Balifornication - Pt 2

I like west coasts. Since I've lived on the east coast of Sydney for the last 19 months, the thought of hanging on the beach during a tropical sunset suits me just fine. Made a point each day to see the sun headed for other pastures. No sir, I still don't want cannabis and ma'am, take your hand off my shoulder, do not want a massage either. Other than those minor distractions, the sun setting over the tepid Indian Ocean keeps one mellow. Maybe I should've taken their offers, added to the scenery.















Took a day trip to a place called Ubud on day four. It's a small town that provides a little more traditional Balinese lifestyle. More temples and rice paddies, and the vendors actually keep to themselves. The monkey sanctuary puts you face-to-face with some goofy looking dudes, chomping away on bananas, or anything else they can get their hands on. I didn't trust them from the start, and sure enough, one cheeky little bozo jumped on my backpack trying for my camera. Not sure if he wanted to take some snapshots or thought it was lunch, but was eventually able to pry him loose.



















Back in Kuta, low key restaurants and tiki-tpe bars litter Poppies Gang I and its partner nearby, Poppies Gang II. Beers are about $1.50, meals maybe 10. Spots such as Swell, Bali Aguya, The Treehouse and Kedin's Cafe are tough to pass up. What's funny about staff at bars and retaurants is that they'll hound you to come inside, but then you need a set of flares to flag someone down for another drink. When the tip system isn't in play, all rules are off, I suppose. Some places screen movies at night, which is pretty cool for solo travelers like myself. Although there were a few stinkers in there, was able to finally see Frost/Nixon, good stuff.

I'd be remiss to not mention how Bali was hit by a series of bombings, both in 2002 and 2005. Although a substantisal double blow to the morale of the island and tourism today, things seem to be chugging along nicely in Kuta. They do have a memorial at the site of 2002 bombings, with all the victims scribed on the wall. We were talking the other day about why in Allah's name would someone go after a place like Bali, doesn't seem to harm anyone. But as the only Hindu island in the largest Muslim country on earth....I suppose there are a few tensions there. Here's hoping this island stays out of harm's way moving forward.

Speaking of moving forward (or in this case, backwards), almost forgot about my hotel trade to the Ayu Beach II. The sequel is never really as good as the original, is it? Along with Poppies Lane II, the second incarnation of Ayu Beach Inn didn't leave too much to be desired. Actually, this REALLY felt like a cheap Indonesian hotel room. There were the luxuries of an actual bed and ceiling fan, but this place didn't offer toilet paper or a towel for the shower. Thankfully, my Jacks Surfboard t-shirt served as a suitable towel (not tp!) for two days. This is what you get for about $8 a night. Made my way back to the original Ayu a few days later....room 41, air con, breakfast, pool, civilization.















Since the flight out was not until late, made the most of final day in town. Had one of the hotel's drivers take me south to Uluwatu and Dreamland. More temples and monkeys, except this time I got to rock a sarong. I've gotta say, a skirt in Laker colors suited me well. Uluwatu Beach was also a haven for surfers, some really good breaks with entrance to beach through cave-like setting. On the ride back to Kuta, I was joined by some traveling Swedes and a guy from San Jose, all who were staying at the Ayu Beach. Always good to meet fellow travelers...except when I get back to Bondi and they become dirty Euro backpackers!




















Before heading for the airport, made my way down Legian Rd/St again, soaking up the culture one last time. Final dinner was at Crusoe's Island, which offered the "coldest beers and hoottest girls in Bali." I guess they refer to good looking girls as owls or something in Bali. Friends from Oz mentioned a place called Paddy's, which I assumed was another chill bar where I could catch Champions League or something. Located right at Ground Zero from the bombings, Paddy's is the cheesy nightclub you'd expect in a place like Kuta. Being about 7:30, I waltzed in as the only patron to enjoy their two for one deals. I was amused by the sountrack of the place, which was the Bee Gees entire catalog. Was this a nod to all the Aussie tourists, or just an appreciation of the Gibb brothers' career? All I can say is the 60s songs were typical, yet well-written pop songs. As for the Staying Alive era, disco sucks. Started chatting with a Kiwi at the bar for a bit, before grabbing one last drink at nearby Swell and catching the end of 40 Year Old Virgin (I wanna shave your head).

The sunsets were good, weather warm, ocean almost as warm. Both locals and tourists were friendly, and I was able to practice saying "no thanks" to vendors approximately 500 times. Guns were rocking, beer and food went down easy, too. Oh yeah, after a few phone calls, my visa came through. There's the proof....I'm legal again.

Balifornication - Pt 1

A new visa forced me to leave Australian shores, and while NZ is a fine piece of land, I opted for the beaches, beer, scooters and narrow streets of Bali. Decent Jetstar flight included a memorably depressing movie, named something about Rachel's wedding. The plot revolved around a troubled sister who was in rehab, coming home for her perfect sister's wedding weekend. The real point of this movie was to sap every inch of emotion from depressed people, making the wedding weekend a series of uncomfortable and bittersweet moments. My teeth were getting metaphorically pulled. What one will watch to pass the time when stuck in a flying tube for six hours....

Not long after landing in Denpasar, Bali's major city, I nabbed a $5 taxi, then dropped on Poppies Lane 1, right in the heart and soul of Kuta Beach. Poppies "Lane," and its bretheren, Poppies Lane II, would probably be considered Poppies Alley in most western countries. They're wide enough to fit a scooter, or a few pedestrians, but of course here, they try to fit both, along with cars, which don't really fit at all. After doing my best Joseph and Mary impersonation and unsuccessfully securing a hotel room, the world-reknown Ayu Beach Inn opened its wicker doors for me. Complete with cushy A/C room for about $20 a night and the ambience of a typical tropical bungalow, this seemed like an appropriate place to apply for the new visa. Of course, this couldn't be an easy process, something about declined credit card and being on another visa already...will get to that later. By this time, it was about 12:30, so took a quick trip to the Circle K (only in California aaaand Bali) for a late night snack and first of many Bintangs (local beer).















Setting out on streets of Bali to explore on day one, I quickly discovered the true goal of this island: commerce. The Balinese seem much friendlier than the Vietnamese, but this is probably due to the fact they speak substantial English in the form of "hey bro, cheap prices," "you want transport?" and "you like massage?" I was going to strike up a convo about the decline of print media in western society, but just opted for a smile and shake of the head instead. What boggled me was how each shop pretty much contained the same stock: Bingtang t-shirts, sunglasses and pirated DVDs. But the owners insist that you want their trinkets and cheap shirts more than anything, even though I've just passed 20 of the same. Oh wait, your mini replica Beatles guitar is only 200,000 Rupiahs? Well, I may have to consider.... Some brave souls tried to pawn off cannabis, but I wasn't about to test the Indonesian death penalty.















Of course when you visit the equator in April, one of the first things you'll notice from sunrise on is the heat and humidity that would make South Florida blush. The usual heat measuring stick is to refer something as "Africa hot." Well, since my last trip to SE Asia, I'll refer to Indonesia as "Vietnam hot." I have to question the mental capacity of someone who wears pants or long sleeves in this weather, but the locals probably thought it was unseasonably cool. The pair of jeans I packed took up unneccesary space in my bag and the four pairs of board shorts were well worth it.



















Now these days and nights seem to bleed together into one sunny beach holiday with large Bintangs, Indonesian cuisine, dodging scooters and learning new ways to decline shop vendors. But there are a few moments that stick out for sure. On night one, I decided to hit up the Hard Rock Cafe, an establishment I haven't visited since probably London 10 years back. Jakarta's version of Guns n Roses were playing that night, covering classics from Appetite for Destruction, Use Your Illusion, Lies, etc. Axl was a little tanner and paunchy than I remember, but still had that Sunset Strip scream from the old days. No Slash tophat, but I think it's better when a cover band has their own look anyway. Oh right, they even had the gall to throw out one of their own tunes, just in case an A&R rep from Capitol Records was in attendance. Through this show, it made me realize how GnR was the soundtrack to my early adolecense. Although I was a dedicated "Yo! MTV Raps" fan back in the day, the Guns were the omnipresent band of this era. Needless to say, I didn't hear any songs from Chinese Democracy.

So far, the first few days in Bali was a good Welcome to the Jungle. Nothing like a Paradise City to relax, although I would need a little Patience to get the visa. Don't Cry, there will be more Bali stories in the next installment.

Bluegrass Revival

I've been thinking alot about the state of Kentucky in recent days. After all, the men's team just named John Calipari as their new coach (great move), I just watched a bio on Muhammed Ali (the Louisville Lip) and last week made an ill-fated effort to hit up a new tapas place in Bondi called Rum Jungle (presumably named after Lousiville's own HST). But the appreciation for all things bluegrass allows me to take part in what could be considered one of many dream jobs. It reminds me to provide an abridged version of a concert review from Kentucky's My Morning Jacket. For those of you that don't know MMJ, they have been on the scene for about seven years now. Placed under the genre of jam band (apparently for their preponderence of facial hair and long hair), they have evolved over the years and made their way into "Indie" (which I suppose is an upgrade), but have kept their jammy roots. Their 2008 release, "Evil Urges" dispelled any remnance of noodling jamsters and put them into the American music mainstream.

When you hear of a band playing in Sydney, it brings on two reactions: awesome! because good bands come along every time Uconn makes the Final Four...and great, this show will only be 150% more expensive than I'm used to seeing them. Nevertheless, when I found out there were still tix available for this show in January, I was both shocked and estatic. While they may not be as known to Sydneysiders, this show would sell out in hours in cities such as Boston, New York or SF. The band was in town to support Neil Young, another concert they would've been great, but through-the-roof expensive.

I hit up the concert with friends James and Marina, who are just the folks to appreciate a great show like this. After reliving their trip to Cambodia and Laos, we headed over to The Metro, an intimate but sizable venue right in CBD. As the band took the stage, the crowd reacted with a revelry of a highly respected act. I've seen this reaction with the likes of Wilco. These are bands that people rock out to, but respect and admire, in part because the critics do the same. Leader of MMJ, Jim James, is a 21st Century rock hero - bearded, enigmatic, wears a cape and loves to dabble in various music forms. OK, he's any rock hero, but doesn't appear to be self-serving in his stage approach. Like a good team at Kentucky, he's a captain, and knows he needs a good support system every night.

One of the great aspects about thir Metro performance is that they played like it was their biggest (or last) performance ever. The amazing thing about the band is that's how they appraoch EVERY show. The band's earnesty and urgency is heard through the voice of James, guitar work of Tom Blankenship/Carl Broemel, organ of Bo Koster and frenetic drumming of Patrick Hallahan. Without going into a song-by-song synopsis, the January 22 gig was a sublime mix of new and old, timid and rocking, standard and improvisational, familiar and even more familiar. Each song seemed perfectly placed, and the crowd energy grew as the show progressed. To make matters more interesting, the venue was a sweatbox and after the first set, it looked like we emerged from Fitness First in flannel shirts.

The extended encore was a microcosm of the show at large: mix of the old and new, but all wonderfully played and appreciated by a spirited audience. The show closed with a 2004 hit, "One Great Holiday," which I first remember hearing on the tragically defunct Indie 103.1. Between the nostalgia factor and ability to drive the audience into a frenzy, this was the cherry on top of what I consider to be one of the best shows I've ever been to. My proof of attendance lies in a miniature camera phone pic, and if Sony Ericsson could make things easier, I'd provide that.

Great job boys, you earned some Kentucky moonshine tonight.

April Showers

This morning, April began by combining three of my favorite things: waking up so early it's dark outside, job interview and riding a bike in the pouring rain (with minimal brakes to boot). If you're not picking up on the sarcasm, well, yeah.

This decision mostly centered around the job interview, as it took place fairly early and a good 15 minutes from my current office. My thinking was that biking into work, even during Monsoon Charlie, was quicker than that monstrosity known as the bus. Plus, I didn't have a pass.

What I didn't plan was ringing out my clothes afterwards. But after the early wake and sopping/more dangerous than normal bike ride, I thought the problems would end. Except the walk to the interview left me almost as wet and with hair looking like Pat Riley. Fortunately for me, the kind woman I was interviewing with had endured the same effects of Charlie. As an aside, they don't name Sydney rainstorms, but I might have to get in the habit.

Interview went as scheduled and the rain subsided throughout the day. The last bit of fun was putting the drenched clothes back on for the ride home.

Do I miss the land of Southern California, with its cars and constant sunshine? Hmmm....

Erin Go Blah

So here's one of these "it's just not the same moments" that I come across in Sydney: I'm sitting at my computer on St. Patrick's Day at 9:00, sipping a Becks (German beer!) and didn't have corned beef or something green at some point today. Hell, there wasn't even a sign of the holiday, other than one random guy in a green hat at 7am.

It's strange to me what part of American culture this place soaks up, like movies and reality shows, but passes up great holidays like this. I suppose the Irish in Ireland don't make a big deal out of today either, so maybe it's an American thing. We do love to party for any excuse.

This is the strange part of my memory, but I can probably remember every St. Patricks since about 2000...the day I graduated from college. No, wait, I can remember back to 1999, when I was actually in Dublin. Other than the obvious cultural thing, there's been good memories from St. Patty's: mom cooking green pancakes, NCAA tourney starting up, when's it's on a Friday or Saturday, Pag filling the water cooler with green dye. It's just not the same when it's just another day in March. C'mon Oz, get with the Irish spirit and down a Guinness or 10.

Here's some good SPD memories from a classic one, in 2004. The night started so innocently....maybe not.

Tour de Sydney

These days, everyone is cutting back on spending: fewer dinners out, pre-game drinking before hitting the bars and shopping in vintage stores for the latest clothes (welcome to the party, 20 years later....). Some of us have even left the bus or car behnind and jumped on the old trusty (or in my case, rusty) bike. No longer an activity for the Lance Armstrongs and Miguel Indurrain's (I'm not looking up the correct spelling, dammit) of the world, you can't walk five minutes around the city without seeing someone on a bike these days. To coincide with my occasional weekend joyrides around the city, I decided to cut costs and get exercise by biking to work every day. Oh yeah, it's good for the environment, too...forgot about the world there for a sec.

Some of the commuter bikers, such as myself, are dressed normally in gym gear. Shorts, t-shirt, sneakers...the norm. Others don themselves in spandex and feaux pro attire, thinking they're climbing the Pyrenes along with the peleton (no spell check, either). It's a bit ridiculous, but whatever floats your boat. Anyway, Sydney isn't exactly the flattest city in the world, which means at one time or another, you're going to deal with hills. At 7am, five minutes after you woke up and haven't had as much as a drink of water...not cool. But the morning ride is pretty cruisy: through Bondi Junction, through Centennial Park, allll the way down Moore Park Rd and into the nice Surry Hills streets. Can't quite say the same for getting home, which consists of a total of five decently scaled hills. And of course there's the omnipresent wind to go against every day.

It's a good workout, for sure, but after struggling up Oxford, I can't imagine what Lance and his peers have to deal with. Granted, my bike is an $80 K-Mart special, but the French mountainside is about ten times more difficult. One thing the pro riders don't have to deal with everyday are the Sydney buses. While most traffic is considered the "enemy," the flipping buses think every human not in a car is pretty much invisible. The left lane is meant to be shared by bikers and buses, but guess who wins that battle? I haven't quite been swept of the street yet, but there have been a few tricky moments:

Last week, I managed to slam into the back of the bus that had the nerve to stop suddely in traffic. With my less-than-stellar brakes, I wasn't quick enough to stop my tire from getting wedged into the back of old big blue for a few seconds.

The other night coming home, I almost had one of those Puck meets Sopranos moments. I only say that, because the only times I can think of this happening was to Puck from the Real World 3 (San Fran) and to the African kid on the Sopranos, before he got beaten up by AJ's friends, of course. What I'm referring to is the dreaded opening car door. You never see it coming, and if you're lucky enough to react, you pretty much see your life flash before your eyes. The other night, my lightning quick reflexes managed to escape the fate of Puck and swerved from a car door just in time. Thankfully, something good was on the iPod to allow me to reflect on the moment.

You'll notice safety precautions, such as good brakes and iPods, aren't my forte. Don't worry, at least I'm wearing my helmet now! So anytime you're driving in Sydney, give a nice honk to those bikers on the left, don't drive us off the road...and try to look in the rear view mirror before opening the door.

(stunning pic of my bike to come)

Australian Geographic

In this burgeoning economy of 2009, one of the things I wanted to do was experience more outdoors Australia and possibly avoid the bars as much as possible. You know, cheap living, but experiencing more of the real world out there. So when my friend Jamie and co. offered a trip to the Blue Mountains for some camping and canyoning, I checked my bank account, then jumped at the chance. Without a clue of what canyoning was, I cleaned out the cooler of papers, grabbed a sleeping bag and borrowed a tent from Scott (which I subseqently biked up Oxford Street like a soldier in training).

In short, camping and canyoning was a blast. Great mix of downing beers like a barfly and scaling hills like that Bear Grylls dude. After taking an extra hour getting lost on the way there, we even managed to put up our tents in about 20 minutes, before the rain nonetheless. As I've mentioned before, canyoning felt like I was a member of the Goonies: slides, rocks, adventure at every turn. We must have missed the buried treasure. As an aside, which Goonie would I be? Guess it cancels out Data...and Chunk since I'm neither Asian nor fat. I suppose the main kid (whose only name I don't remember) is the best choice, although I never had asthma or an infatuation with a one-eyed pirate. Anywho, there were missteps along the way and frigid water when you're not wearing a wesuit, but times like this do make you feel like a mountain man. What's it about the outdoors that make you no longer care about sleep, showers, toothpaste, toilets and overall societal mores?

But now that we're back in the city, I do need my Foxtel, Spin and Old Spice body wash. Some old habits never die....