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.