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
A [lightly edited] excerpt from an email I sent yesterday at 2:15 p.m.:
Last night, I experienced the acute pain of a bluebottle sting. Ummm, my entire leg felt like it was on fire and swelling up, and the pain spread to my groin! How insane is that? Thinking that perhaps I was stung by an irukandji, or was having an allergic reaction to a regular, ol’ hombre de guerra (man o’ war), I called B____ in a panic.
—
“Is that normal?” I asked.
“Yeah, that sounds… pretty normal, yeah.”
—
He told me his mum’s remedy, “dating from approximately 1945,” was to apply vinegar, but that he preferred ice. I settled for a bag of frozen veggies. It did decrease the swelling. And made for a funny Instagram. (Well, I think it’s funny.)
Actually, it occurred to me that the laziest (yet perhaps most effective) way of bringing you up to speed is via photographs. So, I am storrowing an idea from the brilliant fellows over at Surfing mag: Here’s some of what I’ve been neglecting to tell you about in a handy gallery of recent Instagram photos:
If, inexplicably, you’re keen for more of my mundane misadventures and mediocre photography, find me: @casebut.
Thanks to Cyclone Fina, the Gold Coast picked up some major swell over the holly days. Check out my current home break on Dec. 26th:
“The itinerary” for this trip has been a little on the dodgy side. When it exists, it does so only in weekly increments and only once I have made a reservation for something. Typically, it materializes as vague notations in my planner.
In the middle of the week, in the middle of February, I am considering a modified itinerary. The current version puts me in Byron Bay next week. I’ve already booked a place to stay, already reserved a bus seat. But the thing is, I met this guy.
But the other thing is, I want to spend a week in everyone’s favorite Aussie beach town before I have to be on the Goldie for the Quik Pro. Logic prevails and some uncivilized hour finds me stretching my legs in a gas station parking lot, after deciding that an oversized candy bar will make a fine substitute for actual food.
—
Twelve and a half hours is a very long time to spend on a bus–even when fortified by Milo bars. At least they showed a film on that bus. Do you know what it was? The First Wives’ Club.
Paddy, the genial proprietor of Byron Haven, has given me what I believe is an okay rate for a week in a studio in Byron: $650. He has also offered to fetch me and my many belongings (still no baggage charge!) from the bus along with his morning paper.
It’s still early and the room isn’t ready yet, so I walk into town and end up finding this great café. The waitress happens to be from Seattle. She’s living in a tent at one of the hostels. I feel like a yuppie, so I don’t tell her where I’m staying. She suggests I try BBQ sauce on my bacon, egg, and cheese. I must look skeptical because she says, “No, really, it’s delicious. Their BBQ sauce is different than ours and besides, it’s a very Australian thing to eat–you have to try it.” I’m surprised to discover that it’s scrumptious. She also tells me that I can pick up “wireless internet” (“Wifi” is met almost unanimously with “Ehh?”) at the Beach Hotel across the street. Thank you, Michelle!
When I get back to my pricey digs, I feel like even more of a snob and even less sorry for it. The studio is gigantic: Two king-sized beds, kitchen, flat screen… no roommates. Paddy asks if I need help with anything else. “Will you take a nap?” Half an inquiry, half a suggestion.
It is 80 degrees and sunny, and the waves are small but clean.
“Can you please tell me how to get to the beach?”
February 27th, 2011
Coolangatta
8:45 a.m. NSW
7:45 a.m. QLD
A piece of overripe fruit just fell from a tree and splattered on my leg, from which I also occasionally flick a renegade ant. I am sitting on a filthy bench at a bus stop, having a $1 cappuccino from 7-11 and feeling triumphant because a moment ago, I won a battle of wills with a seagull—over my apple walnut scroll. That fucker got pretty close, but I held my ground.
I’m wearing yesterday’s denim skirt and white tank—and bikini bottoms. I think I have been spending a lot of–possibly too much–time in the sun. At least that crater in my foot is no longer packed with sand.
Water, Water Everywhere And Not A Drop To Drink 