The Great Barrier Reef

Looks like Boston Harbor....500 years ago.

OK, we’re back to the blog after a little hiatus to catch myself up from the jetlag. And also because it was hard to type with tears in my eyes knowing that my vacation was ending, but no need for you to dwell on that image. Due to the widespread clamoring for more blogging—seriously, for some reason, people have been asking when I’m going to write again—I’m going to jump ahead a bit to my day on the Great Barrier Reef. Why, you may or may not be asking? Because it’s the Great Barrier Reef. It’s the size of California. It has 1,500 species of fish (depending on who you ask). And because it’s a World Heritage Site—and I’m a sucker for World Heritage Sites. And because it’s my blog. I’ll do what I want.



There are roughly 7 languages being spoken at this moment.

One of the things I’ve been telling people who asked about my trip to Australia is that I’ve experienced a number of “firsts” on this first trip to Oz. First meat pie (as previously stated). First time watching a crocodile eat a dead chicken. First kangaroo sighting in the wild (more on that later). First kangaroo being hit by a golf ball (more on that, too). First flight next to a South African-born female massage therapist (previously stated and widely commented on by male friends). And, now, first scuba dive. As locations go, taking your first scuba dive on the Great Barrier Reef is the equivalent to playing your first round of golf at Augusta National or losing your virginity to an adult film star. Although, the dive did last 30 minutes, so maybe that’s a bad comparison. 

So, with great expectations on the brain, not to mention the possibility of coming face-to-face with a shark, I took an unsettlingly bumpy plane ride to Cairns. Far less polished than Sydney or Melbourne, Cairns is a popular backpacker city on the northeast coast of Australia and an easy jumping off point for The Reef. An honest-to-God rainforest sits in the mountains above the city and the climate is humid. Florida style. Aborigines and tourists stroll the streets and the waterfront is the highlight of the city. Several large hotels overlook a healthy sized marina filled with tour boats that haul visitors to and from The Reef. 


I woke early and (this is important) APPLIED MY FIRST LAYER OF SUNSCREEN, then strolled a mile or so along the waterfront. After a brief stop for a tasty plate of scrambled eggs and toast, I found my boat, the Ocean Freedom, and met the crew. The first paying customer I met onboard was a 23-year-old guy from Galway, Ireland, named Alan. Alan had just landed in Australia earlier in the week with his friend Rebecca, and both were looking for work for the next year. Yes, that’s how economically bad things are in Ireland, folks. The whitest people on the planet are packing up and moving to a place where they dole out sunburns like there’s a hole in the Ozone layer (which there actually is, as locals will remind you). “Make sure you put sunscreen on, mate! We have a hole in our Ozone layer. No, seriously, a HOLE in our Ozone layer.” 

After a 45-minute ride out to the snorkel/dive spot with about sixty people from all over the planet, the majority of them in their 20s and 30s, we all popped on our masks, PUT ON MORE SUNSCREEN, and jumped in. This seems like a good time to point out that I was well aware of the fact that I would be spending much of the day face down in the ocean in an area of the world where the sun is particularly, umm, potent. I was not going to get sunburned today. 

The first few minutes of snorkeling on the Great Barrier Reef is a little bit surreal. On one hand, it feels odd to just hop in the ocean so far from any land and swim around without knowing what’s down there, but there’s comfort in the fact that someone around you must taste better than you do. Hard to believe in this case, I know. The colors of the reef were like nothing I’ve ever seen before and the coral and tropical fish seem to have no end. You swim 20 yards and think you’ve seen all there is to see. Then you swim 20 yards farther and see something totally new. It’s one of those experiences that cause you to somehow heighten your senses and really try to process everything you’re taking in. In the back of your mind during all of this is the realization that you are looking at The Great Barrier Reef, something that always seemed so far out of reach. You don’t think of anything else in life. You just soak it all in. Those moments are pretty rare in life, I think…you know, without alcohol.

It was from this blissful state that I was abruptly jolted when a small watercraft buzzed by me with the boat captain at the helm yelling, “Tim! Tim! Where’s Tim?”

“Huh? Yeah, I’m Tim.”

“It’s your turn to dive, mate. Didn’t you hear us yelling for you?”

“Umm, no…because I’m SNOR-KO-LING. You know, with my head in the water?”

“Oh, well, we’ve been yelling for you for a while now. You couldn’t hear us?”

“No, sorry. I had my head in the water. You know, where it’s hard to hear anything above the water when you’re, you know, a human.”

“Right. No worries, mate. Hop in the boat.”



Note to self: Cut back on Beer...

...tomorrow.

With 59 people peering up from the water to look at me, we commenced the short and marginally embarrassing two-minute ride back to the main boat in what they had earlier termed the “rescue boat.” I suited up for my first scuba dive, trying to remember the details from the 20-minute safety chat we’d been given earlier. So, let’s go back a couple hours to this group safety lesson and recap what we learned about scuba diving in the Cliffs Notes version for something that takes weeks to be officially certified for: 

If you get in trouble, do this.

Hold your nose and pop your ears on the way down.
This means “OK.”
This means “Up.”
This means “Down.” 
Go like this to remove water from you goggles.
And this means “shark.”

Me (thinking to self): Umm, pretty sure if I see a shark, I will have my own signal and it will look a little bit like me sitting in the boat before my guide diver realizes I’m gone. But, ok, got the signals. What’s the bunt sign?

There were several other important tips to digest, all of which would ensure that my lungs would not explode upon resurfacing, resulting in a lonely, painful death in front of 59 tourists with no one around that I even remotely know, approximately one entire ocean from home. Pleasant thoughts, pleasant thoughts. The most important tip was a simple one: remember to breathe. Got it. Evidently, lots of first-time divers have a habit of holding their breath because that’s what your brain tells you to do under water. Your lungs fill with air when they shouldn’t and bad things happen. Noted.

Underwater camera: well worth the $25.

Both dives were with a guide and I have to admit that any nerves I had went away immediately when I jumped off the back of the boat. It was very cool. The first dive was over a large coral reef with vibrant colors and schools of multi-colored fish swimming around us. My guide, a Kiwi dude named Alastair, inspired plenty of confidence. Once I got settled, he showed me bits of coral, picked up things along the ocean floor and handed them off to touch and feel. At one point he handed me a sea cucumber. (That’s right, I just told you I did a tandem dive and the guy handed me his sea cucumber.) We only went down about 20 feet on the first dive, but it really did provide a totally different perspective than snorkeling did. I came back to the surface wanting to do it again. 

Between dives I applied MORE SUNSCREEN and enjoyed an amazing meal provided by the boat. After lunch, a pretty French girl named Natalie offered to apply sunscreen for me and I said yes, because I’m not stupid. When we got to the next dive spot, which was a deeper area with less coral and reef, Alastair told me we’d be looking for some reef sharks that hide out in one area of the reef below us. Twenty minutes of diving under my belt and now we’re seeking out sharks? This sport has a steep learning curve. When he assured me that things would be safe, I dropped a line about only having to be second slowest in order to be safe, telling him, “Well, if the sharks get ornery, I only have to beat you out of there, right?”

To which he smiled and said, “Yeah, but I could just pull out my knife and cut you. They like that sort of thing.” Fair enough, Alastair. Fair enough.

Yep, 20-minute safety class. 

In a weird way, I found myself wanting to see a couple of sharks, figuring this opportunity would probably not come along often. We never saw any, but Alastair gave me a little more freedom on the second dive, allowing me swim around on my own and stay close to him, which was pretty cool—the swimming on my own part, not the staying close part. We went down about 30 feet and swam into a couple of caves and checked out some sea rays that were busy minding their own business, celebrating how their big brother took out the Crocodile Man a couple years back. Alastair snapped his fingers over a couple of small organisms living on the reef that were no bigger than my thumb, and they immediately shut closed when he did. Now he’s just showing off.

On the ride back to port, I applied MORE SUNSCREEN and spoke with the woman who was second in command onboard. She told me that they’ve seen plenty of hammerheads, tiger sharks and even crocodiles in the area where we were diving and snorkeling. Evidently, they rely on the helicopter tour operators to let them know if a large shark or croc is swimming in the area. In which case, they will cancel their stop and move along to another location, which seems like the responsible move in that situation. All indications are that those bastards (crocs) are just mean.

At the end of the day, I did what everyone else did on that boat—went home to nurse my brutally sunburned back. Freakin Ozone hole.

Stay tuned for my next report on the most insane Irish bar on the planet. And, yes, that statement that was verified by my new Irish friends from the boat, who—having not seen actual sunshine since they were seven years old—were slightly more sunburned than I.

A sporty day in Melbourne

If you didn’t know this—and if you haven’t been to one of them, how would you—the inhabitants of Melbourne and Sydney enjoy a healthy debate over which city is, well, better. They both lay claim to a fair bit of the country’s business headquarters and a staggering percentage of the country’s overall population live in these two places. I don’t know the percentage and I’m on vacation so I’m not looking it up, but believe me when I say that it would stagger you if you heard it. OK? Good.

Federation Square in Melbourne.

The consensus is that Sydney is the place you’d want to visit, but Melbourne is the city in which you’d want to live. After three days in Sydney it’s hard to argue with the notion of living there, too, other than the fact that you pay through the nose for the quality of life you’d enjoy. Melbourne isn’t cheap either, and has plenty of culture to offer in its own right. Much of that culture centers on a rabid interest in sports. The Aussie Rules Football Grand Final match is played in Melbourne every year, the Australian Open tennis tournament takes place at Melbourne Park, and the Melbourne Cup at Flemington (the huge thoroughbred track in town) is billed as “The Race That Stops a Nation.” It should be pointed out that Australians also love to wager on sports…or anything, for that matter. They call it “having a punt,” from what I can tell and there isn’t much they won’t bet on. 

A crowded lane at lunchtime. And bad photo-cropping.

For the reasons stated above and below, I decided to spare my size 13s another day of all-out pedestrian nirvana and focus on a few places in and around Melbourne, including some sports-related sightseeing. A friend’s fiancée was kind enough to drop me off in Melbourne’s kind of central square area called Federation Square , which is a bustling bit of real estate with a huge TV screen and chairs set out in a sort of plaza area. This is where Melbourne sports fans gather to watch things like World Cup soccer matches or Australia's Wallaby rugby matches (Rugby teams seem to always have the best team names, by the way.) Fed Square boasts some interesting new buildings that somehow blend with the older architecture in the area, like the Flinder Street train station across the street. I strolled around the downtown area and stumbled upon some brick alleyways (called “lanes” here) that have been made into small outdoor eating areas. As a visitor during lunchtime, you feel as though you’ve stumbled onto some sort of locals’ secret, despite the fact that it feels like half of Melbourne is in there dining on vegemite (kidding). 

Flinder Street train station in central Melbourne.

One thing you can’t help but notice in Melbourne is the abundance of coffee shops. It seems like every other storefront is serving java. There is some stat that Melbourne has more coffee shops per person than any other city in the world. (Seattle must be pissed at that one.) Still, Melbournians don’t seem terribly jittery as a population, so I guess all these shops have conditioned them to handle their caffeine intake. I don’t drink coffee, so if you’re looking for a review on Melbourne coffee shops, I can’t help you. Sorry. Buy a plane ticket. Beer review; we could do a beer review. Let me think on that one.

Home to the Australian Open. Tractor sold separately. 

After grabbing a very average sandwich at an open-air cafe, I made my way from the crowded city streets down to the Yarra River, which runs through the middle of Melbourne and along the Queen Victoria Gardens, the start of a scenic stretch of parkland. The Southgate Promenade along one side of the river is lined with lunch spots and restaurants/bars, where residents were getting a head start on their weekend (a trend is developing here, by the way). I decided to break away from the crowds and stroll along the river through the parklands and past the Sydney Myer Music Bowl, an open-air concert venue located just a short walk from downtown. Evidently, Mr. Myer donated the money to build the venue as a free place for Melbourne residents to get cultured. And no, it’s no longer free.  

After lounging in the sun for a few minutes, I plotted a more sports-themed afternoon of tourism, and headed across the Yarra River to the Rod Laver Arena on the grounds where the Australian Tennis Open is played. The arena, which features a retractable roof, was being sets up for a concert so I couldn’t sneak in and pound a few double faults, but I did mill around the tennis center a bit. It’s an elaborate facility with endless courts scattered around the Rod Laver building and Margaret Court, umm, Court. Across a footbridge and over a railroad line is the Melbourne Cricket Grounds (known locally as the MCG). The MCG is a bit of a misnomer in that this massive stadium is used for cricket and run by the Melbourne Cricket Club, but Australian Rules Football seems to be what pays the bills (presumably a fair amount of that coming in the profits brought in by draught beers from its concession stands during Aussie Rules matches). I signed up for a tour of the stadium and the Australian Sports Museum, which is, essentially, in the stadium’s basement. 


A few stats on the MCG that I learned from the old bird with the serious limp and disconcerting stamina problem giving the tour:

-The Grand Final (the Aussie Rules Super Bowl) is played here every year and more than 90,000 fans turn up for it. As I alluded to earlier, they consume a commendable amount of beer at that event.
-They also play national and club-level cricket matches here. Far as I can tell, cricket is sort of like going to a baseball game and, instead of paying attention to the players, watching the outfield grass grow. Except instead of doing that for three hours, you’d do it for something in the manner of three days. (Seriously, some of the matches last three days. Not even my favorite things to do in LIFE needs to last three days. Use your imagination.)

-The place has a security camera system that is monitored 24 hours per day, seven days a week, 365 days per year…in case someone tries to steal a wicket, I guess. (Cricket term.)

I'm told that this many people do not come to see cricket.

I’m not much of a museum buff when I travel (not that I go to them much when I’m home), normally preferring to fill my hours in foreign places strolling the streets or interacting with people that make the place what it is. But Aussies take particular pride in their sporting accomplishments, often quoting a statistic about number of Olympic medals they win in relation to the population of the country, as if all of the residents are competing in the Olympics, rather than just the best athletes. It’s a very impressive stat, in all honesty. (Then again, it’s not the fault of other country’s that Australia’s population is lower because 95% of their country is basically uninhabitable.) At any rate, this Aussie love of sports is how I justified my trip through the sports museum, which offered everything from educational how-tos on cricket and Aussie Rules Football to mementos from Australian Olympic glory and horse racing, which they take very seriously. The highlights for me were the video simulators that let patrons attempt kicks with an Aussie Rules Football through the uprights, and also field cricket grounders and throw at the wicket. (Cricket, by the way, seems like an exceedingly easy game for anyone who has played some baseball, but what do I know.)

As the old-timer working the information desk told me, “I don’t know a tour in the world that doesn’t end at the gift shop, so you’ll have ample time to hit that when you finish.” So I did, purchasing an overpriced Aussie Rules Football T-shirt that features the emblem of the North Melbourne Kangaroos, mostly because it has—you guessed it—a kangaroo on the front. 

Aussie meat pies….tasty

Because I was super eager to ascertain just how sore my feet could get, I decided to hoof it some more on my final day in Sydney, and departed from my hotel at Darling Harbour up a hill toward Hyde Park. It was warm and sunny, but the park’s huge trees provided a cool, shady canopy, which was a nice respite from the sun. It was probably 10 degrees cooler underneath (maybe 5 degrees Celsius cooler). From a park bench, I spied an old cathedral across the street, and—knowing that I was going to be wagering on horses and diving on the Great Barrier Reef in the coming days—decided that it might be a good idea to pay a visit. St. Mary of the Cross Cathedral reminded me of an old East Coast cathedral, something you might find in Boston, New York or Montreal. It was beautiful inside, with an elaborate altar and huge ceilings. 

All this church-viewing was starting to make me hungry, so I set off walking through a park area called The Domain, which was filled with people doing everything active that you can imagine. Jogging, playing soccer, playing American flag football, and of course kickboxing in the sun. ‘Cause that’s what people do in the sun; they kick box. It was now about noontime and there was also some sort of corporate challenge running race going on all around me. I felt like a traffic cone. Naturally, all this watching people run was making me rather hungry, so I followed the advice of a friend and headed to Harry’s, a trailer-type walk-up food stand in the Woolloomooloo section of town, which was close by. Harry’s has been around since the 1940s and is some sort of Sydney staple, famous for its meat pies. I had to try one. Ok, two. I had to try two. For some reason, I gave no second thought at all at the obvious risks associated with eating a meat pie out of a trailer in a foreign country. Like I said, I was hungry due to the people running thing. Woolloomooloo sits on the harbor and is evidently home to some famous Aussies like Russell Crowe. The Gladiator wasn’t home so I grabbed that second meat pie for the road and climbed the hundred or so stairs that lead back into The Domain toward Sydney’s Botanical Gardens. So, now we’re eating a meat pie and climbing 100 stairs. Whose idea was this?

Selling meat pies since the 1940s.

And that's a meat pie. I'll take two, please.

Miles of experience as a runner tells me that it’s never fun to go for a jog through a place with tasty-smelling food—say, through a campground or past a pizza joint at dinnertime. So it mustn’t have been fun for the 50 or so people participating in the corporate challenge run who had to climb those 100 stairs past an American mowing on meat pie from Harry’s, gravy oozing with every bite. Based on the sounds of their breathing (think: hyperventilation crossed with a toddler crying fit), some of these folks were seriously suffering and I took some satisfaction knowing many would rather have stopped to have a taste of meat pie. Meat pie now fully consumed, I strolled into the Botanical Gardens and found birds chirping, garden-type smells (whatever that means), and heaps of tourists riding around in some kind of smallish choo-choo train that ran on wheels and periodically honked at those of us who decided walking wasn’t all that difficult. (The choo-choo train reference was for the younger members of my audience and because it’s rare that you get to write the words “choo-choo train.”) The Botanical Gardens eventually led me back into the park and along the harbor, where scores of joggers were out enjoying the sunshine. Again, I’d like to point out that it was a weekday and no one seemed in a real hurry to get back to the office. Then again, who would be? If they were in no rush, I wasn’t going to be either, so I found a park bench, enjoyed the ocean view and watched the pretty Sheilas running back and forth. 

Note the Sox hat. 

A couple of hundred yards to my left, the jogging path/sidewalk led directly to the steps of the Sydney Opera house near Circular Quae, where I would catch my ferry to Manly Beach. (Not what you think, despite the name!) For the next few minutes, I sat on the opera house steps before spying a tourist who might take my photo (because what’s one more opera house photo among strangers?). Before long, I chatted up a British tourist on holiday with his wife, whom I could pretty fairly assume spoke English.

There are at least two ferries—the regular ferry and the fast ferry—that will take you to Manly Beach from Circular Quay, the main point of departure in Sydney Harbour. The clerk on the other side of the ticket window greeted me by telling me, “If you want to ride the fast ferry, you can’t buy that ticket here. We don’t operate that ferry. It’s run by another operator.” This didn’t seem to me to be the best way to sell me anything, but I admired his forthrightness in dealing with what must have looked like another obvious tourist. To me, one of the more experiences of traveling is the opportunity to (somewhat jokingly) ask questions to ticket window clerks like, “So, how fast is the fast ferry?” And, on rare occasions, they answer back with pearls like, “It’s fairly fast, mate.” Mr. Upsell and I both enjoyed a laugh at the lack of information shared during this exchange and then he proceeded to tell me that I would knock a whopping eight minutes off the 30-minute journey by purchasing the more expensive super fast ferry ticket from another vendor. He had earned my trust, so I purchased my $13 ferry ticket on the slower ferry and hopped aboard.

Manly Beach was about a five-minute walk from the Manly Beach ferry station; and it probably still is now that I’m gone. The beach itself is a pretty narrow stretch of sand, but goes for a while in each direction and the road along the beachfront is dotted with surf shops, burger joints and restaurant/bars that weren’t yet crowded this early in the season. An approaching storm cloud wasn’t helping things and when the heavens opened up, I did what any rational person does in a rainstorm if their bed is too far away for a nap: I found a place to drink beer. After a lamb burger and chips to accompany the lonely beer, I stepped back into the light rain and worked my way back toward the ferry station. The ride back was through a stormy harbor with rain coming down rather steadily. Sailboats tossed and turned on the water until the clouds gave way to a bright sky over the city.

From Circular Quay on the harbor, I began to make my way up through The Rocks section of town, weaving in and out of the small lanes (alley ways) that connect the streets in this section of town. Seeing the familiar colors of the Australian Hotel up one lane, I decided this would be a good place to conclude my day. I hopped a few steps and settled in for a couple of pots (local slang for a medium-sized beer). As luck would have it, the Australian Hotel bar (which serves more than 50 beers) also has a happy hour deal on some rather delectable chicken wings for $3.50. I know what you’re thinking: you traveled halfway around the world to try the chicken wings? You bet your ass; they’re chicken wings. In fact, I couldn’t think a better way to end a day….UNTIL this song came on. That’s right, Men at Work in a bar in Sydney. Awesome. My time in Sydney is now complete. Check, please!

Touching down in Cairns tonight to see the Great Barrier Reef. I’ll let you know if I find a Hooters in town with AC/DC on the jukebox. That’s a joke. 

Discovering more to like about Sydney

Reliving the coastal walk from Bondi Beach to Coogee Beach  

Bondi Beach.

Just off the one-hour plane ride from Sydney to Melbourne, on which I was planning to tackle this latest entry….until I got seated next to Nakita, the 20-something year-old adorable massage therapist who was born in South Africa but moved to Sydney with her family 15 years ago. I never get the lucky seat, save today. Keyboard did not get touched, magazine did not either. We chatted, we laughed, and she even bought me a bottle of water before I could pull the required coins from my pocket. You get the point. No writing got done and I think there was some sort of ’80s soundtrack being played underneath our conversation. Anyway, it was a very cool conversation with someone I would never have met in my daily routine—the best part of traveling, I’d say. All the better if it’s a young female massage therapist. 

Skate pool at Bondi Beach.

So, we’re fast forwarding to now, when I’ve got a few minutes to hammer out some notes on some more time spent in and around Sydney, which I’m starting to like more and more with each step taken on what are now very sore feet. Tuesday was my first full day in Australia, and also the first day I did not feel punch-drunk from being sleep-deprived. After squeezing in a quick workout at the hotel fitness center to get the blood moving after the previous day’s lengthy flight, I felt much more energized. So I headed for Sydney Harbour with a stop at a fruit stand in the middle of the financial district for an on-the-go breakfast. Two bucks and I was fed. As I crossed the street, I heard one guy saying to another that he was just out for a walk from the office. I bring this up because it was 10:30am on a Tuesday, and one thing I’ve noticed here is that Aussies seem very “relaxed” about their work schedules, if you can call that a schedule. They seem to take off randomly for a couple of hours in the middle of the day. I’m told that some Friday lunches can turn into three-hour breaks, with a return to the office at around 4pm for the sole purpose of finding out what your co-workers are up to that evening. Where do I sign up?

It was a spectacularly sunny day, so I spent the morning walking through The Rocks section of town, then across the Sydney Harbour Bridge, which provides a fantastic view of the city, the harbor and the Opera House. (For a guy who doesn’t particularly care for operas, I’ve got more photos of that opera house than one single, straight male should.) I kept going across the bridge into a town called Milson’s Point, with small houses that are all rather beautifully landscaped considering the limited land they have. Much of the neighborhood looks back across the harbor at the city, so, like most of Sydney, the cost of real estate here must be astronomical. The streets of Milson’s Point all smelled like fresh flowers. I don’t usually notice stuff like that, but it was overwhelming and pleasant, so I kept walking.

Eventually, I made my way to the Milson’s Point train/subway station and—after one train change in the city where I was subjected to a young woman who really thought everyone around her wanted to hear half of her cell phone conversation (we didn’t)—rode out to Bondi Junction. From there, it’s about a mile and a half down a long hill to the famed Bondi Beach. Bondi itself is a bit of a Bohemian place, where young people come to chill out and, by the looks of things, not do much else. As I walked down the street toward the beach, groups of 20-25-year-old girls would periodically pass in the opposite direction dressed in beach attire, all speaking various languages. I was looking forward to seeing Bondi Beach. On the whole, much of this area looked to be filled with young backpacker types who are spending their parents’ money living on a pretty sweet Aussie beach for the summer. If you can get that gig, good on ya, mate! (As they say in these parts.)

The coastal walk from Bondi to Coogee. 

Bondi Beach itself is as advertised; a large swath of light-brown-colored sand with a solid surf break and a ton of attractive people. The water is crystal clear along the shore and the beach stretches away from the beach for a good 100 yards. At the end of the beach, skateboarders dropped into two empty pools and threw tricks above the lip. It was a pretty cool scene. I had a beer at a local watering hole and solicited advice from the bartender on what else to see. He recommended the coastal walk from Bondi to Coogee Beach, which he said would take “about an hour.” This is where I should point out that, when you travel, the elements of time are about the only things that do not change. Power adapters, tipping traditions, the cost of a beer—all of them vary from country to country. But an hour in Sydney is an hour in Boston is an hour in Sri Lanka is an hour in Iceland (which must feel like a day). But an hour in Bondi must be 20 minutes everywhere else. This coastal walk was no “hour-long” stroll. It was, however, well worth the time and effort.

After relaxing for a little while on Bondi Beach, I went for a quick swim then packed up and began tackling the two-hour, “hour-long” walk to Coogee Beach. It was sensational. It has to be one of the greatest footpaths anyone has built anywhere. Around every corner, another gorgeous cove and small beach pops up beneath you. And just when you think you’ve seen them all, another one appears. The best part is that each beach (yes, I’m a rhyming poet now) has it’s own feel. Some are bigger than others, and some are such small slivers of sand that we wouldn’t even call them beaches in the U.S. Along the way are Tamarama, Bronte Beach, Clovelly Beach and, finally, Coogee Beach.

Nice view for the rest of your forever.

The coastline switches back and forth from rocky cliffs to pristine beaches in a matter of minutes. Pretty girls run by smiling and chatting in accents ranging from Aussie to American to German. Australia’s swimming culture is also very obvious here. Junior lifeguard training, rowing, sea kayaking, scuba diving and surfing; it’s all happening everywhere here. Roughly halfway through the walk is the Waverly Cemetery, which overlooks the coast and has to be the greatest piece of real estate occupied by dead people outside of the U.S. Capitol building. If they had this one to do over again, my guess is I’d be looking at hundreds of millions worth of homes on this spot. I reached Coogee Beach around 6pm and immediately found a comfortable bar stool at some kind of sports betting establishment along the beach for a well-deserved Kronenberg beer. NFL Primetime was on ESPN and I got to watch highlights of the Patriots beating the Chargers. Today was a good day.

As a little follow-up to my earlier post on walking on the left or right side of sidewalks, I’ll leave you with this experience from the end of my great day in Bondi and beyond, which was nearly ruined in a tragic escalator mishap. While heading back through the train station at Bondi Junction, I instinctively headed up the escalator on the right-hand side of the platform (as we would in the U.S). The trouble with this was that the escalator on the right-hand side was coming down. So you see the predicament we’re in here. I put one foot down on the last moving/disintegrating stair when I realized my error. Disaster was averted just in time when I jumped backwards before the escalator could take me out. But I had been exposed: Tourist!


Alright, I'm off to check out Melbourne. Still a bit more to come on Sydney.  

Sydney, New South Wales, Australia – Day 1

The day that doesn't end, but in a good way... sort of

What’s jet lag? Four movies, half an Ambien, five hours of sleep and a couple episodes of “Californication” later, I landed in Sydney via V Australia Airlines at 7am Monday morning local time. (Critics opinion here: I watched Russell Brand host some kind of MTV awards show earlier this year and thought he was an absolute idiot, but he was pretty damn funny in two movies I watched on the way here. Or maybe ANYTHING would have been funny while trapped in a giant tin can for most of a day. At any rate, the recovering addict who somehow landed Katy Perry helped pass the time. Thanks for that, mate.) Alright, enough Siskel and Ebert.

I saw a familiar face at the baggage carousel in Sydney, that of Callaway staff pro Stuart Appleby (“Mr. 59”), who is from Australia. We waited in line and went through the bag scan together and, although he now lives in Melbourne, he seemed pumped to tell me all the things to do in Sydney. At any rate, yeah, random encounter halfway around the world with PGA Tour Pro that I know from work. 

Sydney Harbor Bridge at sunset.

You know what’s awesome, when the handle to your luggage breaks two hours after you land for a two-week trip to another country, leaving your extender pull-handle stuck open. Sweet. Something tells me I’m not done with this situation. No idea how I’m going to check my bag on the next four flights between here and Los Angeles two weeks from now. Suggestions welcome. Or send me a hacksaw.

Rumor has it the best way to get acclimated with a new time zone is to embrace it. Since I’m so great at following directions, that’s what I did. After sleeping 4-5 hours on the 15-hour flight from LAX, I stayed up all day until 10pm on Monday and saw a lot of the city. With the help of an old friend who grew up here (thanks, Duncan), I checked off Darling Harbour, where I’m staying, then had lunch in Chinatown before more “walkabout” from there.  

This is why the chicken never crossed the road.

One observation I’d like to point out here is that Aussies seem to be in turmoil as to which side of the sidewalk to walk on. They drive on the left side of the road and the escalators that go up are on the left side of any train station (I came about a step from learning that the hard way), but they still sometimes go right on you on city sidewalks. It sometimes leaves you doing the awkward dance move with strangers coming at you. “You going right? You sure? Ok, I’ll go right, too, then and we’ll be cool. Oh, shit, he’s going left now. Wait, you went left at the last second, mate, and now we almost hugged. What the hell?” Someone needs to get this nailed down and everyone needs to stick by it.

From there, we checked out a sort of animal park mall that sits along Darling Harbour. Obviously, I don’t mean that it’s a place for reptiles and kangaroos to shop for shoes or the latest fall fashions. This place is set up like a mall, so—for $35—you just stroll through rooms filled with “the most venomous snake in the world,” an outdoor kangaroo viewing area, and the star attraction: Rex, the 45-year-old, 15-foot saltwater crocodile. Evidently, Rex eats a dead chicken that the zookeepers drop into his mouth only once per week. My gut says Rex is not on a self-imposed diet and that he would eat whatever you dangled above his dome any time during the week—arm, leg, small dog, large dog, giraffe, Yankee fan, whatever…but they say we lucked out by being there for the once-a-week feeding. Obviously, the zookeepers know their business. All I’m saying is I wouldn’t stand on the edge of his tank after he chowed on the bird just because they think he’s “full.” The feeding was impressive; let’s just say Monday was a bad day to be a dead chicken dangling above zoo-kept crocodile. 

Like any crocodile feeding would, this one made me thirsty. So we adjourned to a bar along Darling Harbour for a couple of pints. To give you an idea of how long I had now been awake on four hours of sleep since Saturday morning west coast time, try doing this math (like I’m doing right now): when we sat down with our pints at around 2pm Monday afternoon local time, the NBC Sunday night football game back home was on television at the bar.

After a stroll through the financial district, we arrived at The Rocks, a cool, old-style section of town with narrow streets and a fair amount of pubs. We staked out a rooftop spot at a pub called The Glenmore. The sun poked through after a cloud-filled day, lighting up the seascape of Sydney Harbour below, which consists of the iconic Sydney Opera House, the Sydney Harbor Bridge and a multitude of ferries crisscrossing between them; it’s one of the most spectacular cityscapes in the world (that I’ve seen). Stockholm is right up there, but this is amazing, too. You start thinking that these people are lucky to live here, even if their housing costs and rent prices lie somewhere between absurd and ridiculous. The day that would never end finally did a few hours later, but not without a stop at Australia’s oldest bar, then the opera house bar below the Sydney Opera House (you probably figured that out, didn’t you?) and another meal, this time at a Malaysian restaurant.

Before I sign off, I have to give some credit here to my father for a witty email that he sent after I dropped him a line from Sydney. It read: “The internet must be extra fast down under. I received your email Monday at 7:52pm, but you sent it on Tuesday at 10:52am. What a time warp! Please send me tomorrow’s Megabucks lottery numbers. Thanks. Ed.” Yep, genius. And, yes, that’s all it said.

Coming soon: a trip to Bondi Beach and one of the most spectacular coastal walks you can imagine. And some seriously sore feet. And more beer. Of course.  

My Mammoth Mountain Review in SKI Magazine

Check out the new issue of SKI Magazine. It's the annual Resort Guide, with everything you could possibly want to know about the top ski resorts in North America.
The 2010 edition just hit the newsstands and includes my review of Mammoth Mountain. This issue, and soon enough the new Warren Miller film, means it's almost time for the snow to start flying. Check out the whole Mammoth review here at Skinet.com.

Turning Up The Awesome at NASCAR

Going fast and turning left with the most loyal fans in sports 

NASCAR gets a bad rap from those who don’t truly know the sport (like this guy). They call it boring, overly time-consuming and just a smidgeon on the redneck side. But, to be fair, it’s a lot more than just all of those things. At this Sunday’s Go-Fast!Turn-Left! race at the California Motor Speedway or whatever they call it, I learned that it’s also a wee bit toasty (90-some-odd degrees in the California desert), a tad crowded (90-some-odd-thousand diehards) and a touch loud. It’s also pretty damn entertaining…once, anyway. 

If we were staging a caption contest, it would be held 

under this photo and go something like: "Can I take 

your picture? My golf buddies will never believe this."

Until Sunday, I was a Go-Fast!Turn-Left! virgin. I had no “Cobalt Tools” T-shirt, no #48 Jimmie Johnson jersey, and—surprisingly enough—no tramp stamp tattoo of Dale Earnhardt’s “3” on my lower back. Hell, I didn’t even own cut-off jean shorts. (Yeah, baby, JORTS!) And, unlike one patron, I don't have a T-shirt that says:

“Guess who needs a beer?"

Imagine a drawing of two thumbs, pointing at his own chest, followed by the words: 

“This guy!”

Yep, that guy needed a beer.

The two-hour transformation from golfer to stock car fan.  

What I do have is a newfound appreciation for just how fast an object looks when it's going 170 m.p.h. without wings attached to it. It's also difficult to describe how loud 40-something stock cars sound as the green flag drops and they make their first two laps around a two-mile oval. The first two laps, when the cars are most closely bunched, is unlike anything I had seen before. Early on, I found myself laughing out loud (that's "LOLing" for you younger readers) at how fast the cars were in person. I tried to capture it in the video at the bottom, but I’m not sure it does it justice. The force of the cars leaves you standing there saying, “Holy sh…!” to the people beside you. (And no, it's not that I’m afraid to swear on my own blog, it’s just that the cars are so loud, no one can hear you finish your thought.) 

If you touch this car when it's hot outside, you'll get chocolate all over your fingers. 

As the pace car led the race cars around the track in advance of the start, the track announcer promised that, "The drivers of the NASCAR Sprint Cup Series were ready to do what they do every Sunday for you folks: TURN UP THE AWESOME!” 
(Go ahead and comprehend what that sounds like out loud for a second...OK, good to go?)

And turn up the awesome, they did. Those opening laps were as much awesome as I’ve seen anyone turn up in a long while. And I’ve seen my fair share of awesome turned up. I mean these drivers fully turned up the awesome. Starting all the way from “not really all that awesome” to “kind of cool, but not yet reaching awesome status” to “medium awesome” and clear on past “pretty awesome” to “full-throttle awesome” and even knocking on the door of "downright ridiculously awesome." Alright, I think we’re done here.

In addition to the obvious wardrobe/people watching, a NASCAR race also offers hours of time to sit and pontificate to yourself (because it’s too loud to actually converse with anyone around you without hand signals) on things like: 

Does it take longer for the McDonald’s car to make a pit stop because he's waiting for his value meal and for the chocolate shake-induced brain freeze to wear off? 

Why is the Extenze car going so slowly? And is this the only time anyone powered by Extenze has rooting for a faster “finish”? 

If you stood on the straightaway and timed your jump perfectly, do you think the car would go right under you? (Naturally, some of this pontificating happens after additional Coors Lights.)

Crew members push Joey Logano's car into the start lineup. Logano's 
website says he was born in 1990. So he's 20 years old and he 

has been racing for 16 years. And this is legal how? 

One thing is for certain: Go-Fast!Turn-Left! knows its target audience, and they have their act dialed in. Touring the pits and the garage area before the race, it’s obvious that the sport is tailored toward creating a memorable experience for the fans. By offering pre-race access to the pits and garage areas for the fortunate fans who “know someone,” NASCAR is able to capture the interest of even a casual fan who knows nothing about what cars can and cannot pass the pace car to get back on the lead lap during a caution (yeah, that one stumped me). Crews literally walk among the crowd up until an hour before the race begins.

Celebrities, man! Tell me about the celebrities!

The hat I was bullied into purchasing.

4th of July headwear for the rest of my life.

Alright, alright. Settle down. Sorry to disappoint, but I didn’t see any LA celebs. Wait! I take that back. While strolling through the garage area an hour before the “Gentlemen start your engines” moment and the flyover (always a winner), I nearly walked into today’s greatest commercial television actor. I am speaking, of course, of the one and only Aflac Duck. (You thought it was the Geiko gecko, didn’t you? Too hot for geckos in the desert, man. Get serious. A gecko…I mean come on.)

Getting all TMZ on the Aflac Duck.
It's a rock star life this mallard leads.  

I’m not sure how many Aflac ducks are enjoying what must be a truly liberating life as a marketing mascot, but I will say this: As mallards go, this was one handsome, debonair and dashing duck. The No. 99 Carl Edwards Aflac car didn’t get the victory on Sunday, but the good folks at Aflac have to feel like winners anyway. After all, nobody in a tank top and jean shorts tried to cook their mascot and stash him inside the trailer until Christmas dinner. 
I'm no southern chef or NASCAR track announcer, but in racing parlance I believe that would involve preheating the awesome to about 375 degrees, then waiting for roughly three hours--or until your awesome is good and crispy but still tender on the inside. Drive on.