Welcome to Sydney

Welcome to Sydney
I'm lost and not walking in a straight line. Time for help. I'll ask someone. 'The next road along mate', back on course.
'Oh I am sorry, would you like a free pork pie meal?', 'no thanks' I replied. The surprisingly young (under 50 is young for an Air NZ cabin crew) stewardess had picked me out of the 250 passengers to spill a small bottle of brandy all over my head and t-shirt. To put it mildly I stank, I have never been an alcoholic but I guessed that is what it would smell like. 'Would you like a paper towel' she added, with some distain I accepted the token gesture.
Sydney airport was dead. I was dead. I had forgotten where I was staying and failed to remember the name of the hostel. Bus left, train straight ahead. I went for the train and guessed maybe I would end up somewhere in central Sydney. I boarded the double decker train and just stood there, waiting for a stop called the town hall that looked fairly central. The heat at 7pm was noticeable compared to N.Z. I walked for 5 minutes with my ever increasingly heavy bag in a direction that was unknown to me. After 10 minutes the sweat started. Face first followed by t-shirt. This was starting to become slightly embarrassing as the sweat patches grew in number on my torso. Not only did I smell of brandy, I also stank of sweat. Every time I stopped to wipe my brow I felt sure that a 1 dollar coin would be thrown in my direction, easily passing off as a drunken Sydney tramp. To cover the sweat patches I thought it would be a good idea to put on my jumper. Bad idea. It covered the sweat patches but increased the drainage from my face down my neck. Balls to this. I went to the next hotel which just be happened to be rather posh and gave in. I had been walking along the adjacent road to the hostel, ten minute taxi and I was there.
Sydney is different from say Auckland. The hussle and bustle is more comparable to London. It's not what I expected, in my naivety I thought you could see the beach from the town and expected it to be smaller with little roads and shops sprouting from the main roads. In reality it is made up of a couple of huge streets covering miles and linking smaller yet still large roads. Everyone walks that little quicker in Sydney, they all seem to have a destination in mind and seem intent on getting there the quickest way. It was the subtle things that subconsciously connected you to New Zealand. The pedestrian lights were of the same design, the lights took as tediously long to change, the drivers were on a killing mission, Westpac banks were the same, estate agents were the same (how could one forget an Estate Agent called 'Hookers with the advert 'Will will sort you out will the best Hookers'. The strange feeling was that I didn't realise I was in Australia. Surely I was? As all stupid tourists would do - I travelled down the road leading me to the harbour. And there it was - a bridge and a dome shaped building. For me it was a bridge like Tower Bridge in London and the Opera House looked...... like a dome shaped building. Sure it was nice but not amazing, maybe the afternoon cloud had altered my perspective of the picture postcard location.
“And we have got the guided tour to Manly beach at 10:30 for 20 dollars” was the last I caught of the speaker driven noise coming throughout our room. Despite feeling rather dodgy I got up and wondered downstairs to enquire. 'Ah, we have got a second person' said the organizer. Looking at the first person I was going to do a runner but I waited a little longer. 4 of us, we were off. The guided walk took us through the quieter areas of Manly Cove, the bit the tourists don't go (apart from us of course). A pleasant walk followed by a swim in a secluded beach. Now swimming in Australia didn't really appeal to me because of the sharks, jellyfish and the rest of the little buggers. The guide had lived here all his life, he knew what he was doing, everything was fine. 'Wooahh, shit man, what was that?. After 4 minutes of swimming around the guide had stood on a large stingray. The guide got out, it followed that we got out. Maybe I didn't need to pack my swimming gear after all. The room at Footprint reminded me a little of the Village people. On one bed there was a hard hat, on the other bed was a policemen's helmet, on the bunk below was an Indian head dress. Later I was to find that one guy was working on a building site, the other had stolen a coppers hat and the last one had just been to a fancy dress party....young men.
I unpacked my stinking clothes and went down to the ground for some air. Ding, “do you mind if you hold the lift”. Our conversation continued outside and I ended up going with the three lift girls to a hostel bar up the road which was decent in attire. They had been on the Oz bus. After 7 VB's on a empty stomach it was time to go. I had failed to put my watch back. Thinking it was 10pm instead of 8pm, I had accelerated my drinking. I stumbled out and turned left, bugger me where the hell was I.
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