After nearly a month in Australia, I made way to a city I knew something about before I left on this journey. Sydney. Unlike most places I've been so far, I could actually pinpoint Sydney on a map without the aid of a map or guidebook. Expectations ran high... the city didn't disappoint.
As the Greyhound bus rolled into town, my first tourist sight was the Sydney Harbour Bridge. It's the world's largest and tallest steel arch bridge. Some people look at old bridges and marvel at their design and engineering; some people stand in awe of the efforts that were undertaken decades ago to construct them. I gazed upon the 75 year old bridge and thought, "I wonder if I can climb it." When I learned that it was indeed possible to climb to the top, I didn't even blink when the saleswoman told me it cost $198. I mean, how often do you get to be 500 feet above sea level and eight lanes of cars screaming along at 70 mph? (If you look at the picture on the right very carefully, you can see a group of 10 people just to the left of the flags. That's where I ended up.) After forking over my credit card, I began the four step process necessary to get to the top. Step 1:
take a breathalyzer test. 
I'm proud to say that's the first time I've ever been tested by a breathalyzer. The company that runs the bridge climb has a zero tolerance policy, so it's a good thing I didn't indulge in a little afternoon drinky drink. Step 2: take off clothes and get into a sexy jumpsuit. I don't know what it is about jumpsuits, but they make me feel like Superman. That alone was worth the $198. Step 3: strap the 'safety harness' onto a thin metal cord. When I looked at the safety harness for the first time, I thought, "You've got to be kidding me!" It was little more than airplane seat belt that attached to a metal cord on the bridge. If you look at the picture with me in it, you'll see two metal lines behind me. The second one down is the metal cord. That's all I'm attached to on the bridge. Not exactly a vote of confidence if something should happen. 
Maybe it's me, but when a group of 10 people are walking on a narrow metal walkway above the ocean and eight lanes of cars, I feel like there should be more security than a single metal cord. Step 4: Walk slowly and don't look down. I don't have a problem with heights, but looking down at the water under my feet was not a good feeling. One guy behind me started to seriously freak out. At first I found humor in his discomfort - because I'm like that - but then I remembered that all 10 of us were all attached together. If anything bad happened to him, he was going to bring me down too. That's when I turned around and tried to soothe him. (If I translated what I said into the language of Mr. T - for no good reason whatsoever - it would have been, "Calm yo'self, fool.") Eventually we found a workable solution: he closed his eyes and held onto my rope. Not ideal, but better than having him fall off and kill me in the process. Once at the top, the views of Sydney harbor - and beyond - were amazing. It was a nice clear day so we could see for miles in all directions.
As you can see from the picture, the bridge climb also affords a unique perspective of the Opera House. Of course, that wasn't my only experience with the Opera House. It's probably one of the most recognizable buildings in the world, so a tour of the building - even at the rip-off price of $32 - is mandatory. (Wow, that was a bad hair day for me. Time to invest in a comb.)
What you can't see from the picture is that the roofs are made of tiny tiles pieced together by hand - over one million Swedish slate tiles were used. The effect is that the roof shimmers in the sunlight - an effect meant to mirror the sunlight hitting the water. The thing I like most about the tour was learning about the history of the building. I won't recount the whole thing, but two points stood out: first, the design was initially passed over for consideration and only at the last minute did they approve it; second, there was an immense amount of squabbling during the construction, so much so that the architect quit midway through (at the seven year mark) and, partly as a result, the project was nearly $100 million over budget and took an extra nine years to complete. I wanted to catch a performance in the Opera House but everything was sold out. Damn you, other tourists!
For the rest of my time in the city, I basically just walked around aimlessly. That's my new strategy in life - walk around without any idea of what's going on in the world and hope the good stuff jumps out at me. For the most part, it worked. There's all sorts of funky public art and memorial statutes and plaques and other things that make it fun to just wander around. The city also has mixture of buildings that are ultra-modern and Victorian, often next to one another. I enjoyed looking at them and thinking about the process by which the city has aged and changed. Of course, I couldn't walk everywhere because Sydney is a huge, sprawling city. I mainly stayed within reasonable walking distance of my hostel. Even with my walking limitation, the city reminded me a lot of Manhattan in the sense that it has different little areas with distinct personalities. Paddington, for example, is the oldest section in the city - the most similar in look and feel to London - where lots of rich folk live. King's Cross - just a mile or so away from Paddington - is the seedy underbelly of Sydney, and home to some interesting nightlife (more on this below). It's impossible to take pictures of how these little communities feel, so you'll just have to trust me (or get yourself to Sydney to witness it firsthand). While walking around aimlessly, it's also impossible to ignore the fact that Sydney has lots of green space.
Parks and botanical gardens are dotted throughout the city. The main botanical gardens adjacent to the Opera House has this sign at the entrance - the world needs more signs like that. It's nice to be in a city where you're never more than a 10-15 minute walk from a place where you can lay down on some grass or sit on a bench without having traffic whiz by. (Aside from its deplorable traffic, my biggest gripe about L.A.'s geography is its lack of accessible green space. I guess it's too late now to do anything about it, but it's downright pitiable that I have to get in a car to sit on a park bench.) Green space is also excellent for people watching. Observing Sydneyites, two things stood out. First, Australians are a good looking bunch. Really, the whole city is soft on the eyes. And I don't just mean the ladies. With an unblemished record of heterosexuality, I can comfortably say that there's a lot of good looking guys walking around. Second, there's a weird haircut trend that seems to be popular among some of the youth. It's a new one to me. Half the head is shaved, the other half has long hair. Most of the time it's a right/left divide, but sometimes it's a front/back divide. I'm certainly not one to judge these people given some of my hairstyles in the last few years (including my current one) but, well, screw it, I'll judge them anyway: it's ridiculous.
As the Greyhound bus rolled into town, my first tourist sight was the Sydney Harbour Bridge. It's the world's largest and tallest steel arch bridge. Some people look at old bridges and marvel at their design and engineering; some people stand in awe of the efforts that were undertaken decades ago to construct them. I gazed upon the 75 year old bridge and thought, "I wonder if I can climb it." When I learned that it was indeed possible to climb to the top, I didn't even blink when the saleswoman told me it cost $198. I mean, how often do you get to be 500 feet above sea level and eight lanes of cars screaming along at 70 mph? (If you look at the picture on the right very carefully, you can see a group of 10 people just to the left of the flags. That's where I ended up.) After forking over my credit card, I began the four step process necessary to get to the top. Step 1:
take a breathalyzer test. 
I'm proud to say that's the first time I've ever been tested by a breathalyzer. The company that runs the bridge climb has a zero tolerance policy, so it's a good thing I didn't indulge in a little afternoon drinky drink. Step 2: take off clothes and get into a sexy jumpsuit. I don't know what it is about jumpsuits, but they make me feel like Superman. That alone was worth the $198. Step 3: strap the 'safety harness' onto a thin metal cord. When I looked at the safety harness for the first time, I thought, "You've got to be kidding me!" It was little more than airplane seat belt that attached to a metal cord on the bridge. If you look at the picture with me in it, you'll see two metal lines behind me. The second one down is the metal cord. That's all I'm attached to on the bridge. Not exactly a vote of confidence if something should happen. 
Maybe it's me, but when a group of 10 people are walking on a narrow metal walkway above the ocean and eight lanes of cars, I feel like there should be more security than a single metal cord. Step 4: Walk slowly and don't look down. I don't have a problem with heights, but looking down at the water under my feet was not a good feeling. One guy behind me started to seriously freak out. At first I found humor in his discomfort - because I'm like that - but then I remembered that all 10 of us were all attached together. If anything bad happened to him, he was going to bring me down too. That's when I turned around and tried to soothe him. (If I translated what I said into the language of Mr. T - for no good reason whatsoever - it would have been, "Calm yo'self, fool.") Eventually we found a workable solution: he closed his eyes and held onto my rope. Not ideal, but better than having him fall off and kill me in the process. Once at the top, the views of Sydney harbor - and beyond - were amazing. It was a nice clear day so we could see for miles in all directions.As you can see from the picture, the bridge climb also affords a unique perspective of the Opera House. Of course, that wasn't my only experience with the Opera House. It's probably one of the most recognizable buildings in the world, so a tour of the building - even at the rip-off price of $32 - is mandatory. (Wow, that was a bad hair day for me. Time to invest in a comb.)
What you can't see from the picture is that the roofs are made of tiny tiles pieced together by hand - over one million Swedish slate tiles were used. The effect is that the roof shimmers in the sunlight - an effect meant to mirror the sunlight hitting the water. The thing I like most about the tour was learning about the history of the building. I won't recount the whole thing, but two points stood out: first, the design was initially passed over for consideration and only at the last minute did they approve it; second, there was an immense amount of squabbling during the construction, so much so that the architect quit midway through (at the seven year mark) and, partly as a result, the project was nearly $100 million over budget and took an extra nine years to complete. I wanted to catch a performance in the Opera House but everything was sold out. Damn you, other tourists!For the rest of my time in the city, I basically just walked around aimlessly. That's my new strategy in life - walk around without any idea of what's going on in the world and hope the good stuff jumps out at me. For the most part, it worked. There's all sorts of funky public art and memorial statutes and plaques and other things that make it fun to just wander around. The city also has mixture of buildings that are ultra-modern and Victorian, often next to one another. I enjoyed looking at them and thinking about the process by which the city has aged and changed. Of course, I couldn't walk everywhere because Sydney is a huge, sprawling city. I mainly stayed within reasonable walking distance of my hostel. Even with my walking limitation, the city reminded me a lot of Manhattan in the sense that it has different little areas with distinct personalities. Paddington, for example, is the oldest section in the city - the most similar in look and feel to London - where lots of rich folk live. King's Cross - just a mile or so away from Paddington - is the seedy underbelly of Sydney, and home to some interesting nightlife (more on this below). It's impossible to take pictures of how these little communities feel, so you'll just have to trust me (or get yourself to Sydney to witness it firsthand). While walking around aimlessly, it's also impossible to ignore the fact that Sydney has lots of green space.
Parks and botanical gardens are dotted throughout the city. The main botanical gardens adjacent to the Opera House has this sign at the entrance - the world needs more signs like that. It's nice to be in a city where you're never more than a 10-15 minute walk from a place where you can lay down on some grass or sit on a bench without having traffic whiz by. (Aside from its deplorable traffic, my biggest gripe about L.A.'s geography is its lack of accessible green space. I guess it's too late now to do anything about it, but it's downright pitiable that I have to get in a car to sit on a park bench.) Green space is also excellent for people watching. Observing Sydneyites, two things stood out. First, Australians are a good looking bunch. Really, the whole city is soft on the eyes. And I don't just mean the ladies. With an unblemished record of heterosexuality, I can comfortably say that there's a lot of good looking guys walking around. Second, there's a weird haircut trend that seems to be popular among some of the youth. It's a new one to me. Half the head is shaved, the other half has long hair. Most of the time it's a right/left divide, but sometimes it's a front/back divide. I'm certainly not one to judge these people given some of my hairstyles in the last few years (including my current one) but, well, screw it, I'll judge them anyway: it's ridiculous.After spending two days walking in the city, I decided to venture out of the concrete jungle and into real forest. About two hours outside of Sydney is a national park called the Blue Mountains. 
They're neither blue nor mountains, so the name is - how to put this nicely - stupid. The area is actually a sandstone plateau that's been eroded away by a major river. The result is a much smaller, but very much greener, Grand Canyon. The entire valley floor is a pine forest, so the contrast of striated sandstone cliffs against the carpet of green is quite stunning. There's also a bunch of little waterfalls here and there, but nothing really spectacular. The best part of the trails in the Blue Mountains are the cliff edges, like the one pictured above. Not only do they provide stunning views, but standing at the edge of a steep drop is a thrilling experience. 
In one area, there's a tiny cliff jutting out from a larger rock formation, like a penninsula. The only way to access it is via a narrow set of stairs that ends on a small surface of rock that is about 10 square feet. You can see it on the picture to the right. About two-thirds of the group (there were 21 people in all) opted not to go because the passage ain't exactly safe. On the other side of the rock - which you can't see from this angle - is a completely vertical drop 400 feet down. Even with the guardrail, it's nerve-racking. Another viewing point was even more crazy. As you can see from the picture below, there are no guardrails on this cliff, so one misstep and you're dead. 
You might looked at the picture and think, "That's bullshit. There's probably lots of standing room a few feet below him, and the ground is probably only a few feet below that." The sad truth is that I'm actually stupid enough to climb to the edge of a steep cliff and risk life and limb for that photo opportunity. Just below me is a small portion of rock jutting out; it was about a foot wide and a foot long. I managed to get my feet on it and turned myself around really, really, really slowly. After that 'ledge' it's 300 feet to the next standing point: the ground. In hindsight, not one of my better ideas. As fun as the cliffs were to walk around, the best part of the Blue Mountains tour was the guide. At first I thought he was drunk, but he just turned out to be an odd combination of mellow, lazy, and granola outdoorsy mountain man. Some of his quotes were too good to just let them disappear into the ether, so I wrote them down verbatim: 1. Explaining why the Blue Mountains were made into a National Park, "Because the land is totally useless for any other purpose. They're shit for crops and shit for living. Basically, they're shit." 2. Describing what we would see at the top of the mountain, "It's like the Grand Canyon, only much less spectacular." 3. Debunking a common story told by white Australians about why the aboriginals named a certain rock formation 'The Three Sisters,' "That's just some tourist bullshit. We fucked 'em over and kinda feel bad about it - but not too bad to give back the land - so now we want to make their stories sound good." Normally, that kind of honesty can't be bought for $60. Yet, there it was, along with a free lunch.
I caught some crappy weather in Sydney (it rained for part of two days while I was there) that forced me to seek shelter in several museums - at least three more than I had planned to see. Normally this wouldn't be a bad thing. As it turned out, though, it was. I was underwhelmed by what was on display in several of the museums. I figured that a city like Sydney would have a solid collection of old and new art, as well as non-art related stuff, but Sydney proved me wrong. I was particularly befuddled by the crappy exhibits at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Not only was the general collection of art lame, but the only exhibit I thought might be worthwhile - a temporary exhibit of Annie Lebovitz's photography - cost an extra $25. That's on top of the $15 admission fee. Forty bucks to see some photos? I could purchase a book of her photography for that. I doubt Ms. Leibovitz has anything to do with the extra $25 fee, but all I could think of when walking out of the museum after refusing to pay the extra fee was, "Bitch." The one museum I did like is the Powerhouse Museum (so called because it's located in an old power station). It had an exhibit dedicated to the 80's that was just awesome. In addition to a great collection of music and fashion memorabilia, it had the largest collection of 80's video and computer games I've ever seen. Gazing upon Atari, NES, and Sega, as well as the Apple 2C, brought back a flood of sweet childhood memories of wasted hours inside my home. There were even several old-school arcade games (Pacman, Donkey Kong, Frogger, etc.) that could be played for free! I lost track of time and ended up being asked to leave by the security guard when the place closed down for the day.
When it wasn't raining and I wasn't walking around aimlessly, I plunked myself down at the beaches in Sydney. The two most famous are Manly and Bondi, both of which face the Pacific Ocean. Frankly, they're nothing special in terms of the beaches themselves. Water, sand, parking lots, shops, cafes, and throngs of people. Why not just call it Huntington Beach or Miami? But - and it's a big but - there's a lot of beautiful people around. Especially at Bondi. And the beaches topless... or so I was told. Since I have a girlfriend, I don't look at other women. But for guys who don't have girlfriends, that would be a nice treat.
There's also a great coastline walking path between Bondi and a beach 90 minutes south, called Coogee. This isn't just a flat, straight path along the sand. The coastline curves and changes altitude and crosses over rough rocks and steep ledges. In one part, there's a giant beachfront cemetery. That's probably the most scenic place to rest your bones for eternity. Another thing that's hard to miss is the continual flyovers of helicopters above Bondi beach. They were looking for Great White Sharks. Of course, it would be a terrible tragedy if someone were to get killed by one of them while I was there. But how f**king awesome would it be as a tourist to have the alarm go off, watch people frantically try to make it back to safe ground, and see a giant fin going back and forth. Alright, I admit it, I was secretly hoping someone would get attacked and there'd be blood in the water. What can I say, I'm like that.
My nightlife outings in Sydney were about as varied as they could possibly be. I went out four times in five nights and couldn't possibly have had a more diverse mix of experiences. The first night I didn't feel like going out since the 14 hour bus ride the previous night had wiped me out. But two of my dorm mates insisted that I at least make my way down to the pub in the basement of the hostel. Many backpackers start out each night there, and many more never leave. It's what you'd expect from a hostel bar/club - a bunch of people from foreign countries getting sloppy and dancing to American hits from the last 30 years, as played by a mediocre cover band. After two drinks I started to feel better, was getting into the groove of things, and even started to showcase my amazing dancing skills. Then, I had a moderately horrific experience. The cover band starting playing Motley Crue's "Kickstart My Heart," a personal favorite of mine, and so, quite naturally, I belted out the lyrics at the top of my lungs. The girl standing next to me - one of my two dorm mates who encouraged me to go out that night - had a puzzled look on her face. The following conversation ensued (just picture it in a loud club where you can barely hear yourself and bodies are smashing into one another):
She [from Germany, but half Persian, and spilling a vodka martini on my shoes]: "What's this song?"
Me [only pausing for a moment to answer, not wanting to miss the song]: "Kickstart My Heart by Motley Crue."
She: "What?"
Me: "Kickstart My Heart. Motley Crue. You know, Vince Neill, Nikki Sixx, Tommy Lee - the guy who married Pam Anderson. Big band in the 80s and early 90s."
She: "Ohhhhh. Never heard of them." [Pause.] "Before I was born."
Me: "What??" [Stopped dancing. My turn to pause - but not yet fully processing the information.] "No, I said 80's and 90's, not 70's."
She: "Yeah, I wasn't born until 1992."
Me [everything stops; the buzz completely gone]: "So you're..."
She: "I just turned 18."
Me [short pause; moment of clarity as buzz from two pints of draft beer disappeared]: "I have to go."
There's something about being more than 50% older than the person I was talking to that left a strange taste in my mouth. I had to get out of there. However, had I been single, it would have played out differently when she told me she was 18:
Me [to the bartender]: "Check please."
On my second night out I went solo to a bar in one of the trendier neighborhoods, hoping to get away from backpackers and interact with locals. From the moment I walked in, I knew I had made a mistake. This bar was perhaps the biggest sausage fest I've ever seen. I'd approximate about 60 dudes and seven ladies. Three of ladies were clearly with guys, so the ratio was - at best - 57 to 4. Of course, it's not that I'm looking to talk to girls - I have a wonderful girlfriend (shout out to Becky!) - but I felt like I had stepped into a bar in China. All I kept thinking was, "When did Sydney adopt the one-child policy?" I would have left and gone to another bar, but I barely knew where I was and it was raining so wandering the streets was out of the question. So I went back home after two drinks. That sucked...
Night three fared better. I went out with a group of people from the dorm to a decent neighborhood pub. Before we hit the bar, we got sauced on "goon" - what Aussies call cheap white wine in a box. Everyone uses it for pre-gaming because all other forms of booze are expensive in Australia. Once at the bar - having already reached that comfortable and exciting stage called "I'm not going to be able to keep track of how much I spend on drinks tonight" - we joined in with a group of locals celebrating a friends' engagement. They bought us drinks. We bought them drinks. Fantastic. 
Stumbling on the way home (pictured left - I barely remember taking these photos), things went from good to hilarious. The guy in the white shirt - Mike - had picked up a girl at the bar and was planning on bringing her back for a nightcap. Little did either know that they were they worst possible pair. Why? Because she turned out to be a hooker. So there he is, a backpacker with no money who cannot afford her services, and there she is, thinking she's gonna get paid but who's actually stuck with a guy who thinks he's gonna get laid in a dorm bed. She certainly had other ideas. Once this moment of realization hit both of them - on the sidewalk going back to the dorm - hilarity ensued. 
They were both going through the same emotions - shock, anger, frustration - right in the middle of the street. Here they are, right before the shit hit the fan. The whole thing was so funny it actually hurt. Me and the guy in the purple shirt were crying from laughter and we both started rolling on the ground because the expensive hooker / poor backpacker mixture was just too rich. I definitely don't remember taking this picture, but it's a good reminder why I carry my camera with me at all times... Night four took me - again solo - to the party area of Sydney called Kings Cross. It's a roughly four-square block area that had about 5,000 people walking around at midnight on Saturday. It's basically like Hollywood, so it wasn't anything too different from what I've seen before. That comparison is not meant to be positive. Dirty, grimy, with strip-clubs everywhere. Girls wearing next to nothing (okay, that's not so bad), guys dressed like douchebags, and everyone waiting behind velvet ropes like sheep to get into trendy clubs. If you were from another planet and watched this spectacle unfold before you, you might reasonably think you were watching a contest amongst women to see who could dress as the biggest slut and a contest amongst men to see who could take the title of biggest a**hole. Because I don't have any nice shoes, I was barred from all the 'good' clubs, so I settled for a bar that was the nightlife equivalent of the reject pile. We all know this bar: too many guys and a handful of objectively unattractive women... Four nights out in Sydney, four very different experiences.
They're neither blue nor mountains, so the name is - how to put this nicely - stupid. The area is actually a sandstone plateau that's been eroded away by a major river. The result is a much smaller, but very much greener, Grand Canyon. The entire valley floor is a pine forest, so the contrast of striated sandstone cliffs against the carpet of green is quite stunning. There's also a bunch of little waterfalls here and there, but nothing really spectacular. The best part of the trails in the Blue Mountains are the cliff edges, like the one pictured above. Not only do they provide stunning views, but standing at the edge of a steep drop is a thrilling experience. 
In one area, there's a tiny cliff jutting out from a larger rock formation, like a penninsula. The only way to access it is via a narrow set of stairs that ends on a small surface of rock that is about 10 square feet. You can see it on the picture to the right. About two-thirds of the group (there were 21 people in all) opted not to go because the passage ain't exactly safe. On the other side of the rock - which you can't see from this angle - is a completely vertical drop 400 feet down. Even with the guardrail, it's nerve-racking. Another viewing point was even more crazy. As you can see from the picture below, there are no guardrails on this cliff, so one misstep and you're dead. 
You might looked at the picture and think, "That's bullshit. There's probably lots of standing room a few feet below him, and the ground is probably only a few feet below that." The sad truth is that I'm actually stupid enough to climb to the edge of a steep cliff and risk life and limb for that photo opportunity. Just below me is a small portion of rock jutting out; it was about a foot wide and a foot long. I managed to get my feet on it and turned myself around really, really, really slowly. After that 'ledge' it's 300 feet to the next standing point: the ground. In hindsight, not one of my better ideas. As fun as the cliffs were to walk around, the best part of the Blue Mountains tour was the guide. At first I thought he was drunk, but he just turned out to be an odd combination of mellow, lazy, and granola outdoorsy mountain man. Some of his quotes were too good to just let them disappear into the ether, so I wrote them down verbatim: 1. Explaining why the Blue Mountains were made into a National Park, "Because the land is totally useless for any other purpose. They're shit for crops and shit for living. Basically, they're shit." 2. Describing what we would see at the top of the mountain, "It's like the Grand Canyon, only much less spectacular." 3. Debunking a common story told by white Australians about why the aboriginals named a certain rock formation 'The Three Sisters,' "That's just some tourist bullshit. We fucked 'em over and kinda feel bad about it - but not too bad to give back the land - so now we want to make their stories sound good." Normally, that kind of honesty can't be bought for $60. Yet, there it was, along with a free lunch.I caught some crappy weather in Sydney (it rained for part of two days while I was there) that forced me to seek shelter in several museums - at least three more than I had planned to see. Normally this wouldn't be a bad thing. As it turned out, though, it was. I was underwhelmed by what was on display in several of the museums. I figured that a city like Sydney would have a solid collection of old and new art, as well as non-art related stuff, but Sydney proved me wrong. I was particularly befuddled by the crappy exhibits at the Museum of Contemporary Art. Not only was the general collection of art lame, but the only exhibit I thought might be worthwhile - a temporary exhibit of Annie Lebovitz's photography - cost an extra $25. That's on top of the $15 admission fee. Forty bucks to see some photos? I could purchase a book of her photography for that. I doubt Ms. Leibovitz has anything to do with the extra $25 fee, but all I could think of when walking out of the museum after refusing to pay the extra fee was, "Bitch." The one museum I did like is the Powerhouse Museum (so called because it's located in an old power station). It had an exhibit dedicated to the 80's that was just awesome. In addition to a great collection of music and fashion memorabilia, it had the largest collection of 80's video and computer games I've ever seen. Gazing upon Atari, NES, and Sega, as well as the Apple 2C, brought back a flood of sweet childhood memories of wasted hours inside my home. There were even several old-school arcade games (Pacman, Donkey Kong, Frogger, etc.) that could be played for free! I lost track of time and ended up being asked to leave by the security guard when the place closed down for the day.
When it wasn't raining and I wasn't walking around aimlessly, I plunked myself down at the beaches in Sydney. The two most famous are Manly and Bondi, both of which face the Pacific Ocean. Frankly, they're nothing special in terms of the beaches themselves. Water, sand, parking lots, shops, cafes, and throngs of people. Why not just call it Huntington Beach or Miami? But - and it's a big but - there's a lot of beautiful people around. Especially at Bondi. And the beaches topless... or so I was told. Since I have a girlfriend, I don't look at other women. But for guys who don't have girlfriends, that would be a nice treat.
There's also a great coastline walking path between Bondi and a beach 90 minutes south, called Coogee. This isn't just a flat, straight path along the sand. The coastline curves and changes altitude and crosses over rough rocks and steep ledges. In one part, there's a giant beachfront cemetery. That's probably the most scenic place to rest your bones for eternity. Another thing that's hard to miss is the continual flyovers of helicopters above Bondi beach. They were looking for Great White Sharks. Of course, it would be a terrible tragedy if someone were to get killed by one of them while I was there. But how f**king awesome would it be as a tourist to have the alarm go off, watch people frantically try to make it back to safe ground, and see a giant fin going back and forth. Alright, I admit it, I was secretly hoping someone would get attacked and there'd be blood in the water. What can I say, I'm like that.My nightlife outings in Sydney were about as varied as they could possibly be. I went out four times in five nights and couldn't possibly have had a more diverse mix of experiences. The first night I didn't feel like going out since the 14 hour bus ride the previous night had wiped me out. But two of my dorm mates insisted that I at least make my way down to the pub in the basement of the hostel. Many backpackers start out each night there, and many more never leave. It's what you'd expect from a hostel bar/club - a bunch of people from foreign countries getting sloppy and dancing to American hits from the last 30 years, as played by a mediocre cover band. After two drinks I started to feel better, was getting into the groove of things, and even started to showcase my amazing dancing skills. Then, I had a moderately horrific experience. The cover band starting playing Motley Crue's "Kickstart My Heart," a personal favorite of mine, and so, quite naturally, I belted out the lyrics at the top of my lungs. The girl standing next to me - one of my two dorm mates who encouraged me to go out that night - had a puzzled look on her face. The following conversation ensued (just picture it in a loud club where you can barely hear yourself and bodies are smashing into one another):
She [from Germany, but half Persian, and spilling a vodka martini on my shoes]: "What's this song?"
Me [only pausing for a moment to answer, not wanting to miss the song]: "Kickstart My Heart by Motley Crue."
She: "What?"
Me: "Kickstart My Heart. Motley Crue. You know, Vince Neill, Nikki Sixx, Tommy Lee - the guy who married Pam Anderson. Big band in the 80s and early 90s."
She: "Ohhhhh. Never heard of them." [Pause.] "Before I was born."
Me: "What??" [Stopped dancing. My turn to pause - but not yet fully processing the information.] "No, I said 80's and 90's, not 70's."
She: "Yeah, I wasn't born until 1992."
Me [everything stops; the buzz completely gone]: "So you're..."
She: "I just turned 18."
Me [short pause; moment of clarity as buzz from two pints of draft beer disappeared]: "I have to go."
There's something about being more than 50% older than the person I was talking to that left a strange taste in my mouth. I had to get out of there. However, had I been single, it would have played out differently when she told me she was 18:
Me [to the bartender]: "Check please."
On my second night out I went solo to a bar in one of the trendier neighborhoods, hoping to get away from backpackers and interact with locals. From the moment I walked in, I knew I had made a mistake. This bar was perhaps the biggest sausage fest I've ever seen. I'd approximate about 60 dudes and seven ladies. Three of ladies were clearly with guys, so the ratio was - at best - 57 to 4. Of course, it's not that I'm looking to talk to girls - I have a wonderful girlfriend (shout out to Becky!) - but I felt like I had stepped into a bar in China. All I kept thinking was, "When did Sydney adopt the one-child policy?" I would have left and gone to another bar, but I barely knew where I was and it was raining so wandering the streets was out of the question. So I went back home after two drinks. That sucked...
Night three fared better. I went out with a group of people from the dorm to a decent neighborhood pub. Before we hit the bar, we got sauced on "goon" - what Aussies call cheap white wine in a box. Everyone uses it for pre-gaming because all other forms of booze are expensive in Australia. Once at the bar - having already reached that comfortable and exciting stage called "I'm not going to be able to keep track of how much I spend on drinks tonight" - we joined in with a group of locals celebrating a friends' engagement. They bought us drinks. We bought them drinks. Fantastic. 
Stumbling on the way home (pictured left - I barely remember taking these photos), things went from good to hilarious. The guy in the white shirt - Mike - had picked up a girl at the bar and was planning on bringing her back for a nightcap. Little did either know that they were they worst possible pair. Why? Because she turned out to be a hooker. So there he is, a backpacker with no money who cannot afford her services, and there she is, thinking she's gonna get paid but who's actually stuck with a guy who thinks he's gonna get laid in a dorm bed. She certainly had other ideas. Once this moment of realization hit both of them - on the sidewalk going back to the dorm - hilarity ensued. 
They were both going through the same emotions - shock, anger, frustration - right in the middle of the street. Here they are, right before the shit hit the fan. The whole thing was so funny it actually hurt. Me and the guy in the purple shirt were crying from laughter and we both started rolling on the ground because the expensive hooker / poor backpacker mixture was just too rich. I definitely don't remember taking this picture, but it's a good reminder why I carry my camera with me at all times... Night four took me - again solo - to the party area of Sydney called Kings Cross. It's a roughly four-square block area that had about 5,000 people walking around at midnight on Saturday. It's basically like Hollywood, so it wasn't anything too different from what I've seen before. That comparison is not meant to be positive. Dirty, grimy, with strip-clubs everywhere. Girls wearing next to nothing (okay, that's not so bad), guys dressed like douchebags, and everyone waiting behind velvet ropes like sheep to get into trendy clubs. If you were from another planet and watched this spectacle unfold before you, you might reasonably think you were watching a contest amongst women to see who could dress as the biggest slut and a contest amongst men to see who could take the title of biggest a**hole. Because I don't have any nice shoes, I was barred from all the 'good' clubs, so I settled for a bar that was the nightlife equivalent of the reject pile. We all know this bar: too many guys and a handful of objectively unattractive women... Four nights out in Sydney, four very different experiences.Lastly, I want to address an issue that is quite important to me - and, in reality, everyone - but that I feel the regular "guidebooks" like Lonely Planet and Frommers give short shrift to: toilets. But now, for your sake, I'm going to do the topic justice. (Remember this blog post and file it away in your memory - you'll thank me if you find yourself in Sydney one day.) 
You see, despite my lean physique, I actually eat quite a bit, and when I'm walking around a city I make it a point to drink lots of water to stay hydrated. You can see where this is probably going. I need to use the facilities frequently. Why do I bring this up in a blog about Sydney? Well, as fate would have it, Sydney has perhaps the most wonderful collection of well-placed, free public toilets I've ever seen. Granted, when no other toilets are around, McDonalds usually serves as my default place to do my business. (Oh, McDonalds - not only do you make the world's best fries, you also serve as the world's free crapper. I'm so proud that your humble roots began in SoCal.) But I no longer have to rely solely on McDonalds. Free public toilets are legion in Sydney. This is such a wonderful change from Southeast Asia. Granted, in Southeast Asia, as a guy I could do number 1 anywhere I wanted. But number 2 posed a problem because there are no public toilets and few McDonalds outisde of major cities. The options in Southeast Asia if you really have to go: hold it until you get to a hotel or restaurant willing to let you in, or find an isolated spot and dig a hole. But not here in Australia, and definitely not in Sydney. Aussies seem to understand that people have to do their business and can't always hold it until they get back to their hotel. Don't believe me? Well, the goverment has a website dedicated to mapping out free public toilets. Check it out: http://www.toiletmap.gov.au/. Wonderful.
That's Sydney in a nutshell. Now, Melbourne...
You see, despite my lean physique, I actually eat quite a bit, and when I'm walking around a city I make it a point to drink lots of water to stay hydrated. You can see where this is probably going. I need to use the facilities frequently. Why do I bring this up in a blog about Sydney? Well, as fate would have it, Sydney has perhaps the most wonderful collection of well-placed, free public toilets I've ever seen. Granted, when no other toilets are around, McDonalds usually serves as my default place to do my business. (Oh, McDonalds - not only do you make the world's best fries, you also serve as the world's free crapper. I'm so proud that your humble roots began in SoCal.) But I no longer have to rely solely on McDonalds. Free public toilets are legion in Sydney. This is such a wonderful change from Southeast Asia. Granted, in Southeast Asia, as a guy I could do number 1 anywhere I wanted. But number 2 posed a problem because there are no public toilets and few McDonalds outisde of major cities. The options in Southeast Asia if you really have to go: hold it until you get to a hotel or restaurant willing to let you in, or find an isolated spot and dig a hole. But not here in Australia, and definitely not in Sydney. Aussies seem to understand that people have to do their business and can't always hold it until they get back to their hotel. Don't believe me? Well, the goverment has a website dedicated to mapping out free public toilets. Check it out: http://www.toiletmap.gov.au/. Wonderful.That's Sydney in a nutshell. Now, Melbourne...
True, there are still some old sandstone buildings left over from the early and mid-1800's, but for the most part, Brisbane looks like it was built up entirely in the last twenty years. There's a surprising amount of racial diversity that lends itself to making the city feeling very cosmopolitan. It's also a user-friendly city - the public transit system is excellent; there are lots of pedestrian-only walkways; and, with a few minor exceptions, it's designed as a grid. There's even a stretch in the central business district that is almost a spitting image of the gaslamp district in San Diego. In addition to the San Diego connection, there's a hint of London in Brisbane. A large river snakes its way through the city - with the accompanying bridges and walkways - and parks and green space are legion. It's a big city without seeming overwhelming. I felt comfortable here the moment I got off the bus. I liked it so much that it notched itself on my list of potential places I'd consider relocating to if I ever had to leave the U.S. Well played, Brisbane, well played.
That's either a sad commentary on my intelligence or a sad commentary on the state of modern art. It's probably on the former, but while I've mentioned it, let's talk about the latter. Some of what passed for art in this museum made me seriously wonder whether there are any standards these days for what counts as art. Like I said before, I like modern art and I get that it's not always about pure technical precision. But sometimes there's a part of me that looks at contemporary pieces and wonders, "How the hell does that get put into a museum?" (I don't mean to single out the piece that's pictured here - which I believe is titled 'Three Pink Bears' - but it's the only one I could take a picture of.) Some of the 'art' in the museum was, quite literally, crap. One artist took a pile of trash and called it art because he placed it in a way that was meant to symbolize - I kid you not - trash. I don't get it.
Not a bad way to spend three days. Yet the sun's arrival and departure didn't even get top billing. That went to the stars. I haven't seen a starry night sky like that since - I remember this exactly - October 1996 in Joshua Tree National Park. Every star was out in full force. One night I stayed up long after everyone else went to sleep just gazing at them above me. Of course, that got me to thinking - never a good thing. I know I'm not alone when I say that staring at stars makes me feel tiny and insignificant... but in a good way. I figure, I might as well enjoy what little time I have. And somehow that led me to thinking about another one of my lists: Top 4 Ways I Wouldn't Mind Dying. It's a little morbid, sure, but sometimes that's what happens when you reflect on life:
