Tag Archives: Australia

The year is new.

Oh, so it is. I’m usually much more on top of my New Year’s posts, but 2013 was one heck of a year and I wasn’t really sure where to start. Then I thought, I’ll just begin with what’s always closest to my heart: the food. (And drink.) And I’m gonna preemptively put a few dollars in the proverbial jar, because I’m about to sound like a… well, maybe just don’t read this if you’re prone to fits of jealous rage. Right, the food…  Continue reading

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Sap Sap Sappy Thanksgiving 2oThirteen.

This Thanksgiving Eve finds me sitting at an Ikea kitchen table that I shared with an ex, once upon a time. It’s now in my bedroom. In my parents’ house. There’s only one chair. (The other one was lost in a flood.) It’s also from Ikea. This visual gets more depressing with every passing detail. There’s even a candle. Unlit. And an opened box of Entenmann’s “donuts.” And a feline reposing in my lap. Just kidding… about those last two things, anyway.

The floor behind me is, literally, covered with books and laundry and 10 pairs of shoes and five pieces of luggage and 37 pieces of cameras and a statue of Ganesha.

So, at 28, this probably isn’t exactly where most people would want to be. But I am thankful to be here.

This has been one crazy year (so far). I didn’t realise until my mum brought it to my attention, but I set foot on five continents in eight months. That’s, like, the definition of a crazy year. But also the definition of a remarkable year.

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“Yoga shmoga.”

Go with the flow.

The thing with tequila is, deciding that it’s the proper course of action is always preceded by consuming copious amounts of other, less rambunctious spirits. And the other thing with tequila is, it’s never, actually, the proper course of action. But leave it to 18-year-old guys from California to convince you otherwise.

Thus, I find myself at Anomali with the biggest and most delicious iced coffee that they’ve probably ever served, feeling like a criminal in a town full of temple bodies. And actual temples.

This story really begins with clean eating. And “detoxifying.” A loosely laid plan that was swiftly abandoned at the utterance of “balcony with pillows.” Or maybe it was “wine.” It was Sunday, after all. And I reasoned that the most enlightened humans in history surely reached that state under the watch of some Bacchus variant. No?  Continue reading

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The Aussie Beer List Lives!

$12 Beer.

$12 Beer.

I’m in Margaret River, WA at the moment, where you can’t stumble over without landing in some fantastic winery or brewery’s car park, so I’m finding lots of great local beers. And also spending too much money in the name of beer snobbery. Please, make my “efforts” worthwhile and go check the latest.

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Gold Coast: So, we meet again.

When I was at uni, my friends (cruelly) dared me to strike up a conversation with a fellow bar patron. They identified him from across the crowded room as the man with the highest blood-alcohol content and, presently, the least dignity.

“Hey, you look familiar,” I said. “Do we have a class together?”

Through the haze of his intoxication, he had some difficulty recognizing that he didn’t recognize me. “Yeahhh,” he slurred. “Yeah. Friday mornings?”  Continue reading

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Retroactive Blogging: The 51st Rip Curl Pro Bells Easter Comp

I wrote this post about Bells a few months back…

Day 2. The sun is piercing the super translucent remnants of the marine layer mixed with wildfire haze; a virginal veil over the pristine beauty that is Victoria’s rugged coastline. It hits the gold-grey sand and wheat-coloured cliffs, refracting off of the glass-smooth faces pounding Winkipop with a deceptive grace. Overhead sets wrap ‘round the point at Rincon. Thousands of millimetres of lens are trained on the Bowl. Jet skis rear and climb peaks, dive down their spines. Julian snaps, hacks, cuts.

Day 4. Gale-force winds ravage the contest site shortly after an emotional Mick Fanning is presented with his bell trophy. As he gives an interview to Channel 9, the gusts apparently level every section of fence bearing a past champion’s photograph. Except one: Michael Peterson. Talk about eerie. The late legend was the very first champion of the Bells Easter comp in 1973.

The weather had been warm and sunny all week–atypical for Easter in Victoria, and it actually began turning during the men’s final. The clouds rolled in as the crowd on the beach shared a moment commemorating MP. “Hells Bells” played on the loudspeakers and goose bumps rose on our arms. Someone said, “It would be fitting if a ‘Cooly kid’ won this year.” This 51st year. Kelly flew and spun and stuck, but Mick rode Bells as Bells likes to be ridden–with power, style, control. And win a Cooly kid did.  Continue reading

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