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.