Skydiving Byron Bay

On Wednesday evening over a weekly Skype conversation with my parents, my mother asked me what I was going to get up to over the coming weekend. I paused, weighed my options of possible responses, then quickly filled the silence with a convincing, "Oh, nothing..."

 I lied...

Seriously...?

Three days later I was on a bus heading down to Byron Bay with seven friends, and it quickly became obvious that nobody's parents were aware of the day's itinerary. We pulled into Skydive Byron Bay's headquarters just after 9am and immediately were handed heaps of paper work, all of which obviously released the company from any bodily harm or immanent death should Lady Luck turn her back on you that day. There was a comfortable amount of confusion surrounding the proper conversion from pounds to kilograms, but luckily somebody had an iPhone and the crisis was quickly resolved. After quite literally signing our lives away, we walked outside to the grassy area outside of the airplane hanger. There, the "professionals" were frantically running in from the landing strip, refolding their chutes, strapping back up, and running right back out to meet the next plane for another dive - all within about a 15 minute turn-around. As they hustled back out to jump on another plane, the first time jumpers slowly staggered back to the hanger behind them, completely red faced, wind blown, and disheveled but visibly on a huge adrenaline high evident through the toothy grins all around. It was comforting seeing just how much of a science these guys had their jobs down to, to say the least. We watched the ebbing and flowing of professionals and first timers for a few "loads" before our group finally took to the air. As we killed time until our turn, we kicked a soccer ball around and lounged around in the hot Aussie sun. Angie, in between heart palpitations, suddenly stopped mid stride and looked up. "Look." She said wide-eyed, "People."Somebody laughed, and somebody else asked her what on earth she was talking about. Monotone and groaning, she pointed upwards and said, "People. People are falling from the sky." We all looked up and at first couldn't see what she was looking at, then, all of a sudden, there they were. Six tiny parachutes emerged literally out of the blue and began their graceful spiral down to the landing strip. Somebody started singing "It's Raining Men." There was no,"hallelujah" in response from the group which was suddenly paralyzed in silence by the weight of reality.

Diane and I harnessed up before boarding the tin can plane. Note the oversized pants and t-shirt that I was given, and the world's shortest pants that Diane got stuck with. 

Angie, Dean, Kristina and Emily were the first of our group to take the leap of faith. As soon as they landed in one piece and still breathing, Diane and I climbed into the less than sturdy looking airplane accompanied by our personal instructors. The plane had two rows of benches positioned parallel to the walls, and we sat one behind the other in tightly packed rows of quiet first time jumpers and chatty instructors. I was seated next to the giant hole in the plane which was apparently the exit and flinched when they slid the screen made of plastic and duct tape down over the door before take off. As the tin can plane gained speed over the grass runway I was practically in my instructor, Adam's lap. Allow me to clarify something at this point - yes, I am a terrible in planes, but that has nothing to do with my ability to EXIT said craft in a timely manner. I am unhappy in planes to the point that I was practically breaking down the little plastic screen just to get out of that oversized paper airplane. Anyway, upon reaching 9,000ft the first jumper was about to be let go. Suddenly, Adam's arms were crossed over my chest holding on to the harness straps on my shoulders in the tightest bear hug ever. "Don't want ya getting sucked out when they open the door." He said with a less than reassuring chuckle. My jaw dropped a little and I think I pushed myself further back into his lap - anything to avoid getting "sucked out" of the damn aircraft before intended. A few seconds later, the DZ (drop zone) light was illuminated over the exit and the screen door suddenly flew open and rattled the entire plane. There was a rush of air into the little cabin and I was quite happy to have someone else hanging on to me. There was movement behind me and an instructor and jumper made their way to the exit to take the 9,000ft plunge. Here's what they don't tell you about skydiving - it's not graceful. I watched as the duo lumbered over to the door, and sat down on the edge of the exit with the jumper's feet dangling outside of the plane and the instructor kneeling behind. A split second later, they literally rolled out of the plane in the least graceful way possible. I watched, probably with eyes as big as teacups, as the pair hurtled backwards, past the plane. I was shocked to see them fly backwards and not down until I actually took a moment to consider the force involved, which no, I had not done prior to that moment. the forces involved. They tumbled, spun and flipped, and then were gone. I looked at Diane who was sitting on my left and saw the mirror image of what I sensed my own expression to be. It wasn't fear, neither of us were scared, but it also wasn't necessarily pure excitement on our faces either. Instead, the two of us were in a strange state of purgatory as far as our emotions went, and I don't think either of us, in that moment, quite knew what to feel.

The view looking down at Byron Bay - high enough to see the curve of the Earth!

The door slammed shut again and the DZ light turned off as the little plane began the slow climb up to 14,000ft. Diane and I started laughing entirely because we just didn't know what to do with ourselves by then. As we passed the last band of clouds, I saw someone cross themselves out of the corner of my eye and felt a chill of morbidity. "Half way." Yelled the pilot, half turning his head in our direction. A few of the instructors began to clip into their jumpers' harnesses and within seconds Diane was singing Bon Jovi. "Waaaaaa-Ooohhh! We're half way theeeereeee -" we belted off key, and with audible cracks of anxiety. As if we had planned it out beforehand, we were joined by our respective instructors for the rest of the chorus, "Waaaa-Ooooh! Livin' on a prayer!" Someone crossed themselves again, and I quickly turned away.

A few minutes later I was strapped so tightly to Adam, that there was no way he was getting rid of me even if he wanted to. The harness was so tight that it was slightly hard to breathe - but that was fine - I intended on breathing after this experience, so I deemed a little bit of restrictions for the next six minutes to be acceptable. The DZ light lit up again and Diane and I looked back at each other as the door swung open and the cabin shook. A second pair was already at the door and gone into the abyss within seconds, spiraling away out of control. Before I could even register what was happening, I felt myself sliding forward on the bench and watched my feet dangling outside of the plane as I sat on the precipice of what very clearly looked like life and death at that point. I stole one more glance over my shoulder at Diane who, despite the holy-shit-you're-really-about-to-jump-out-of-the-plane, expression in her eyes, was smiling like a hyena. Adam's hand was suddenly on my forehead, pushing my head backwards to rest on his shoulder into the required "jump position," which more closely resembled a seizure convulse than a safety position. I stared at the top of the door and the clear blue sky above and felt him rock once, twice - then I moved my head out of visceral instinct to look at the ground below me and he stopped instantly. Again, he pushed my head on to his shoulder and said, "No," as if talking to a badly behaved puppy, "stay." I could hear Diane laughing at my inability to follow directions. Just then, the plane hit a little bump in the air, and I immediately pinned my head against him and though, okay, let me out, let me out LET ME OUT! Upon my cooperation, I felt him again, rock once, twice, and then we were gone. Falling, tumbling, hurtling, barreling towards the earth into a  completely out of control and unguided free fall.

Truly falling through air is different than the feeling you have on roller coasters. Even on those rides when your stomach lurches and you think that you feel no gravity, the back of your mind still knows that you're attached to something, and reacts accordingly. When you're rocketing through the air, completely unattached to anything, your subconscious is painfully aware of this as well. In an instant, the butterflies in my stomach had turned into missiles, all of which were exploding and/or crashing into each other at once. I knew I was screaming something terrible, and probably cursing like the angriest of sailors but I couldn't hear myself over the wind that was screaming past us and was thankful that Adam couldn't hear me either. Then, as quickly as it came, the chaos inside my head and body was gone. I felt myself stop screaming bloody murder, and suddenly felt peacefully calm. Immediately, I recognized the familiar feeling of a true adrenaline high, and in that moment, I was the happiest person alive. (Still alive.) By now, we had reached "terminal velocity" which meant that we were no longer gaining speed and falling out of control. Instead we were hanging in suspended animation while rocketing towards the earth at an unreasonable speed, and it no longer felt like falling. I could feel my cheeks flapping in unbecoming directions thanks to the wind rushing by me, and tried desperately to close my mouth as it went painfully dry from the huge smile that was plastered to my face. We stayed like this for a full minute and ten seconds, watching clouds rush past as the Earth quickly came into focus. Whales breeched directly below us in Byron Bay and both of us pointed simultaneously, followed by two big thumbs-up from Adam. A few seconds later, I felt his body weight shift backwards and I knew he was reaching for the rip cord. As if on a rope swing, we quickly swung forwards and hung vertically in the air as the parachute deployed (successfully) and jerked us back up towards the clouds. For the next six minutes, everything was totally silent. Initially, I was fairly certain that I had gone deaf and destroyed my bad eardrum from losing over 9,000ft of altitude in about 80 seconds. Luckily my ears soon popped and the brief pain disappeared and my focus returned to the most incredible view in the world. We glided in silence for a minute or two, and then spotted more whales which provoked an uproar of chatter from both of us. He pointed out Mt. Warning in the distance where I had been only a few weeks earlier while wandering around Nimbin. Without warning, he destroyed the serenity of the moment by flipping and spinning us in the air, just to prove that he could do it. I can't say I protested. I watched the whales popping up every now and again until we were too low and the ocean had disappeared behind us as we circled into the big X on the grass landing strip. With much more grace than our exit from the aircraft, we touched down to terra firma as if nothing had happened - I was alive, and I had never felt it more than I did in that moment. On shaky legs, I stood up from kneeling on the ground as two other professionals quickly unhooked me from the harness, adrenaline still coursing through me, rattling my hands. I hugged Adam, this time without the nagging concern that my life was about to be in his hands, and thanked him excessively for not killing me.

The seven of us got back to school at around 4pm still riding the adrenaline high and quickly parted ways to send triumphant survival e-mails to our unsuspecting parents. My guess is, that nobody was ready for the announcement that their child had just fallen 14,000ft to the earth from a functional (barely functional if you ask me) airplane, but come on, did they really not think that we were going to do it? To us, skydiving was not a matter of if - but was a matter of when, and that when was today.

Mission accomplished.

Nothing brings people together like Bon Jovi and putting your life in the hands of a stranger. 

Sailing the Whitsunday Islands

Thursday morning started way too early. 4:30am to be exact. In exhausted silence, the six of us dragged ourselves, half asleep and totally incapable of forming words into the van to begin our pilgrimage up to the Whitsunday Islands for the weekend. The van ride down to the train station is relatively foggy, and it’s completely possible that I had actually managed to sleep walk throughout the entire experience, but nevertheless, Team Bond Uni made it to the airport by 7:45 for our 8:55 flight north and landed (happily) at the Whitsunday Airport by around 10:25am. From here, our travel movements were characterized by communal confusion as well as an entire lack of any form of information on the whole, however between the initial six of us from campus, as well as several other off campus students who we met up with after landing, we managed to sort things out. A weathered looking man in his mid 60’s retrieved us at the airport, hustled (and I mean hustled) us into van number two for the day, and took off down the dirt roads in a crappy stick shift van/bus easily reaching speeds upwards of 80kmph complete with passing on turns and hills as well as the most aggressive tail gating that I have seen in quite some time - and I’m a New Yorker. Molly was borderline positive that this was the end of our lives - a thought that was by no means entirely out of the question. Apparently road rage exists in Australia as well and lord help whatever poor tourist this lunatic scared the life out of. As if driving on the left side of the road from the right side of the car wasn’t life threatening enough as it is. Eventually, we lived through the drag race of an airport transfer, and after much confusion and a few raised voices, we finally made it to the correct hostel, instead of the strange hostel down the road that our angry driver man was convinced we were supposed to stay at. Sorry buddy, you were wrong, but thanks for playing. 

Base Hostel was an awesome hostel. Each room was basically a little bungalow set back from the road with four rooms with five beds to each building. Each room had 2 bunk beds, one solo bed, it’s own full bathroom as well as a half kitchenette thing. This being Molly’s first hostel experience, I had to break the sad news that not all hostels were quite like this one - if they were more like this one, I would never stay at a hotel again. Actually, that’s a flagrant lie, but you get my point. Lacy, Molly, Emily, and one other girl who lives off campus and I were in one room, while James and Kristina bunked with the other three off campus students who we didn’t know at the time, in the room next to us, making an ideal configuration even though it was only for one night. By 11:30am we were already exhausted not only from being up at such an unreasonable hour, but from the combination of travel itself, the death defying van ride, and especially the brief episode of chaos in which nobody seemed to know where were supposed to spend the night. In an effort to wake ourselves up as well as calm our recently frazzled nerves, we set off in a group to explore Airlie. The town itself was pretty cool, consisting of basically one long street that ran parallel with the ocean, littered with bars, night clubs, pubs, pizza shacks, tourist trinket shops, surf shops, and local clothing stores. We settled on the open air bar with big fans and a massive long wooden tables as a place to grab a quick but comfortably greasy lunch. Kangaroo as well as crocodile was on the menu, but I figured I had better save my first kangaroo/croc ingestion experience for a place who’s tables were not still sticky from the night before. After recharging our batteries with some healthy deep fried food and several Pure Blonde pitchers - or, sorry, jugs - for the table, we split up and wandered around Airlie for the better portion of the afternoon. Lacy, Molly and I checked out the iconic Airlie Beach Lagoon even though it was a bit cloudy and then weaved in and out of the maze of little stores throughout the main strip. By 5:30, it felt like midnight and we decided that dinner time had arrived, even though nobody had invited it for such an early hour. We met back up with James, Emily and Kristina and, too tired to put true effort into searching for a nice dinner spot, we defaulted for the first pizza shack we found and inhaled a sizable amount of several different pizza species. We took our time from here and waited until happy hour to make our slow crawl back towards our hostel for the night. At some point, we found ourselves back at the same bar which we had lunch at, except by now it was absolutely packed to the gills and had $10 jugs which was enticing at the time. Worth noting at this point in my recap, is the group of around 15 Australian guys all wearing matching blue tank tops proclaiming that they were a footy team on their end of season break, in Airlie “to get pissed for the weekend.” Translation: they’re a rugby team spending the weekend in Airlie to drink for four days straight. I’m sure their doctors (if they even have them) are psyched. So, with this in mind, the six of us, plus one random German who we had picked up somewhere along the way, were sitting at one of the back tables, talking amongst ourselves and couldn’t help but notice that nobody was on the dance floor even though there was a live band. And by live band, I obviously mean a guy with a a guitar, a microphone and a laptop that plays all of the other necessary instruments for a band, and probably also projects the words to any given song as well. Anyway - it was better than a bad DJ any day. So, seeing live music and an empty dance floor, Lacy and I couldn’t resist but to go claim the dance floor for ourselves and see what happened. At the time, it seemed like a good idea for me to do “the worm” across the dance floor in an effort to get people’s attention and get some more bodies out there. It worked. After picking myself up from my extremely physically taxing worm display, I was instantly greeted by one of the guys in blue who felt the urgent, pressing need to show me up - I might as well have had a bull’s eye on my back. He proceeded to do the worm, then a backflip, front flip, break dance, and some other acrobatic move I can’t even come close to describing. What kind of trained gymnast prays on poor white girls who think they can dance? Rude. Regardless of my bruised pride, and semi broken knee caps from the cement floor, the dance floor was soon packed with most of the guys in blue as well as some unworthy overly intoxicated floaters who would appear here and there before stumbling away. We had some competitive swing dancing maneuvers as well as a lot, a lot of lyrical interpretive dance, to songs like Summer of ’69 and Wild Thing. All in all, it was a bizarre night in a casual way that made it one definitely worth remembering. It was no surprise that Team Bond crashed no later than 11:30pm that night - we had all been awake for far too many hours as it was, and the insane dance riot that we had ignited definitely took whatever energy that was left in us right out. 

The next morning, we checked out of the hostel, grabbed a quick breakfast at the cafe on our street and then headed down to the marina to meet the boat called Wings 3 that we were about to spend the next two days on. Wings 3 was a 50ft catamaran captained by a Kiwi named Pete, who governed a support staff of two. There was the dive master, Rich, or “Richie, Richie Rich, Richster, RichMan” or whatever other self proclaimed nick names he addressed himself as, as well as an American girl named Amanda who kept us shockingly well fed throughout the trip. After boarding the boat, and after the understandably necessary but equally painful, if-the-boat-sinks-and-or-all-hell-breaks-loose-procedure lecture to sit through before we shoved off from Airlie Beach and finally headed across to the Whitsunday Islands. It was such a breath of fresh air (literally and figuratively) to be back on a boat for more than a few hours and I had an avalanche of Geronimo memories come washing over me as if I had locked them away for a while and then they were suddenly triggered to come racing back to the front of my mind. I hadn’t thought about that trip for quite a while so it was nice to sort of re-live it all in my own way. So anyway, after the we made a quick 2(ish) hour beeline for Hook Island and dropped anchor promptly at a dive site called Mackerel Bay upon arrival. 

Once here, we had our first chance to hit the water and get a taste of what Australia’s famous Barrier Reef had to offer. The answer is jellyfish. Australia has jellyfish to offer. Thanks to National Geographic’s seasonal special entitled, “Killer Jellyfish,” every single one of us on the boat had a quiet, nagging concern about the lethal box jellyfish - you know, the one that sends you into cardiac arrest within 3 minutes? Not good odds, but thanks for playing. Before we finally worked up the courage to jump in, someone squeaked out a question about the chances of seeing one of these nasty little stingers. The response was not to worry - they only come after the rains. There was a long, pregnant pause before James said in a very monotone voice, “It rained yesterday.” Luckily it was eventually clarified that “the rains” referred more to the seasonal rains, not the daily ones, so we were apparently in some sort of a safe zone, or at least thats what they told us. I would lie to us too at that point. The visibility was not exactly Bahamian clarity, but it was still clear enough to see what needed to be seen. The coral was incredible. I’ve never seen coral so huge, so colorful and so alive, but then again, I’ve never spent time on a Pacific Ocean reef, let alone on the Barrier Reef, so I suppose it’s to be expected. This is not to say, however, that the coral I am used to is sub - par, because it’s quite above par if I do say so myself, it’s just totally different from this and, and I was in no way prepared for such vibrant life to be pouring out of each coral head. I saw giant clams with blue lips for the first time, real life Nemo’s popping in and out of their anemones, massive parrot fish and groupers, eels, turtles, the list is endless. Despite the water being absolutely freezing, it was an awesome introduction to the Barrier Reef. 

On Saturday morning, we were up to see the sunrise around 5:30am which is always a rude hour, but it was definitely work dragging our tired bodies out of the bunks for. Since the sun doesn’t set over the ocean here, (thank you, southern hemisphere,) a sunrise was the closest thing we’d get to the colors of the oceanic sunsets that we’re used to at home. Shortly after the sunrise photo shoot of some very, very overtired students, we stuffed some breakfast down our gullets and were underway to the most iconic beach of the Whitsunday Islands. We dropped anchor just behind Whitehaven beach around 8am and first set foot on the trail up over the ridge and down to the famous beach on the other side not long afterwards. Whitehaven beach was incredible. 7km of completely untouched natural perfection. The sand at Whitehaven is completely unlike anything in the world as it’s almost entirely made up of silica - not coral, not rocks, and not volcanic sediment - silica. To say that this sand is white would be an embarrassing understatement. The sand is blindingly white - a lot like the choppers of those overly faked tanned women who are simultaneously addicted to teeth whitening, making their teeth into laser beams of light. We spent the next two or three hours being slowly fricasseed by the sun, no thanks to Australia’s apparent lack of ozone layer, as well as exploring up and down the beach and dodging in and out of the crystal water. I remember thinking that the sand was literally like flour as I walked back to our towels from the water. I have never seen sand so fine and so powdery. I chuckled to myself quietly out of guilt as I thought about my roommates, friends and teammates back in Chestertown. Initially I felt terribly guilty that I was basically frolicking on one of the world’s most perfect beaches, while I knew that they were back at school grinding through the daily routine on the other side of the world; and at that moment I would have given anything to have transported them to the beach to share the experience with me. Places like this are proof that nature, entirely in itself, is perfect, and I sincerely hope that at some point in everyone’s life they have a moment where they can see that for themselves. 

Later that afternoon we were back in the water to explore a reef on the back side of Hook Island. The visibility was not quite as clear as the last site, but the coral was far more dramatic with huge coral heads and deep crevasses that were too dark to see all the way through. The life at this site was also much larger with parrot fish on steroids as well as octopus (not the blue banded, thank goodness,) and more Pacific giant clams. I was hovering a few feet above a massive sea anemone watching the clown fish pop in and out when all of a sudden, I felt something cold slide underneath my wetsuit on my neck just behind my left ear. Instinctively I thrashed and swatted at my neck but it was too late, and I immediately felt a terrible burning and stinging sensation where the nasty little gelatinous critter had slipped in. I knew it was a jellyfish, and also knew that this meant that I either had 3 minutes to live, or, I was going to be totally fine, and probably end up with a small rash to whine about later. I calmed myself down and patiently waited for the immanent cardiac arrest to set in as I slowly made my way in the general direction of other people should all hell break loose within my cardiovascular system. After the longest two and a half minutes of my life and no signs of heart failure, I determined that I was going to live and went about my business and quickly distracted myself with what I thought to be a sea snake - another mean spirited Australian animal  that I hope to never see again. Once everybody was back on the boat, the long line for the most claustrophobic shower on earth began to form, and took a solid 50 minute chunk out of our evening in the name of hygiene. That evening, I sat with the captain for quite a while, talking about Australia in general, about sailing, whales, New Zealand and my not-so-extensive knowledge of rugby. As the sun went down the stars began to pope up out of the dusk, brighter than burning torches on a beach at night. The first, and brightest orb to appear in the sky was Venus, made visible by the distinct size and orange tint, as well as its low lying position just above the horizon. By the time the sun was totally gone, the sky was alive with unfamiliar constellations as well as the famous Southern Cross. In that instant I really felt like I was on the other side of the world. That night, I looked up to the sky and did not recognize one constellation, and even the moon was upside down. Whenever I travel, or am away from my friends and family, it’s always a quite comfort to know that when I look up at the stars and the moon, it’s the same night sky that they’re looking at wherever they are - plus or minus a few clouds. Suddenly I was alarmingly aware that I was looking up at a full sky that was totally different than the one that blanketed them in their night 10 hours prior. It was like realizing that the largest commonality I could think of, being the night sky, was no longer common, but was something totally alien and different - and I was fine with it. 

Solo in Sydney

They say that everyone should take a trip somewhere alone at least once in your life, not necessarily because some people find it easier to travel alone, but more so that you can experience something new totally within yourself, uninterrupted and on your own time. So...I took Lonely Planet's advice and headed to Sydney by myself last weekend. I suppose I can't say that I was totally alone, as I do have a friend, Jackie, who is currently living in Sydney as well as another friend, Lynn who was also visiting the city at the same time who I did spend time with, but for the most part, I was flying solo on this one. I left the Gold Coast around one on Thursday afternoon to make the long trek to the Brisbane airport and made relatively good time, which put me off to a good start. I flew one of Australia's domestic airlines called JetStar, and was fully prepared to be put on a rickety prop-plane of questionable strength, so it was a pleasant surprise when I boarded a more sturdy looking airbus. (Not that a whole lot about planes really makes me genuinely happy, so consider this all relative.) The flight was short, and thankfully uneventful with great weather on either side, which made for a panic attack-free flight right up until landing. Landing at Sydney International is a lot like landing at La Guardia...you're literally landing on the water until the plane feels like it's ten feet from the ground. The difference is, when I fly into La Guardia, I'm very much aware of the mirage of immediate doom, however was totally unprepared for the same evil trick to be played on me upon landing in Sydney. So let this be a warning to anyone about to fly into Sydney who happens to be as fragile as I am. After hopping (happily) off the plane, I made it to my hostel on Chalmer's street in about 25 minutes, as the train from the airport runs practically to the doorstep of the hostel which makes traveling to and from quite easy. The hostel that I stayed at was called Bounce and was actually a great hostel - lots and lots of rooms, nice big bathrooms, an internet dock, clean linens, big kitchen, rooftop patio, rec room, free Goon (boxed wine) and cheese night, and an attached pub called the Winking Lizard. What was not so groovy however, were my 7 male German roommates. All hostels have coed dorms and only a handful have gender segregated quarters, so this was by no means out of the ordinary as far as hostels go. What was out of the ordinary though, was the fact that they were all German, and that four were traveling together, making for a painfully loud room at all hours. Anyway, after checking into the hostel and dropping my stuff in my locker, I headed out to meet Jackie for dinner. My first impressions of Sydney were made at this point as we wandered the streets looking for somewhere to eat. First of all, I was shocked at how absolutely frigid the city was. Having just flown in from Surfer's Paradise, my flip flops and light sweater were not exactly keeping the hypothermia at bay, but luckily I managed to keep all of my toes that night. The second thing that immediately struck me was that Sydney is very much a city. This may sound stupid at first, but after living in Australia for over a month now, I have forgotten the fast paced chaos, the smells, the noise and urgent pulse of a big city - and I haven't missed it. Despite being overwhelmed, I was still endlessly excited to finally be in Australia's most iconic city and couldn't wait to explore it in the daylight. In my head, it was almost like touching the base of Australia and finally getting out past the Gold Coast and out of my bubble in Queensland. After a half hour or so of wandering, we settled on a goofy looking Irish pub for dinner and drinks...i.e. $8 pitchers of domestic Beer and warm, comfort bar food. After dinner, several pitchers, and lots of catching up, we parted ways for thing night (after Jackie so kindly walked me literally to the door of my hostel, clearly anticipating correctly that the probability of me getting myself hopelessly lost was high) I climbed up to the top bunk over my sleeping German bunkmate and collapsed into sleep.

Day two in Sydney started around 5am with a distinct intermittent rumble of my mattress and bed frame. German number 7 was snoring. This was not just any snore. This was a snore that only Sasquatch, the Yeti, or Goliath could muster. Aside from the sheer decibel of volume that his snores were reaching, the most amazing part about it, was that he never once woke himself up from the noise he was generating. I was six feet above him and it woke me up, and he's literally producing that noise, yet he clearly slept right though it! I remained in and out of sleep depending on how aggressive his snores became for the next three or so hours until German number 4 began to snore in unconscious retaliation. Long story short, German number 7 should probably see a doctor, and upon the unwelcome symphony of snoring taking place in my room I decided that it was time to start my day.

I left Bounce and walked all the way down Elizabeth Street on my way to Sydney's Mecca of tourism, determined to see everything that one person possibly could in one day. On the way, I cut through Hyde Park which I had recently just given a presentation on for my Australian History class, so the visit felt justified and more informed than the tow paragraphs that the Lonely Planet could give me before I left the hostel. My visit happened to coincide with Sydney's art festival which that day was taking place in Hyde Park just before St. Mary's Cathedral. There were massive photos hung between trees with fishing wire, and individual guitarists and sax players scattered throughout the park, making for an interesting walk to the water. I sat down across from the fountain to consult my trusty map to make sure that I was not already lost, and it was here that I first noticed the number of Asians, and observed them in their impressively touristy ways. Everything that I say from here on out, know that I am trying extra hard to be as politically correct as possible, but I'm aware that I'm probably toeing the line. I mean no offense by my observations, as that's all they are...but all that I can say is that I don't think I will ever totally understand the stereotypical Asian tourist, as I'm sure they don't understand me in the slightest - which is fine. I watched groups of them rotate like a frantic game of musical chairs through standing in front of the same scene, expressionless, motionless, but sure to make peace signs with their hands one second before the flash as if it were an afterthought. We all know it was not an afterthought. What I found to most interesting at this point, was the fact that it never seemed to be the women who had the camera, but instead, was always the male with an impressive Nikon or Canon SLR. Before snapping a photo, he would take probably the only athletic stance he's ever taken in his life and plant one leg firmly in front of the other and bend his knees as if he were about to ram a door with his shoulder, then spend 20 seconds or so holding that pose and simultaneously focusing the camera to his liking. I presume these families have some incredible photos after watching all of the work that goes into their creation. I have to hand it to them - they definitely know what they're doing with a camera.

After determining that I was not lost, I continued my epic trek down to Sydney Harbor. When I finally arrived, the harbor was a bee hive of activity, with ferries coming and going, crowds of people (which I quickly joined) taking photos in front of the Sydney Harbor Bridge, swarming in and out of overpriced gift shops, several didgeridoo players, and huge tour groups moving through Circular Quay like bulldozers. If you follow the promenade, it takes you parallel to the Harbor Bridge which is primo for the required Me-In-Front-Of-The-Sydney Harbor Bridge shot, before it snakes to the right allowing the Opera House to come into view. The Bridge was impressive only in that you're so used to seeing it in pictures that it's really cool to finally see it in person, but architecturally and aesthetically, it's not strikingly impressive entirely within itself. The Opera House on the other hand, took my breath away. There are plenty of bridges in the world, but there's nothing that even comes close to the Opera House. In person, it actually appears slightly yellowish, and not completely pearl-white as the postcards make it out to be. Also, nobody told me that from above, the Opera House is actually a few separate buildings only connected through the sub terrain level. I absolutely loved finally seeing that building in person, and that alone made the trip worth it already. So obviously, I took plenty of the required Me-In-Front-Of-The Opera House photo and in the process, I learned something else. When asking a stranger to take a photo of you, you get the best result when you ask someone who has a massive SLR camera, is preferably Asian and looks like he knows what he's doing. Maybe it's their way of showing off, to let you know that they can take a better photo than you can on your own camera, but regardless, it's a winner every time.

At around noon, I noticed a harbor tour boat getting ready to head out and quite literally jumped on board as the massive boat was pulling away from the dock, alarming several of the crew members in the process. When I walked inside on my way to the upper outside viewing deck, I was greeted by about 60 stares from an entire organized tour group of Japanese tourists who were doing a whirlwind tour of Australia in one week. Those were the only passengers on the harbor tour - me, two Scottish women, and 60 tourists from Japan. I laughed to myself as I climbed the little stairway to the upper deck and parked myself on the rail of the boat to take in the harbor and the city from the vantage point of a boat. The best part about the harbor tour, was that I got to see the Bridge and the Opera house from so many different angles as we cruised past the Botanical Gardens, Mrs. Macquarie's Chair, Shark Island, Manly's Warf, Darling Harbor, and ritziest of Sydney's houses. It was definitely the best way to see as much as possible within a short amount of time, which is exactly what I had - 2 days to see it all, ready, set go. I was not alone on the upper deck. About 15 of my new pals from the Japanese tour group were up there as well, taking an unbelievable amount of photos which I thoroughly enjoyed watching. Towards the end of the tour however, I suddenly became the center of attention, and for once, I literally did nothing to cause this. I was leaning over the rail when one of them tapped me on the shoulder, smiled and said, "Picture?" I said, of course I'd take his picture for him and reached for his camera. Instead of doing what I expected, he said, "No. With me?" The stranger from Japan wanted to take a photo with a complete stranger. I was too shocked to say otherwise so I just said, "Sure?" and before I knew it, I was posing with my arm around some Japanese guy's shoulder smiling as big as possible and doing my best not to look confused. He thanked me profusely and then scuttled away. Almost immediately afterwards, this happened twelve more times, and I am honestly not exaggerating in the slightest. I still can't figure out why they all seemed to insist on wanting a photo with me, a total stranger being just as touristy as them on a harbor cruise. It was hands-down one of the most inexplicably strange things to happen to me  in a long, long time. The entire affair caused such a scene that one of the Scottish women even asked me if I was some type of "American celebrity." They were definitely the friendliest group of strangers I've ever met.

After the harbor cruise, I grabbed lunch at one of the overpriced cafes, although it was totally worth it, as it produced a phenominal pizza for me at the peak of my starvation. After a solo, and forcibly introspective lunch date with myself, I set out to walk through Botanical Gardens and convinced myself that it wouldn't take too long to walk through the entire thing all the way from the Opera House to Mrs. Macquarie's Chair. Wrong. Two and a half hours later, my out of shape legs felt like they had just run a marathon and I limped back to the tourism depot in desperate need of a hot chocolate, as I was again, inadvertently bordering on hypothermia. I warmed up at another, slightly less overpriced of the cafes on the promenade while looking out over the Opera House and the Bridge. The view was even better in the soft fading light and I couldn't have asked for a better view to recoup in front of. When I finally mustered the energy (and the warmth) to make the hour walking voyage back to the hostel it was around 5:30, and definitely time for a hot shower. After getting back to Bounce and cleaning myself up, I joined German #5 for dinner and for tonight's special of $4 Goon bags at the Winking Lizard before I finally put my tired legs to sleep.

Day three started out quite similarly to day one - an alarm clock of snoring Germans. As comically obnoxious as it was, it was just as well since I was getting up early to head down to the Opera House to meet Jackie and Lynn. I left with time to spare seeing as I chose to flee the German Opera before anyone started sleep talking, because at this rate, that would have been disastrous. So I took my time ambling down to the harbor and cut back through Hyde to see the new exhibits that had been put up. Today, they had a few sculptures and a splattering of odd abstract art, none of which I have a particular eye for, so I continued on like a homing pigeon. I had told Jackie that I would meet her at the steps of the Opera House, but by the time I got there the steps just looked too steep and far too far, so instead I plopped myself down on one of the plastic benches at the base of the stairs that faces the Bridge and watched a set of tiny Bridge climbers inch glacially slowly towards the top of the arch. Eventually, after some slight confusion, such as Lynn and I being within 50 yards of each other but not realizing, the three of us finally convened and walked down to the Man O' War slip and boarded the whale watching boat. The three of us, after some slight foul play on my part involving elbows, snagged the 3 seats in the front row an quickly settled in, complete with massive oversized rain jackets in the event of spray. The boat was awesome. It was a pontoon boat, so it was built for speed, however the four 225 horsepower engines on the stern turned it into a heat seeking missile. We cruised out through the mouth of the Sydney Harbor which was an awesome sight with two huge, dramatic cliff faces on either side. Boats were everywhere and all we could think of was how painfully stressful it probably is to be a boat captain entering or exiting the Sydney Harbor at any given time. Between the massive ferries, the even bigger harbor cruise boats, the the cruise ships, the pleasure crafts, the kayakers - the odds aren't good. We spent the next 2 hours flying up and over some pretty good sized rollers, definitely covering a lot of surface area before finally hitting the water again after each wave. We ended up seeing one whale, which was almost of little importance as the boat ride itself was so much fun. Chilled to the bone, we turned back to the harbor and almost immediately got right back on another boat, but this time, a ferry to Manly.

Manly is only about a 20 minute ferry ride from Circular Quay, but once we got there, it felt much further away. It was a totally different feel than the vibe that I got from Sydney's city and Harbor. First of all, our visit also happened to be on the eve of the Manly Sea Eagles vs New Zealand Warriors rugby grand final match so the entire town was decked out in maroon and white for Manly. The town was radiating Manly pride and the two pubs we saw were already going hard in preparation for the big event looming on the horizon. There also happened to be a jazz festival that weekend, so we stopped here and there and listened to the various preforming bands. Soon after our arrival, we stopped for lunch and within 10 minutes of being there, an impromptu jazz "hot potato" band appeared on the street directly across from us and played for almost the entire time that we were there. Lunch and an accidental show! After lunch, which was actually the best meal I've had since being in Australia - even though the ketchup was still tomato sauce - we walked across the street and meandered through the Saturday open air markets, all the while, dragging Jackie away from all things shiny. Seeing as the beach was literally within six feet of us the whole time, we passed some time down there, watching the surfers as well as the beginnings of the sun's slow descent through the patchy clouds. As the sun went down, the temperature too began to make a steady slip and we decided it was time to head back to Sydney and seek warmth.

The ferry ride back was also pretty iconic. One one side of the boat, there was the mouth of the harbor with those two impressive cliff faces looking like they were pulled straight out of the move Avatar or Lord of the Rings, and on the other side was the entire Sydney skyline. This was the first time that I literally felt world's away from home without having to hear someone speak, read a sign that made no sense, fight a simple day to day object that is obviously American proof, or see the way people are dressed. It was something totally static that made me finally feel like I was on the other side of the world, and was no longer just aware of the distance somewhere within my subconscious. Sydney was great, and catching up with some good friend for a day made it even more memorable. As for my first truly solo traveling experience - I can cross it off the list, and add it to the "life experiences" category of my growing list of adventures.