Sara was talking in the kitchen with the folks who own the farm where we stayed this weekend, about her half-marathon. The wife of the couple is from Melbourne, Australia; the husband was borne and raised in the Northland, New Zealand.
The wife was listening to Sara talk about the details of Te Houtaewa Challenge. She asked, "How much did you have to pay to enter?"
The husband chuckled and said, "Now, there, you’ve seen the difference between an Aussie and a Kiwi. And Aussie will ask straight out, ‘How much did you pay?’ A Kiwi would just dance around the question."
There it is: the difference between an Aussie and a Kiwi.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Wednesday, March 08, 2006
Sydney Pix
Sydney Opera House, Kangaroos, Big Bridges, Beaches, Emrys w/a snake and more... click photo album to the right :)
~sjt
~sjt
World Famous Fish ’n’ Chips
We made the beautiful drive through the coastal forest, field, and fen between Whangarei (pronounced FANG-ar-ay for those of you keen on Maori names) and Kaitaia where we’re based for Sara’s half-marathon on Saturday. Before leaving Gisborne we got a hot tip on good fish ’n’ chips in a little harbour town called Monganui, off the beaten path on the northeast corner of the Northland (North Island north of Auckland).
Monganui has only two blocks of commercial town, all of which looks out over the harbour. On the northwest end of town is a large square white building set on a pier and painted with the name "Monganui Fish Shop." The claim to fame of this "World Famous Fish Shop" is the fact that the fish they use for their fish’n’chips was caught that day. It’s never frozen, as are most slabs of fish used for serving the grease-hounds.
Sure enough, inside the shop is a sign positioned in the middle of the wall menu that declares, "Today’s Catch:" and then, hand-written in grease pencil, "Bluenose." Oh, and "Fish Priced by Weight." Certainly we had arrived!
The woman behind the counter pulled two filets of fish from the refrigerated bowl of bluenose and passed them back to the gals at the fryers. I waited until my number was called, took the large package wrapped in butcher paper back to the car and we drove up the road a few kilometers to Cooper Beach, a more secluded spot with a better view than Monganui’s harbour.
The fish was the best I’ve had down under. The fish was thick and meaty but still quite moist—this I attribute to its being spared sub-zero storage. The flavour was quite mild but still distinct; I don’t know that I’d had bluenose before, but now feel qualified to declare that it is a good fish. The batter was thick on the fish but light on the tongue, and it held together in the hand. Gorgeous. Simply stunning.
The chips were average, but with such a show from the fish I didn’t feel as if I’d been slighted by $8.50 for the meal. Monganui Fish Shop: bravo! To the next person seeking good fish’n’chips in New Zealand: Monganui is a must.
We leave in just over a week, so I think this delightful experience is a good place to end my quest for good fish’n’chips in New Zealand. To all of you fish-lovers out there, this is Emrys Tyler signing off.
Monganui has only two blocks of commercial town, all of which looks out over the harbour. On the northwest end of town is a large square white building set on a pier and painted with the name "Monganui Fish Shop." The claim to fame of this "World Famous Fish Shop" is the fact that the fish they use for their fish’n’chips was caught that day. It’s never frozen, as are most slabs of fish used for serving the grease-hounds.
Sure enough, inside the shop is a sign positioned in the middle of the wall menu that declares, "Today’s Catch:" and then, hand-written in grease pencil, "Bluenose." Oh, and "Fish Priced by Weight." Certainly we had arrived!
The woman behind the counter pulled two filets of fish from the refrigerated bowl of bluenose and passed them back to the gals at the fryers. I waited until my number was called, took the large package wrapped in butcher paper back to the car and we drove up the road a few kilometers to Cooper Beach, a more secluded spot with a better view than Monganui’s harbour.
The fish was the best I’ve had down under. The fish was thick and meaty but still quite moist—this I attribute to its being spared sub-zero storage. The flavour was quite mild but still distinct; I don’t know that I’d had bluenose before, but now feel qualified to declare that it is a good fish. The batter was thick on the fish but light on the tongue, and it held together in the hand. Gorgeous. Simply stunning.
The chips were average, but with such a show from the fish I didn’t feel as if I’d been slighted by $8.50 for the meal. Monganui Fish Shop: bravo! To the next person seeking good fish’n’chips in New Zealand: Monganui is a must.
We leave in just over a week, so I think this delightful experience is a good place to end my quest for good fish’n’chips in New Zealand. To all of you fish-lovers out there, this is Emrys Tyler signing off.
New Zealand Hospitality
Hospitality enjoys a rightful place among the great spiritual gifts. In my estimation it is both underrated and lacking in American culture at large. I have many times been reminded of the importance of this gift, but in the last few days have had occasion once more to reflect on its richness and appreciate its value.
Before leaving the South Island we spent two nights in the home of a gentleman I met while in class in Dunedin. He and another class member from Christchurch, upon hearing me say that we had decided to give Christchurch a miss (since it is, after all, the third largest city in New Zealand), said to me, "You can’t skip Christchurch!" Then this one followed it up by saying, "You can stay with us."
This is the first part of the gift of hospitality, and perhaps the most profound. Hospitality begins with making room for someone else. Before you can invite someone into your world or home, you have to make room (in your house, your schedule, or your ego) for someone else to enter. Some Jewish rabbis have said that for God the act of creation was fundamentally an act of hospitality: before creation was, God filled everything; thus, in order to create, God made room for creation in an act of hospitality. I think that’s a helpful way to look at creation.
These folks in Christchurch made room for us in their lives, just for two days, and we visited with them. One of the thrills for the sojourner receiving hospitality is seeing how real New Zealanders live and joining them for a bit of the daily routine. It gives us a much better sense of life in New Zealand than do the tour guides and the hostel employees and the bus drivers.
Upon our arrival on the North Island we spent one night with friends from the States who have recently moved to New Zealand. It was a joy to catch up with them and to hear their perspective on this foreign country as American ex-pats trying to adjust. And once again, they opened their home to us in a basic act of self-giving.
Our next stop was Gisborne, where we spent two nights with folks whom we’d met over email by virtue of a mutual friend in Lake City. These folks have a triple helping of the gift of hospitality, and really poured it on. We got a tour of Gisborne, all meals, and the most wonderful company we could desire to boot. They have cultivated a habit of taking in people from overseas—from two-night visitors to students studying in Gisborne—such is their joy at receiving people into their home and getting to know them while they’re in New Zealand.
Our long drive to Whangarei was punctuated by lunch with another of my classmates from Dunedin, who served us a magnificent spread of food and conversation that was just as savoury. More of the real New Zealand at our fingertips.
Before coming to Kaitaia we spend the night in Whangarei with a third classmate from Dunedin, a father of four beautiful little girls and his wife. The girls (aged sixish, five, three, and two—or thereabouts) were studying South America in their home-school curriculum, and had learned that the native peoples of the Americas were often called "Indians." So when they found out two Americans were coming to stay the night, they got all excited about meeting "the Indians." Once again, the welcome was warm, the beds were soft, and the conversation was brilliant.
Now we’re in a farm hostel, for which we pay but at which we also get to interact with the couple who owns and works the thousand acres and the cattle that graze it. It’s been quite fun to sit and talk with the owner, a man who has raised sheep and cattle all his life in this distant rural part of New Zealand. Quite a different life from the suburban and urban settings to which I’m accustomed.
This portion of our trip has been less touristy but more enriching because of the hospitality that’s been extended to us. Though I don’t have the energy for what might be called "entertaining" guests day in and day out, I hope that our future home may be a place in which sojourner and friend alike may find warm hospitality and good company any time.
Cheers to Chris, Mary, John, Karen, Samantha, Allison, Paddy, Bev, Sue, Phillip, Siobhan, Holly, Juliette, Lucy, Susanne, Robb, and Heather for a joyful stay in the North Island and an inspiring example of humanity.
~emrys
Before leaving the South Island we spent two nights in the home of a gentleman I met while in class in Dunedin. He and another class member from Christchurch, upon hearing me say that we had decided to give Christchurch a miss (since it is, after all, the third largest city in New Zealand), said to me, "You can’t skip Christchurch!" Then this one followed it up by saying, "You can stay with us."
This is the first part of the gift of hospitality, and perhaps the most profound. Hospitality begins with making room for someone else. Before you can invite someone into your world or home, you have to make room (in your house, your schedule, or your ego) for someone else to enter. Some Jewish rabbis have said that for God the act of creation was fundamentally an act of hospitality: before creation was, God filled everything; thus, in order to create, God made room for creation in an act of hospitality. I think that’s a helpful way to look at creation.
These folks in Christchurch made room for us in their lives, just for two days, and we visited with them. One of the thrills for the sojourner receiving hospitality is seeing how real New Zealanders live and joining them for a bit of the daily routine. It gives us a much better sense of life in New Zealand than do the tour guides and the hostel employees and the bus drivers.
Upon our arrival on the North Island we spent one night with friends from the States who have recently moved to New Zealand. It was a joy to catch up with them and to hear their perspective on this foreign country as American ex-pats trying to adjust. And once again, they opened their home to us in a basic act of self-giving.
Our next stop was Gisborne, where we spent two nights with folks whom we’d met over email by virtue of a mutual friend in Lake City. These folks have a triple helping of the gift of hospitality, and really poured it on. We got a tour of Gisborne, all meals, and the most wonderful company we could desire to boot. They have cultivated a habit of taking in people from overseas—from two-night visitors to students studying in Gisborne—such is their joy at receiving people into their home and getting to know them while they’re in New Zealand.
Our long drive to Whangarei was punctuated by lunch with another of my classmates from Dunedin, who served us a magnificent spread of food and conversation that was just as savoury. More of the real New Zealand at our fingertips.
Before coming to Kaitaia we spend the night in Whangarei with a third classmate from Dunedin, a father of four beautiful little girls and his wife. The girls (aged sixish, five, three, and two—or thereabouts) were studying South America in their home-school curriculum, and had learned that the native peoples of the Americas were often called "Indians." So when they found out two Americans were coming to stay the night, they got all excited about meeting "the Indians." Once again, the welcome was warm, the beds were soft, and the conversation was brilliant.
Now we’re in a farm hostel, for which we pay but at which we also get to interact with the couple who owns and works the thousand acres and the cattle that graze it. It’s been quite fun to sit and talk with the owner, a man who has raised sheep and cattle all his life in this distant rural part of New Zealand. Quite a different life from the suburban and urban settings to which I’m accustomed.
This portion of our trip has been less touristy but more enriching because of the hospitality that’s been extended to us. Though I don’t have the energy for what might be called "entertaining" guests day in and day out, I hope that our future home may be a place in which sojourner and friend alike may find warm hospitality and good company any time.
Cheers to Chris, Mary, John, Karen, Samantha, Allison, Paddy, Bev, Sue, Phillip, Siobhan, Holly, Juliette, Lucy, Susanne, Robb, and Heather for a joyful stay in the North Island and an inspiring example of humanity.
~emrys
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Big City New Zealand
I had been growing a bit concerned about New Zealand. The more I saw of it, the more I began to see the narrow-mindedness of its inhabitants. I started to sense that new Zealanders were content to live in small towns that boasted only a few petrol stations and a couple of groceries. Even when the towns grew large enough to have more than three stoplights I noticed that the roads remained narrow, cars remained small, and buildings remained distinctive and quaint.
I began to think that New Zealand had missed something.
Certainly she has passed into the twentieth century with the horseless carriage, the internal combustion engine, and fiberglass. But had she really made it to the twenty-first century? I wondered. What about soaring skyscrapers, wide avenues clogged with rush-hour traffic, and the madness that comes from living in close quarters with you fellow human? Did New Zealand know these things? Had the Kiwis tasted of the forbidden fruit of urbanization and the knowledge of good and evil flowing from it?
My fears were allayed by a drive through Auckland this afternoon. We entered the city limits at 5:05 pm and did not leave until near 6:00. We sat with a large minority of Auckland’s two million residents on the single major highway that runs north-south through the city, taking long moments to gaze across the steel and glass skyline punctuated by a soaring needle á là Seattle and Toronto.
New Zealand has tasted the fruit. New Zealand knows urbanity. The North Island knows the meaning of "six lanes of cars."
Now my bubble is burst. My concern, my fear for New Zealand should have been excitement at the prospect of a western nation that had managed not to follow the path of progress all the way to its present conclusion. Alas, not so. But there is comfort in knowing that it took us nine weeks to find this pocket of urban life: so much of New Zealand is rural and small town. Half of New Zealanders live in the Auckland area. Three-quarters of New Zealanders live on the North Island. Since the South Island is bigger than the North Island, that leaves a lot of wild country and rural communities; that leaves a lot of New Zealand to be green, quiet, and friendly.
~emrys
I began to think that New Zealand had missed something.
Certainly she has passed into the twentieth century with the horseless carriage, the internal combustion engine, and fiberglass. But had she really made it to the twenty-first century? I wondered. What about soaring skyscrapers, wide avenues clogged with rush-hour traffic, and the madness that comes from living in close quarters with you fellow human? Did New Zealand know these things? Had the Kiwis tasted of the forbidden fruit of urbanization and the knowledge of good and evil flowing from it?
My fears were allayed by a drive through Auckland this afternoon. We entered the city limits at 5:05 pm and did not leave until near 6:00. We sat with a large minority of Auckland’s two million residents on the single major highway that runs north-south through the city, taking long moments to gaze across the steel and glass skyline punctuated by a soaring needle á là Seattle and Toronto.
New Zealand has tasted the fruit. New Zealand knows urbanity. The North Island knows the meaning of "six lanes of cars."
Now my bubble is burst. My concern, my fear for New Zealand should have been excitement at the prospect of a western nation that had managed not to follow the path of progress all the way to its present conclusion. Alas, not so. But there is comfort in knowing that it took us nine weeks to find this pocket of urban life: so much of New Zealand is rural and small town. Half of New Zealanders live in the Auckland area. Three-quarters of New Zealanders live on the North Island. Since the South Island is bigger than the North Island, that leaves a lot of wild country and rural communities; that leaves a lot of New Zealand to be green, quiet, and friendly.
~emrys
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Keeping Left
Bleary-eyed after the three-hour flight from Sydney to Wellington, New Zealand, we trundled to the Avis rental car counter and picked up our vehicle: a gratuitous upgrade from economy to a Toyota Rav-4. (We have yet to see if this is good; how is the Rav-4’s gas mileage?) We walked across the parking lot, freezing in the 10-degree wind of Wellington after the 25-degree sun of New South Wales. Bags thrown in the trunk, I hopped into the wrong side of the car and found a steering wheel.
The streets of Wellington were mercifully empty at midnight on a Saturday night. Having my first left-handed driving experience during rush hour probably would have taxed my nerves and possibly the New Zealand medical care system. For once I was thankful about arriving on a late flight. “Keep left, keep left,” I kept reminding myself. With heightened awareness of all the techniques my Driver’s Ed instructor had imparted during those long, boring high school hours, burned into my conscience and buttocks by the painful plastic chairs in the lecture auditorium, I drove the multitudinous traffic circles of Wellington with Sara as my trusty navigator.
Traffic circles aren’t a problem—they’re actually quite useful for keeping traffic flowing. (Unless you put stop signs around them, as they do in Pasadena.) If there is no one else on the circle, you just cruise in, around, and out. Easy.
The turning signal is the problem. It’s on the wrong side of the steering wheel. And it’s amazing how the pathway from thought (“I need to turn left up here”) to action (finger touches lever behind wheel, presses down with perfectly calibrated force) is ingrained in my left hand. Total muscle memory. In the wrong hand.
Here's what should have happened:
"I need to turn left up here." Finger touches lever and turn signal comes on. Smooth turn. Turn signal turns off.
Here's what actually happened:
“Who turned on the wipers? Is it raining outside? No! I pushed the wrong lever. How do I turn off the wipers with my left hand? Do I twist or press?” Eyes instinctively look for flashing lights in rearview mirror. Adrenaline levels spike. (Distance to turn: 100 metres and closing.) Wipers speed up. “Darn it! Don’t twist, press!” Left hand gets a clue and presses wiper lever. Wipers stop. Adrenaline levels plateau. (Distance to turn: 50 metres and closing. Driver’s Ed teacher situated deep in the id shouts that it’s too late to signal, and turning without signaling is illegal. C'mon, Superego, do your thing!) Right hand fumbles for lever and locates it. Strange feeling. (Distance to turn: 25 metres and closing.) Hand feels satisfying give and resistance of lever, followed by reassuring click and small flashing light on dash. (Distance to turn: 5 metres and closing.) Adrenaline levels drop. Slight tremors pass through arms and legs. Breathing resumes. “Smooth finish, smooth finish.” Turn, straighten vehicle, check rear view mirror once more. Give dirty look to laughing navigator.
The windshield was dirty anyway.
I only did that twice last night. Only once did I almost make a right hand turn into oncoming traffic. They just don’t give up on this left-side thing.
Really, the hardest part is feeling the road from the right side of the car. I sense that the weight and bulk of the car should be on my right side, so I tend to space the car in the lane accordingly. This results in the left tires frequently finding the bots dots or rough shoulder on the left side. In my two hours of experience I have had to keep myself aware that I should be sitting in the right (wrong) side of the lane I’m in. Weird.
Without any serious accidents (only navigational ones) we arrived at the Hesses home in Masterton this morning at 9:30. It’s a 1.5 hour drive to their home. What? Doesn’t add up, you say? (Left airport at midnight, arrived at the other end of a 1.5 hour drive at 9:30 am?) You’re right: it doesn’t add up. We spent about four hours making an important discovery.
For those of you who have wondered how many people over 4’3” in height can sleep in the back of a Rav-4, the answer is:
None.
It took us four hours to discover that, and I'm 6'2". Sigh.
Oh, and we napped for an hour and a half on the Hesses’ road, thinking 7:30 on a Sunday morning was too early to come knocking. This time we kipped in the proper place: the front bucket seats. A little stiff in the neck, but nothing some New Zealand wine won't fix.
Safe and sound for 13 days on the North Island, we will sleep very well tonight.
~emrys
The streets of Wellington were mercifully empty at midnight on a Saturday night. Having my first left-handed driving experience during rush hour probably would have taxed my nerves and possibly the New Zealand medical care system. For once I was thankful about arriving on a late flight. “Keep left, keep left,” I kept reminding myself. With heightened awareness of all the techniques my Driver’s Ed instructor had imparted during those long, boring high school hours, burned into my conscience and buttocks by the painful plastic chairs in the lecture auditorium, I drove the multitudinous traffic circles of Wellington with Sara as my trusty navigator.
Traffic circles aren’t a problem—they’re actually quite useful for keeping traffic flowing. (Unless you put stop signs around them, as they do in Pasadena.) If there is no one else on the circle, you just cruise in, around, and out. Easy.
The turning signal is the problem. It’s on the wrong side of the steering wheel. And it’s amazing how the pathway from thought (“I need to turn left up here”) to action (finger touches lever behind wheel, presses down with perfectly calibrated force) is ingrained in my left hand. Total muscle memory. In the wrong hand.
Here's what should have happened:
"I need to turn left up here." Finger touches lever and turn signal comes on. Smooth turn. Turn signal turns off.
Here's what actually happened:
“Who turned on the wipers? Is it raining outside? No! I pushed the wrong lever. How do I turn off the wipers with my left hand? Do I twist or press?” Eyes instinctively look for flashing lights in rearview mirror. Adrenaline levels spike. (Distance to turn: 100 metres and closing.) Wipers speed up. “Darn it! Don’t twist, press!” Left hand gets a clue and presses wiper lever. Wipers stop. Adrenaline levels plateau. (Distance to turn: 50 metres and closing. Driver’s Ed teacher situated deep in the id shouts that it’s too late to signal, and turning without signaling is illegal. C'mon, Superego, do your thing!) Right hand fumbles for lever and locates it. Strange feeling. (Distance to turn: 25 metres and closing.) Hand feels satisfying give and resistance of lever, followed by reassuring click and small flashing light on dash. (Distance to turn: 5 metres and closing.) Adrenaline levels drop. Slight tremors pass through arms and legs. Breathing resumes. “Smooth finish, smooth finish.” Turn, straighten vehicle, check rear view mirror once more. Give dirty look to laughing navigator.
The windshield was dirty anyway.
I only did that twice last night. Only once did I almost make a right hand turn into oncoming traffic. They just don’t give up on this left-side thing.
Really, the hardest part is feeling the road from the right side of the car. I sense that the weight and bulk of the car should be on my right side, so I tend to space the car in the lane accordingly. This results in the left tires frequently finding the bots dots or rough shoulder on the left side. In my two hours of experience I have had to keep myself aware that I should be sitting in the right (wrong) side of the lane I’m in. Weird.
Without any serious accidents (only navigational ones) we arrived at the Hesses home in Masterton this morning at 9:30. It’s a 1.5 hour drive to their home. What? Doesn’t add up, you say? (Left airport at midnight, arrived at the other end of a 1.5 hour drive at 9:30 am?) You’re right: it doesn’t add up. We spent about four hours making an important discovery.
For those of you who have wondered how many people over 4’3” in height can sleep in the back of a Rav-4, the answer is:
None.
It took us four hours to discover that, and I'm 6'2". Sigh.
Oh, and we napped for an hour and a half on the Hesses’ road, thinking 7:30 on a Sunday morning was too early to come knocking. This time we kipped in the proper place: the front bucket seats. A little stiff in the neck, but nothing some New Zealand wine won't fix.
Safe and sound for 13 days on the North Island, we will sleep very well tonight.
~emrys
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Getting Around Sydney
After living in Los Angeles for a few years, I have come to appreciate public transit as a measure of a city’s mettle. Having visited New York and lived in Montréal for a bit, I knew that good public transit could make life somewhat better in a city. Living in Los Angeles for three years I came to understand and bad public transit can make a city worse than it would be having none at all. Having seen some of both ends of the spectrum, I hold Sydney in a certain amount of awe.
First of all, many large cities have subways and buses. New York takes them for granted, as does Montréal. But Sydney is built on a vast harbour with all sorts of inlets, peninsulas, and islands. So Sydney has ferries. How cool is it that our public transit passes allowed us to travel by train, bus, and ferry? How great is it that without paying an extra penny (alright, nickel—Australia doesn’t have pennies) we could take harbour cruises—including night cruises—to our hearts’ content? Very cool, I tell you. Great indeed.
What’s more the trains are relatively quiet, very clean, and comfortable. Plus the seats in many trains flip back and forth; if the seat’s facing backward and you want to face forward on your journey, just flip the seat-back over, and voila! Sure, the system of lines can be complex, but after a couple days we had it figured out. No worries.
Kudos to the Sydney CityRail and Ferry system for good urban public transport.
First of all, many large cities have subways and buses. New York takes them for granted, as does Montréal. But Sydney is built on a vast harbour with all sorts of inlets, peninsulas, and islands. So Sydney has ferries. How cool is it that our public transit passes allowed us to travel by train, bus, and ferry? How great is it that without paying an extra penny (alright, nickel—Australia doesn’t have pennies) we could take harbour cruises—including night cruises—to our hearts’ content? Very cool, I tell you. Great indeed.
What’s more the trains are relatively quiet, very clean, and comfortable. Plus the seats in many trains flip back and forth; if the seat’s facing backward and you want to face forward on your journey, just flip the seat-back over, and voila! Sure, the system of lines can be complex, but after a couple days we had it figured out. No worries.
Kudos to the Sydney CityRail and Ferry system for good urban public transport.
Fleeing the Hostel Funk
The finest hostel we inhabited on our journey through New Zealand was called “Mountain Jade Backpackers” in Hokitika, New Zealand. What impressed us upon first arriving—and gave us a sense that proved true through our three-day stay there—was the smell of the place. It smelled clean. At midday it smelled as if someone had been cleaning; not that “hospital smell,” but at least a smell of mild soap applied in liberal measure. In the evening the hostel had only a faint scent of cleaning agents, but no other odour had taken over the place, save perhaps the pleasant aroma of someone cooking.
Many hostels are not like this.
Take the hostel in Newtown, Sydney known as Billabong Gardens. We chose it because it was cheap and close to a train station. I emphasize cheap. In exchange for its cheap price, we received the hostel funk.
There is a smell that coagulates around travelers who have been living out of a backpack for some time and who have been giving minimal or limited attention to the details of personal and garment hygiene. Now, I dare not judge backpackers for the aroma on their persons and belongings; when one is one the road for weeks or months on end, something must give. Something must be afforded second, third, or twentieth place in the list of priorities because there is only so much time and space one has when one does not possess one’s own apartment or house. The funk of long-term backpackers is normal and, in some strange sense, poetic.
However, we dare not extend the same grace to the hostels who host backpackers. It is one thing for the pig to wallow; it is quite another for the farmer to insist the rooster do the same. Hostels, if they are to have anything worthy of commendation, must be clean and tidy, with a good kitchen. Should they have pool, patio, billiards, free internet, hang gliding lessons, and live jazz every night but not have cleanliness and good kitchen facilities, they are to be scorned.
Upon first step into our present hostel dorm room we encountered a heavy cloud of funk in the air.
What’s more, the kitchen has proven to be sub-par in terms of cleanliness, repair, and availability of utensils. Sigh.
To be fair, some of the funky state of this hostel was certainly due to the fact that Sydney has a big Mardi Gras celebration on the first Saturday after Ash Wednesday (for those of you who know the liturgical calendar: I know, I know—I didn’t schedule this “Mardi Gras”). Because of this celebration and the parade that passes through downtown Sydney, all the hostels are booked up. What’s more, people have begun warming up their party skills. They spend lots of late nights out, drinking and making merry. And they accumulate more funk that is brought back and allowed to settle in the dormitory rooms.
Friday morning I woke up to the acidic, tangy smell of gastric fluids. After three days of walking through our dorm room door from fresh poolside air to dingy man-sweat funk, the smell of used alcohol broke my resolve. Memories of nights long past, nights as a Floorfellow and Hall Director cleaning up the nasty regurgitations of over-indulgent college students reared their ugly heads in my psyche. That was it—we were out of there. We found a hostel way up the coast north of Sydney with a double room open and took it. As it turns out, this impulsive decision put us in the best hostel we’ve stayed in so far: Sydney Beaches YHA Backpacker, better even than Mountain Jade. This one had cleanliness, style, great facilities, and a huge kitchen. Ten gas burners and six stainless steel sinks! To top it all off, this backpacker had alleviated the problem of guests smashing their food into small refrigerators by installing a walk-in fridge with cubby holes. Wow! Hostel heaven, here. We’re glad we spent the hour on public transit to get here. I’m especially glad we escaped one more night of hostel funk.
~emrys
Many hostels are not like this.
Take the hostel in Newtown, Sydney known as Billabong Gardens. We chose it because it was cheap and close to a train station. I emphasize cheap. In exchange for its cheap price, we received the hostel funk.
There is a smell that coagulates around travelers who have been living out of a backpack for some time and who have been giving minimal or limited attention to the details of personal and garment hygiene. Now, I dare not judge backpackers for the aroma on their persons and belongings; when one is one the road for weeks or months on end, something must give. Something must be afforded second, third, or twentieth place in the list of priorities because there is only so much time and space one has when one does not possess one’s own apartment or house. The funk of long-term backpackers is normal and, in some strange sense, poetic.
However, we dare not extend the same grace to the hostels who host backpackers. It is one thing for the pig to wallow; it is quite another for the farmer to insist the rooster do the same. Hostels, if they are to have anything worthy of commendation, must be clean and tidy, with a good kitchen. Should they have pool, patio, billiards, free internet, hang gliding lessons, and live jazz every night but not have cleanliness and good kitchen facilities, they are to be scorned.
Upon first step into our present hostel dorm room we encountered a heavy cloud of funk in the air.
What’s more, the kitchen has proven to be sub-par in terms of cleanliness, repair, and availability of utensils. Sigh.
To be fair, some of the funky state of this hostel was certainly due to the fact that Sydney has a big Mardi Gras celebration on the first Saturday after Ash Wednesday (for those of you who know the liturgical calendar: I know, I know—I didn’t schedule this “Mardi Gras”). Because of this celebration and the parade that passes through downtown Sydney, all the hostels are booked up. What’s more, people have begun warming up their party skills. They spend lots of late nights out, drinking and making merry. And they accumulate more funk that is brought back and allowed to settle in the dormitory rooms.
Friday morning I woke up to the acidic, tangy smell of gastric fluids. After three days of walking through our dorm room door from fresh poolside air to dingy man-sweat funk, the smell of used alcohol broke my resolve. Memories of nights long past, nights as a Floorfellow and Hall Director cleaning up the nasty regurgitations of over-indulgent college students reared their ugly heads in my psyche. That was it—we were out of there. We found a hostel way up the coast north of Sydney with a double room open and took it. As it turns out, this impulsive decision put us in the best hostel we’ve stayed in so far: Sydney Beaches YHA Backpacker, better even than Mountain Jade. This one had cleanliness, style, great facilities, and a huge kitchen. Ten gas burners and six stainless steel sinks! To top it all off, this backpacker had alleviated the problem of guests smashing their food into small refrigerators by installing a walk-in fridge with cubby holes. Wow! Hostel heaven, here. We’re glad we spent the hour on public transit to get here. I’m especially glad we escaped one more night of hostel funk.
~emrys
Friday, March 03, 2006
The Quest for Fish 'N' Chips
As of our departure from New Zealand for Australia, the fish ’n’ chips line-up looked like this:
Flying Squid, Dunedin: Good fish, excellent batter, very good chips, served in a chic brown paper bag.
Porky’s, Hokitika: Good fish, good batter (too thin: tends to fall of the fish before it gets to your lips), excellent chips (thick and crisp on the outside), served in stylish white paper tray.
While in Sydney we’ve visited three locations for fish ’n’ chips and had variable experiences. (Sara really experiences fish ’n’ chips vicariously through me, as she doesn’t like fish.) However, the road to good fish ’n’ chips has been as eventful as the actual eating of fried piscine delights. A recounting is worthwhile here.
We have found our guidebook to Sydney, published by “Lonely Planet” very helpful for many aspects of our visit (except telling us about the visa we were supposed to have; see an earlier entry for that debacle). It seemed reasonable, therefore, to follow the Lonely Planet’s advice on finding good fish ’n’ chips in Sydney. I even went so far as to mark (in pen, mind you) the locations of the Lonely Planet’s “Top 5 Fish ’N’ Chips” restaurants. Before we headed out for the first one, however, Sara had the foresight to check up on the price range for these restaurants, cited elsewhere in the guidebook. We did so and discovered that the main courses at these restaurants cost between $17 and $25. Fish ’n’ chips for $17? No way! Good call, Sara Jane—saved us from a big mistake. Fish ’n’ chips shouldn’t cost more than $10—and even then it better come with a glass of wine and a massage.
If Lonely Planet fails you, where do you go? The clear answer for us was to follow the example of a good friend who knows how to work the big system we call society: Kierstead. Keirstead’s method of finding the best places to shop, eat, and party is to enter the nearest five-star hotel and ask the concierge. If you can fake it like you belong there, he’ll think it’s his job to give you the information you want to the best of his ability.
So I swaggered into the Hotel Intercontinental Sydney, right past a cherry red Ferrari and up to the concierge desk. Sure, I wasn’t dressed like you’d expect someone to be dressed who’d just dropped $500 on a hotel room (of course, if I had just dropped $500 on a hotel room, I’d be calling the credit card company to report a stolen card). Then again, in this age of internet millionaires dressing casually, who’s to say I didn’t look like a paying guest?
I asked the concierge where to find good cheap fish ’n’ chips in downtown Sydney. He informed me that the best fish ’n’ chips was to be found at Doyle’s, a restaurant on Circular Quay, the central harbour of Sydney. Some alarm went off in the back of my mind about a restaurant that could afford to have property on Circular Quay serving fish ’n’ chips for less than $50, but I ignored it. Then again, maybe I had tipped this guy off by asking for “cheap” fish ’n’ chips. Did residents of the Hotel Intercontinental ever ask for anything “cheap”?
We decided to check it out. Sure enough, Doyle’s on Circular Quay charges $30 for fish ’n’ chips. By the look of the wine list, I don’t think $30 included a glass of it, and I didn’t see massages anywhere on the menu. Forget Doyle’s, and I think I’ll need some more coaching from Kierstead. Maybe I needed to sway my hips more.
This whole fiasco brought us to the clear and obvious choice: Quay Seafood. Positioned in the loud interchange between Circular Quay railway station and the public ferry wharves, Quay Seafood is a dingy little hole in the wall. It’s got an old-school neon sign that flickers enough to make you think it should be fixed but not enough to make you call the repair man. And it has fish ’n’ chips for $8. Perfect.
The chips were good, but not excellent. They lacked the intensity of potato flavour that I like in my chips, perhaps because they’d been in the freezer too long. Who knows. The fish was very good—mild flavour, the way I like it. The batter was too thin and kept falling off, which was disappointing. However Quay Seafood added a wedge of lemon to the dish, which hadn’t happened in New Zealand. Nice touch! Over all, very good.
Now that we knew the five-star hotels didn’t have the angle on good fish ’n’ chips, we started checking with the locals. The next hot tip we got was for a place that had won “Best Fish ’N’ Chips in Town” in the paper for the Manly area. (That’s right: Manly. It’s where Australian boys become Australian Men. Apparently one of the first explorers to reach Australia named the peninsula “Manly” because of the physique of the Aboriginals they found there.) The local didn’t know what the name of the place was, but we couldn’t miss it right there on Manly Beach.
And we didn’t. Sea King is a cute little fast-food joint that specializes in sea food. While Sara munched on a chicken burger from next door, I had fish that was quite good—not as mild as I like, but bearable—though the batter, once again, was too thin and fell off easily. The chips were very good, a little thicker than average and quite tasty. Once again, they garnished it with lemon—an Aussie thing, perhaps?—that gave a good touch to the fish. Well worth the 30-minute ferry trip out to Manly (and the $7.50 it costs).
Every beach enthusiast who comes to Sydney must go to Bondi (pronounced BON-dai, not BON-dee) Beach. It’s the quintessential Australian beach experience. Furthermore, there is a beautiful coastal walk that runs from Bondi south to Coogee Beach. Sara wanted to walk and I wanted another try at fish ’n’ chips, so we took the bus to Bondi and walked down to Coogee, where we found a little stand next to the beach called “Chish ‘N’ Fips.” They had burgers, chicken, and fish.
Good stuff here. The fish was mild but not bland, the batter was superb—thick enough to hold together but not so thick it was soggy—and the chips were quite good. I think it also helps any fish ’n’ chips experience to eat it next to crashing waves and defend it from threatening sea gulls.
Alas, tomorrow we leave for New Zealand again, so the Australian fish ’n’ chips adventure will have to end here. But it was tasty while it lasted.
~emrys
Flying Squid, Dunedin: Good fish, excellent batter, very good chips, served in a chic brown paper bag.
Porky’s, Hokitika: Good fish, good batter (too thin: tends to fall of the fish before it gets to your lips), excellent chips (thick and crisp on the outside), served in stylish white paper tray.
While in Sydney we’ve visited three locations for fish ’n’ chips and had variable experiences. (Sara really experiences fish ’n’ chips vicariously through me, as she doesn’t like fish.) However, the road to good fish ’n’ chips has been as eventful as the actual eating of fried piscine delights. A recounting is worthwhile here.
We have found our guidebook to Sydney, published by “Lonely Planet” very helpful for many aspects of our visit (except telling us about the visa we were supposed to have; see an earlier entry for that debacle). It seemed reasonable, therefore, to follow the Lonely Planet’s advice on finding good fish ’n’ chips in Sydney. I even went so far as to mark (in pen, mind you) the locations of the Lonely Planet’s “Top 5 Fish ’N’ Chips” restaurants. Before we headed out for the first one, however, Sara had the foresight to check up on the price range for these restaurants, cited elsewhere in the guidebook. We did so and discovered that the main courses at these restaurants cost between $17 and $25. Fish ’n’ chips for $17? No way! Good call, Sara Jane—saved us from a big mistake. Fish ’n’ chips shouldn’t cost more than $10—and even then it better come with a glass of wine and a massage.
If Lonely Planet fails you, where do you go? The clear answer for us was to follow the example of a good friend who knows how to work the big system we call society: Kierstead. Keirstead’s method of finding the best places to shop, eat, and party is to enter the nearest five-star hotel and ask the concierge. If you can fake it like you belong there, he’ll think it’s his job to give you the information you want to the best of his ability.
So I swaggered into the Hotel Intercontinental Sydney, right past a cherry red Ferrari and up to the concierge desk. Sure, I wasn’t dressed like you’d expect someone to be dressed who’d just dropped $500 on a hotel room (of course, if I had just dropped $500 on a hotel room, I’d be calling the credit card company to report a stolen card). Then again, in this age of internet millionaires dressing casually, who’s to say I didn’t look like a paying guest?
I asked the concierge where to find good cheap fish ’n’ chips in downtown Sydney. He informed me that the best fish ’n’ chips was to be found at Doyle’s, a restaurant on Circular Quay, the central harbour of Sydney. Some alarm went off in the back of my mind about a restaurant that could afford to have property on Circular Quay serving fish ’n’ chips for less than $50, but I ignored it. Then again, maybe I had tipped this guy off by asking for “cheap” fish ’n’ chips. Did residents of the Hotel Intercontinental ever ask for anything “cheap”?
We decided to check it out. Sure enough, Doyle’s on Circular Quay charges $30 for fish ’n’ chips. By the look of the wine list, I don’t think $30 included a glass of it, and I didn’t see massages anywhere on the menu. Forget Doyle’s, and I think I’ll need some more coaching from Kierstead. Maybe I needed to sway my hips more.
This whole fiasco brought us to the clear and obvious choice: Quay Seafood. Positioned in the loud interchange between Circular Quay railway station and the public ferry wharves, Quay Seafood is a dingy little hole in the wall. It’s got an old-school neon sign that flickers enough to make you think it should be fixed but not enough to make you call the repair man. And it has fish ’n’ chips for $8. Perfect.
The chips were good, but not excellent. They lacked the intensity of potato flavour that I like in my chips, perhaps because they’d been in the freezer too long. Who knows. The fish was very good—mild flavour, the way I like it. The batter was too thin and kept falling off, which was disappointing. However Quay Seafood added a wedge of lemon to the dish, which hadn’t happened in New Zealand. Nice touch! Over all, very good.
Now that we knew the five-star hotels didn’t have the angle on good fish ’n’ chips, we started checking with the locals. The next hot tip we got was for a place that had won “Best Fish ’N’ Chips in Town” in the paper for the Manly area. (That’s right: Manly. It’s where Australian boys become Australian Men. Apparently one of the first explorers to reach Australia named the peninsula “Manly” because of the physique of the Aboriginals they found there.) The local didn’t know what the name of the place was, but we couldn’t miss it right there on Manly Beach.
And we didn’t. Sea King is a cute little fast-food joint that specializes in sea food. While Sara munched on a chicken burger from next door, I had fish that was quite good—not as mild as I like, but bearable—though the batter, once again, was too thin and fell off easily. The chips were very good, a little thicker than average and quite tasty. Once again, they garnished it with lemon—an Aussie thing, perhaps?—that gave a good touch to the fish. Well worth the 30-minute ferry trip out to Manly (and the $7.50 it costs).
Every beach enthusiast who comes to Sydney must go to Bondi (pronounced BON-dai, not BON-dee) Beach. It’s the quintessential Australian beach experience. Furthermore, there is a beautiful coastal walk that runs from Bondi south to Coogee Beach. Sara wanted to walk and I wanted another try at fish ’n’ chips, so we took the bus to Bondi and walked down to Coogee, where we found a little stand next to the beach called “Chish ‘N’ Fips.” They had burgers, chicken, and fish.
Good stuff here. The fish was mild but not bland, the batter was superb—thick enough to hold together but not so thick it was soggy—and the chips were quite good. I think it also helps any fish ’n’ chips experience to eat it next to crashing waves and defend it from threatening sea gulls.
Alas, tomorrow we leave for New Zealand again, so the Australian fish ’n’ chips adventure will have to end here. But it was tasty while it lasted.
~emrys
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Sydney!
We arrived in Sydney on Monday and have been going non-stop since. With the help of public transit passes we’ve been in and out of the Circular Quay area a number of times, out to Manly, Olympic Park, Opera House, Paddy’s Market and Luna Park. We took a day tour that took us out to the Blue Mountains and Featherdale Wildlife Park. It’s been amazing- with exception of our hostel situation which we’re looking at ditching tonight if we can find somewhere with a room. This weekend is the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras which is a HUGE thing and everywhere is booked up. So it looks like we may head out to Manly for the night. Today we’re off to Bondi Beach and then our mission for the evening is to get nighttime photos of the Opera House and Sydney Harbor Bridge.
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