Walking uphill above Lake Tahoe

The blog is back. I’d like to say “better than ever,” but you’ll have to be the judge of that.

For the past four years, my college buddy Andre and I have gone on late summer jaunts to what we imagine will be cool, new-to-us outdoor destinations. Not because we like hanging out with each other—he ought to be canonized for listening to my jokes and wisecracks for four days, OR he ought to be paying me for that kind of entertainment—but because we don’t know too many people who will leave the comfy coastlines where we dwell full-time (me in San Diego and he in Tampa) to go climb (or bike) up (and then down) mountains. In fact, if you know any leggy supermodel types who enjoy outdoor adventure of this fashion, Andre can be replaced at the drop of a hat, so feel free to spread the word.  

Our annual outdoor travels began in 2008 with a long weekend in Breckenridge, Colorado and a climb to the top of a 14,000-foot peak called Mount Holy-Shit-My-Legs-Are-So-Tired-They-Are-Shaking, which may be known to some by its official name, Mount Quandary. That eight-hour stroll also included a close (but not that close) encounter with a sheep dog...or something in the sheep dog family that I could not identify. The next year we settled on a road trip (for me) to Santa Barbara and a hike up a trail called Rattlesnake Canyon, where we both nearly stomped directly on top of—let the suspense build now—a snake. Shocker, huh? Evidently, the trail name was not a misnomer. (And yes, I wrote that last sentence so I could use the word “misnomer”. I rather like it.) This all occurred while another college buddy, also named Tim, sat under a tree halfway up the trail and waited for us to return from the top. (Nice effort, Delp. Really. Well done.) In 2010, I convinced ’Dre to meet me in Portland, Oregon so we could tackle the Bachelor to Bend mountain bike ride, 25 miles of the sweetest singletrack you’ll ever see. I had a great time. Andre probably would have, too, if his bike didn’t have mechanical problems as we climbed roughly 1,000 feet in elevation for the first hour. It makes for a funny story now, and I was even able to collect a nice photo of him flipping off the camera as our guide worked to fix his bike 600 feet into the climb. Tough break, brother. Try not to be so high maintenance next time, huh. 

 In the words of Queen: "I want to ride my biii-cycle."

As anyone lucky enough to have old friends knows, the great part about meeting up with one that you don’t see often enough is that you instantly pick up where you left off the last time you got together. Or, if you’re exceedingly immature like us, where you left off in the college dorm hallways a dozen or so years earlier. In this case, the last time we saw each other, I was carrying Andre like a wounded marine from the scene of the Gasparilla Day Parade in Tampa because whatever was in the punch bowl was a little too potent for SuperDre on that late January afternoon (and all morning, too; we started at 10:30 a.m.). It was a long walk. A very long walk. As any good friends would do, the other aforementioned Tim and I took the care to stuff Andre in the back seat of Tim’s car face-down. Fearing for his safety—and having great responsibility for our friend—we locked the car doors, told him to stay put and promptly trekked off to a house party that featured two bands in the front yard of a McMansion on Bayshore Boulevard. Andre was still there when we got back; don’t fret. We are friends, after all. We take care of each other. Clearly. I mean we left him face-down.  

There would be none of those shenanigans on this trip to the Lake Tahoe area, however. We were here to breathe some clean air, exercise the legs and enjoy the outdoors. At least until we got to the casinos of South Lake.

As I touched on earlier, there isn’t much you can’t say to a friend you’ve had for 18 years. And so, the banter began with text messages before I got off the plane in Reno while he circled in the rental car. Or, at least made plans to circle in the rental car. 

Me: Landed.

Andre: At a bar. Be there when I finish this. (This was a text with an image of his beer sitting, nearly full, on the bar.)

Me: Seriously?

Andre: Went for a hike this afternoon, saw a snake, turned around, came to this bar.

Me: You went for a hike in 90-degree weather in the desert and saw a snake. And this surprised you? Was it a rattlesnake?
Andre: Was more of a walk than a hike. Not sure what kind of snake.   

Me: Starving. Could eat my arm. Your arm would do. But would rather eat food.

Andre: Bitch, you’re always hungry. Get your bag. Tell me when you’re at baggage.

Me: At baggage. Still hungry. Get in your red Sebring convertible and get over here.   
Andre: You’ll see a white Jeep when you get outside.

Me: And you’ll be in the purple Kia Sportage behind the Jeep, Mr. Manly?
Andre: This is going to be a long week. 

We spent the first two days at the base of a Squaw Valley. For a skier, spending two nights at the base of Squaw Valley when the lifts aren’t spinning and the ground is green is like sending Tiger Woods to an iHop with only male waiters. Clearly, I was making sacrifices here. Still Tahoe is beautiful just about any time of year, and this was confirmed the next morning. 

We awoke Thursday and headed into Tahoe City, about 15 minutes away, for an early morning breakfast at a place called something I can’t remember and am too lazy to look up right now. It was a great spot with old bicycles hanging from the walls and the kind of rustic, mountain décor you hope to see when you stroll into a mountain town breakfast spot; and that should make perfect sense. We were just about the only people in there because September is the “shoulder season” in ski country. 

No bike, no problem. And we're going up there. 

This is a good time to point out that Andre is a very low-maintenance traveling companion. In fact, he’s nearly a masochist. If there are three guys crashing in a hotel room with two beds somewhere, he embraces the floor so quickly you look at the ground twice to make sure it’s not an exotic dancer disguised as carpet. His volunteerism in these situations nearly makes you feel bad for him…until you remember that he, you know, volunteered for it. He is also the safest travel companion you’ve ever met. I should explain that this is mostly due to the fact that he drives like he is blind, which is due mostly to the fact that, without his eyeglasses, he basically IS blind. He pulls into traffic only when it is safe to do so. And by that I mean there are no cars for a half mile. Unless you count Deadliest Catch, I haven’t watched five minutes of “reality” TV since I saw Stacey Keibler on Dancing With the Stars, but I’ve always thought Andre and I could win that show The Amazing Race, hands-down. Now, I’m not so sure. With Ray Charles here at the wheel of anything but a supersonic aircraft, the high-maintenance mother-daughter team that always participates in that show would be pulling away from us. But I digress. 

Shirley Lake. Well worth the walk. 

After fueling up on pancakes and eggs, we drove around a bit before heading back to Squaw for a hike up to (don’t call me) Shirley Lake. The four-mile trail headed out of the Village at Squaw through big pines, past a mountain stream with small waterfalls, and then climbed dramatically up over a massive rock field. It was a perfect early autumn day, with temperatures in the 70s and that bright blue sky Tahoe is famous for. We scrambled over large rock formations and eventually found Shirley Lake, a picturesque setting surrounded by lush green trees and vegetation. A few folks were swimming in what had to be a very chilly (don’t call me) Shirley Lake. It was the perfect place to spend an afternoon NOT with another dude. But anyway…



We hiked back down, stopping to take the plunge in a swimming hole that pooled under cascading water. There isn’t a proper way for me to describe just how cold this mountain stream felt as I lowered myself into it—particularly the groinal section—but it was refreshing. After a burger at Hennessey’s Tavern in the village, we headed back into Tahoe City for a couple of beers before retiring back to our hotel. At least that was the plan, until we heard the sound of fun spilling out of the cantina across the parking lot from our hotel. You know the distinct sound of fun, right? Who doesn’t know what FUN sounds like?

Somehow, 45 minutes later, I found myself sitting at a dive bar with the bartender’s pug (that’s a small dog, I’m pretty sure) sitting on my lap sneering at me. We were surrounded by mountain workers from Squaw, snowmakers, and possibly pro snowboarders. The girl to my left was some kind of artist who would be showing her artwork in a local gallery over the upcoming weekend. Andre began to secretly call her “Halfpint” because the bartender would only serve her half-full glasses of beer due to her advanced level of intoxication, and I hope you saw that joke coming. (By the way, if your bartender does this to you, this is a bad sign. It’s time for some self-examination…or a smaller glass.)

Shrinkage!

At one point, Halfpint Van Goh started calling Andre “Disney” because he lives in Florida. Halfpint started this nicknaming train of thought with a line of questioning about whether or not he worked at Disney (he doesn’t), as if everyone who lives in Florida is employed by Disney World. To which I replied, “No, he works at Epcot Center. He’s worldly.” She didn’t get it. This did not surprise us.

Let’s get back to the bartender’s dog, which was sporting a spike collar and four teeth, all of which were visible when his mouth was closed, making him falsely intimidating for an 18-inch furball. The bartender was a very attractive married mother of a college student, who she must have given birth to at the age of nine. She told us she had been “all around the word, but always came back here to Tahoe because there’s nothing like it.”
“Where have you been?” I ask.

“Sorry? What?”

“You said you’ve been all around the world, so where have you been?”

“Oh, well, I spent 12 days at Carnival in Brazil, which was crazy. I’ve been to London, and Canada…”

“Canada?” I say.

“Yeah. Canada.”
“Ummm, you can’t say I’ve been all around the world and then drop a ‘Canada’ in there.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s Canada. It’s right there.” (Me kind of pointing toward the ceiling and what I think is north of the barstool I’m sharing with her lap dog.)

“Canada is 45 miles from the house I grew up in,” Andre adds in my support.

“Canada doesn’t count in the I’ve-been-all-around-the-world story,” I say.

I mean, seriously, that’s like saying you’re Harvard-educated because you took driving school lessons in Cambridge.

She laughed at this whole shady, self-boasting travel thing she had going on, agreed with us, and offered us more beer. We said yes. And everyone was happy. Even the dog with the spike collar was happy—probably because he was now drinking beer from a shot glass I was holding.

We left the cantina just before things could get carried away with the Pabst Blue Ribbon that Squaw Valley is famous for, or so they told us, and were up early the next morning for breakfast at another local café in Tahoe City with plenty of character. I started by ordering a breakfast sandwich with egg, cheese and sausage. And said please when I did so.

“I’ll will have the egg, cheese and bacon, please,” Andre says. “Appreciate that!” He always says please and thank you in an overly polite manner because he’s from Vermont and this is what people from Vermont do when they aren’t tipping cattle late at night or eating Vermont cheddar cheese (it has to be from Vermont) and drinking Long Trail Ales after (or while) driving home in their Volvos with a fresh batch of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

“Good call!” the young girl behind the counter says to him. 

“Whoa! What's so great about the bacon?” I ask her, kind of kidding, but worried I’m missing out by going with the sausage. 

“It’s just good. It’s pepper bacon.”

“And the sausage?”

“It’s pretty good.”

“Give me the bacon. I’ll take a lot of bacon. Lay it on me.”

And we got a boatload of bacon on our respective egg sandwiches. And it was very good. And it was peppery. And we were happy. 

Emerald Bay. See what I mean? Spectacular. 

We hopped in the white jeep and drove south through a beautiful pine forest, zigzagging against the lakeshore down past spectacular Emerald Bay in the southwest corner of the lake. Emerald Bay is the type of place that actually looks as good as it does in postcards and Chamber of Commerce pamphlets. If you go to Tahoe, drive by it. How’s that for a travel tip? Clear enough?

After a six-hour hike up and down Mount Talac, which afforded sweeping, spectacular views of Tahoe and the Desolation Wilderness Area—from the sound of it, surely not a place you want to get stuck—we headed into South Lake Tahoe to recover with a couple of nights of social activity. On the last few minutes of the drive (if 45 minutes is “a few”) we sat in traffic while the California Department of Transportation did what they do best—cause massive traffic jams and leave no alternative routes. It was at this point that a bluegrass song came on the radio and I discovered that, even if you’re moving 3 m.p.h., bluegrass music still makes you feel as though you’re being chased. Doesn’t this just make you feel like you should be getting chased? Maybe by the cops on Dukes of Hazzard.  

Yeah, I thought so.

Side note here: I’m not doing justice to the hike up Mount Talac, but it was six hours of walking and this is getting long enough and I don’t want to skip over the Oktoberfest we went to. Look at the pictures of the hike; these should sum it up.   

     

The final highlight of the weekend was an Octoberfest that Andre planned for us to attend at the legendary Mont Bleu Casino. I’ve never been to the real Oktoberfest, but I would say that it is on my barrel list—that’s the stuff that isn’t quite important enough for you to put on your bucket list, but you’d do it if the opportunity arose. I just made that up that “barrel list” thing. Feel free to use it at cocktail parties. Or future Oktoberfests at the Mont Bleu Casino.  

Most Oktoberfest I’ve been dragged to in the U.S. are populated by what I’d kindly call an interesting batch of humanity. They seem to generally include old folks who like to drink beer, old folks who love to eat massive amounts of brats and other fattening and filling food, and then young people with the same affinities for beer—and, to a lesser extent, food. There is often an old guy who can shotgun a beer faster than anyone you knew in college and a band that plays old German songs with a bit too much gusto. In the case of the Mont Bleu Octoberfest, the German family band played such traditional Bavarian hits as: “I Don't Want Her, You Can Have Her, She's Too Fat For Me”. They also seemed to get by on a lot of songs that were rooted in Johnny Cash tunes and then dropped in that old German standby, “The Chicken Dance”, which the two casino-paid, go-go dancers on either side of the stage were happy to perform in their lederhosen.

By the end of the evening, all that remained on the dance floor were three guys—and they appeared to be of African American, Indian and Asian descent. So, to recap: at an Oktoberfest celebrating German heritage, we had three guys dominating the dance floor who would likely have been ethnically cleansed out of Hitler’s Germany. One guy was wearing the San Francisco Giants game jersey of baseball Hall of Famer Willie McCovey, who is, as far as I know, still African-American. Throw in a few Jews and we've got a real Octoberfest, right? “Epstein! Seinfeld! Rosenberg! Get in there! It’s a dance party.”

Let’s end on that note. Thanks for reading.
Sorry, but you can’t have that time back. It’s gone forever.  

The craziest Irish bar in Australia...

...or maybe anywhere. 

After self-applying enough moisturizer to hopefully keep my back from turning into something that belonged to a Biblical leper, I reached deep into the recesses of my inner youthfulness and summoned the strength to meet my new friends for a few beers in town. This took a healthy dose of self-convincing with words similar to the ones my younger brother, Chris, likes to throw out when a rally is needed to keep the night going in Vegas. I asked myself: “How many times will you be in Cairns, Tim?” Except Chris would find a way to truly personalize the line and make me feel as though not going to one last bar two miles from The Strip at 3:30 a.m. would mean we missed a golden opportunity to fortify the family legacy together. 

“Dude, how many times are we gonna be in Veehhgasss…TOGETHER?”

“Alright, alright…Cab, please!”

After assuring myself that this was a one-time opportunity, I rallied with a few slices of terrible pizza at a corner shop that also served tall beers. So I ordered one of those, too. The girl behind the counter told me that P.J. O’Brien’s, the Irish bar where I was to meet the boat crowd, was just a few blocks up the streets. On first glance, it was just another Irish bar in any old country—outdoor seating, lots of dark-stained woodwork, lots of beers to choose from and big, uncomfortable booths to sit in. To be honest, at 9 p.m. it was actually rather lame and empty and I was thinking of going to bed.  

That was before the toga party arrived, the pole dancing on the bar and the strip dancing on the back stage. Now I have your attention, don’t I? (I knew I should have led the story with that part.) Anyway, it turns out, a fair amount of Irish immigrants landed in Australia in the 1800s. And it’s a safe bet they weren’t envisioning this place when they landed in the Great Southern Land, or maybe they’d have come here 300 plus years ago. (According to a little online research, the Australian embassy in Dublin reports that 30 percent of Australia’s population claim some sort degree of Irish ancestry. Fun fact of the day there for you.)

Before I get into how the night ramped up, I feel it’s important to state that this was a Tuesday night and to point out that evidently the day of week doesn’t matter much when it comes to partying in Cairns because it’s as much a backpacker town as any place on the planet. Best as I could tell, heaps (Aussie term) of young people from around the world blow into town on bus tours of some kind, see the reef and/or the rainforest, spend a few nights at a hostel drinking and fornicating, then move on down south toward the Gold Coast. You don’t get the impression that too many people actually work any kind of 9-5 job in Cairns. Most of the jobs seem to revolve around tourism, and, with one of the world’s natural wonders just off the town’s front porch, I suppose they should.

After having a few pints with my new pals, the scene picked up a bit. In other words, a toga party arrived. Yep, it’s still Tuesday. Among the toga party crowd of 25 or so people in their twenties and thirties from Adelaide were several scandalous looking young ladies with nothing against creating a little attention for themselves. Before long, two hired female dancers in cowboy hats and jean shorts with inseam lengths that specialized in brevity were on top of the bar dancing around poles that were rolled out as props. Effective props, I might add. I’m not even sure how I just remembered the cowboy hats, to be honest. This was starting to turn into the greatest time any person this side of Charlie Sheen has ever had in an Irish bar on a Tuesday. 

Clearly spurred on by the two hired dancers, patrons were now volunteering to take part in a dance-off on a small stage at the back of the room. The price was something like a $100 bar tab for you and your friends. I’m not sure what the exchange rate was at the time, but based on what I saw next, 100 Aussie bucks must go pretty far in Adelaide. 

Three girls from the toga party took their shot at “glory” onstage, each finishing with less bed sheets on their body than the previous one until the final contestant decided it was too hot outside to sleep with any linens on at all and then showed off what the good Lord gave her, and he gave her some good stuff. Your $100 winner, ladies and gentlemen! My Matlock/Lt Colombo detective skills (actually, more just a hunch) tell me that she was brought in by the bar staff to stir things up. I say this because she did things you don’t see from any woman who hasn’t rocked platform heels as an occupation. We’re talking scissor kicks with no sheets or knickers covering anything. If she wasn’t a stripper by night, she’s leaving the hard-earned money of many men on the table.   

This, of course, riled up the crowd, who now turned their attention back to the bar where hired female dancer #1 and hired female dancer #2 were beginning another round of routines. When they concluded, it was time for more patrons to take to the bar top, including guys who thought they could dance and some who clearly knew they couldn’t but were not going to be out-efforted in the make-a- fool-of-myself portion of the competition. Among these was our new Irish plumber buddy, Alan, who chose to reveal his badly sunburned chest and back while twirling his shirt around above him. You’d hire that guy to fix your sink, right?

  

When things slowed a bit (girls stopped getting naked) we moved on to Gilligan’s, a hostel/entertainment complex with square bar, pool tables and high-energy dance floor. Based on the fact that there were 200-plus people in here on a Tuesday night, the hostel/entertainment idea is a brilliant business model, actually. The jungle tour I had reserved for 8 a.m. was in jeopardy. Then I heard the voice of reason again—“Tim, how many times will you get to do a jungle tour in Australia?”—and set my alarm for 7:30 the next morning. 

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.