready along with my passport and work visa when the nice man called me over to the immigration gate. I had declared two things, the remaining third of the bottle of OJ, and a box of apple granola bars I had bought but hadn't even opened yet. I'd seen both brands available in NZ, and since they weren't fresh I doubted it would be a problem (they'd confiscate the OJ, if anything, and I was OK with that). Dude waved me by, I was clear.

Enter stage 2 of NZ immigration, when they throw all your stuff through these ultra sensitive x-ray machines that are designed to detect food instead of metal. I throw my purse on there... green light! I throw my small pack on there... green light! I throw my big pack on there... green light! I chuck on my cloth reusable grocery bag and sail through the metal detector with absolute confidence before hearing a rather large BARMP!!

Whaaaaaaat? I ask the nice man as he gives me a stone-cold look, rips my passport and declaration card out of my hand, and reaches into the machine to pull out the grocery bag. I tell him I declared the OJ, the guy said it would be fine, take it if you want, I'm sick, what the hell is the problem?

You declared the orange juice?

Yes.

You declared the granola bars?

YES.

And what about the banana?

SHIT!

The tiny little banana I had thrown in from the fridge was still lying in the bottom of the bag, and had utterly and completely escaped my memory after I'd left the plane. Crap crap crap crap crap.

"Come with me please." I hate that sentence.

Twenty minute later, after a round of "Did you pack your own bags?" Yes. "Have you left your bags unattended at any time?" No. "Are you aware of the laws surrounding bringing fresh food into New Zealand?" Yes. I forgot it was in there. I'm not trying to single-handedly bring down the country of New Zealand with a banana.

Ok, I didn't say that, but I made it bloody well obvious that that wasn't my intention (I was unaware of this before, but apparently sick + tired + angry-looking man taking my passport = Megan turning into a very large bitch. I'm OK with that).

After I'd emptied half a box of snotty tissues on their table and said for the hundredth time "I forgod id waz in dere. I wand do go do beb" I think they realised that the most contaminated thing I had intended to bring into the country was my head, and they let me go.

Not before slapping me with a $200 fine, though.

Ouch.

Big sigh, calm down, find a phone.

It was by then after 1:00 a.m., but I rang the lodge to see if they would still come and get me. They told me the driver had waited up until 12:30, when I said I would call, and then went home. S... O... L...

Next step, cab. I hopped into the first one in the taxi stand, told the driver where I was going, and made polite chit-chat most of the way there. Despite everything, I was relieved to be back in New Zealand.

We pulled up to the Lodge and he turned around to ask for $23. Apparently you pay a premium to drive 6 kilometres at 1:30 in the morning. I was exhausted, and not up for a fight, so I handed him the fifty I got from exchanging the rest of my Oz money at Sydney Airport, and held out my hand for the change.

"You don't have change?" The driver asks me.

Not... happening...

"Dude, are you new? You're supposed to give me change."

He didn't have change. He didn't have a goddamn cent. DEEP BREATH.

Do you take a credit card?

Yes, but it costs $3 extra.

So I have to pay $3 because YOU don't have change?

Continue this for about 15 minutes, with him offering various suggestions like driving around until we found a convinience store open at 1:30 a.m. that would break my fifty. WHAT??

I decided then that I wasn't backing down. This was retarded. Finally I dug around for my money belt, knowing I had some NZ money left over in there from before I left for Oz. I found a tenner, a couple dollar coins and some change. I threw it on the armrest and looked him right in the eye.

"Dude, this is my final offer. There's about $14 there. I'm not giving you my fifty and I'm not paying more money on top of this already outragious cab fare because you don't have change. I have the money. My part's done. This is your problem, so you can take this, or you can take nothing, and I'll call the company in the morning to complain. You choose."

Oh you better freaking believe he took that $14. Score one for the sick girl!

He dropped my bag from the trunk and ripped out the driveway. I waved.

Apparently the owner of the Lodge had heard my entrance, and in an effort to get the scary snotty girl away from the rest of his patrons, grabbed my bag and brought me out to my room behind the house.

Now the add said lodge, and I'm not sure if maybe something got lost in translation between Canada and New Zealand, but this wasn't so much a lodge as it was, well, a hole. I had paid $60 for a freaking hole. Whatever, it had a bed. It took me another twenty minutes to locate the lightswitch (it was in the bathroom. WHAT THE HELL??), and after taking so many deep breaths I thought I was going to faint, I was finally able to go to sleep.

Yea.