9 months. ahhhh...

Rain, rain and warriors.

A weekend in Xi'an.

The allures of a port, all around the world.

I've always thought there was something magical about port towns--the constant flow of water bringing new stock, new ideas and people.

Trapped dead-center in America, beyond the cornfield in the backyard, I was connected to water only through a small pond. And many a times, like the fish, I too was surprised that I lived there. I felt trapped, as if in a figurative desert, thirsting for water as only a fool without it can feel. I was the only one to blame, equally trapped in another box, my never-ending wanderlust dreams. As it so often goes, the beauty of the land lost on me, until I left.

But it's easy to see why, the world-over, port-towns thrive. They're alluring, mysterious and if you don't want to live there, you'd be lying if you didn't want to visit at least one: Seattle, Stockholm, Tokyo, Buenos Aires, but that's just a few, the world has 926 such towns in 109 countries. And the world's biggest cities (and busiest ports): Los Angeles, Singapore, Hong Kong, and Mumbai.

With Shanghai being no exception to either rule. What defines the city is not the stamped entry, but the port's connecting river into the busting metropolis of 22 million. Not small in any marker of the word, but a pumping beast that smoothly divides the city into two. Making Shanghai look like a soul with split-personality disorder, the new and the old.

And Australia's Sydney would be no different to this story, except that communism never cracked down on their party, but that's another tale.

If there ever is a man of legacy to Australia, James Cook is it. Aussies celebrate him for finding and claiming the place. And to be fair, it wasn't an easy task, even if the mass of the large island down under is roughly the size of the 48 states.

Today, Sydney is best seen from the harbor that started it, including the penal colony history and all. The ships rock in the sea and tourists clamor to fit the Harbour Bridge and the Sydney Opera House into the iconic photo frame to add to their collections. A respectful place for any Sydneyer to hate, understandably. Ingrid and I sealed our trip there (we had to) with postcards of the same, but also added some shirtless Aussie men, reminiscent of the Gold Coast, to mix it up.

(Inevitably telling someone, "Yes, hit the silver button. Nope, ah, that wasn't a photo, push it harder--Greeeeat--this is what I wanted.)

The port isn't the same as James Cook found it, in fact, it's commercial value has outpaced any other city in the country, including Melbourne, but its beauty doesn't reflect that. It's classic, as a port will always be to me.

As I inked my postcards, reflecting on it, I thought of the magic of a port's honest reality, arrival and departure. And how this intersected with our philosophical ports, the different chapters of life that define and shape us, not just as the traveler, but all of life.

Not alike an airport, at all.

And if you go:

The best harbor-side place to be in Sydney sans crowds, easy, the fish market. As told by Rough Guides' East Coast Australia, it's the world's second largest (Tokyo being number one, of course). Ingrid and I pushed snooze to the 5 a.m. rush, but did manage to arrive for a late salmon and tuna sashimi breakfast, complete with fresh mussels, altered only with lemon juice.

Birds flocked, ship men may have stared and we ate the best, freshest fish our of lives. We may have even called our parents to let them know...

Evidence (despite that face, we really enjoyed it, promise).

Hanoi "Street food"

Hanoi, Vietnam's capital in the north, is a concentrated, congested buzz. Not alike a soothing cup of tea, its a triple-shot of espresso, dumped in coffee. If you're there, get on a motorbike and join it.

(Hanoi Beer snaking through town. However, if you want the real speciality of the city, skip the bottled variety and try the raw, micro-brewed stuff. Spot it by its keg contrainer at street-side food vendors. To drink it, be prepared to sit for a spell on a knee-high squattor chair, typical Asia style.)

(Baguettes, the mark of the French and their colonial days here.)

(Chaos and potatoes)

(Leopard print and limes)

(Ah, finally, rest & café; gossip time)

Amid a mess, remembrance.

I’m a planner by nature, even if my notes end up as disorganized, haphazard, many times lost, to-do notes, which are ometimes created on bar coasters, receipts, or a torn flight itinerary. The principle is the same. I plan. I do.

If not, I forget my wet laundry in the washer—for days. It isn’t good, for anyone.

So, it shouldn’t surprise anyone that I usually have a working, yet changeable timeline scrambling in my brain, everyday.

I don’t like to share it, not that I’m terribly afraid something won’t happen on “the list”. After all, one of my loosely hatched plans—to travel through Asia (Tibet & Nepal) after I finish teaching English in China—is on execute phase as we speak. However, sometimes even I admit, the ideas are a little too “Anna—you’re crazy” and I don’t like hearing that. My ego can seem mighty, but it’s fragile like the skin of a rabbit (read The Last American Man if you’re unsure on this metaphor, page 72).

So, to reassure myself on this last sudden change of thought, route, plan, destiny, whatever you want to call it. I consulted an old journal I filled with precious thoughts, various ramblings and mementos; the same journal that I brought on my unexpected journey back East to teach English in Zhengzhou. A town, which turned out to be a mega city. And though I was nervous, anxious as hell, in fact, and unsure if I had the made the right hasty decision—it turned out okay. In fact, actually better (consult this blog’s archives, in case you’d like a detail of my ups & downs in ZZ).

So, I reopened it on this day that I felt my head shake. What should I do? Abort the planned plan?!

(The "traveling pine cone" which did in fact travel with Ingrid and I on her big move from Tahoe, California to Magnolia, Iowa to New Zealand--though the pine cone didn't follow her to the last, nor unfortunately did I.)

Better than a magic eight ball, this is what it said:

(Before you read, remember this is a personal journal, the thoughts may represent me, but please, really, do not take them too seriously. I heed you. I wrote most of this while I was thousands of feet in the air, again, unsure of my destiny.)

“My passport finally arrived, the package was marked as Ms. Anna Frisky. I can never change my last name, obviously.”

Real wisdom, I know.

“If you really want to do something, you’ll find a way. If you don’t, you’ll find an excuse.”

–Samuel Butler

This, above, is one of my favorite quotations of all time and something I try to live by.

Followed with: “Green is good. Life’s a garden, man. Dig it.”

--Anonymous friend, the identity of which will remain concealed.

These equally wise words were spoken the night we climbed Cold Stone and slept on its downtown rooftop and consequently became “roof people” for several hours, one summer night. Oh yeah Mom, that happened, whoops.

As well as many photo-booth moments at Deadwood, an Indian feather and a Chinese propaganda postcard—usual suspects in a journal, I’m sure. With the words, New Beginnings, starting it all.

To seal my thoughts of stretching beyond a comfort zone in the next chapter, or at least rewriting the script, one last quote from another individual on the road:

“I should have listened to my father when he told me to become a teacher, but I told him, ‘What? Are you high? I don’t want to deal with those little brats.’ Now I’m 52. How did that happen?”--Shuttle driver in Rocky Mountain National Park

Ah, a reality of the 60s.

Of course, as to my real plans, I can’t tell you until that happens.

(This random and scatter-brained blog post could be representative of some of my to-do notes. Tis true, tis life. Now, I need to go get that laundry.)

(Rocky Mountain National Park, on top of the world.)

Lost in refresh in China.

I remember it distinctly, I was nabbing another stolen french fry in ketchup as Wes casually broke the news to Briana and I. It was a text from his mom, that news, that his mom had learned how to cross the seas with a message, had seemed just as alerting. "Obama got Osama Bin Laden. He's dead." With the sting of those words came updates from her day, I went golfing with so-and-so.

"What?" I asked, slightly shocked, but I continued to chew just as attentively on my stolen fry. It was 2 in the afternoon, Beijing time, and I was sitting in a McDonald's in Shanghai's Old Town. A joke, I thought for sure.

Though, what kind of weird joke would that be? Right...

Sitting in as "American" of an establishment as you can get--McDonald's arches are actually the most recognized symbol to children around the world--thank Fast Food Nation for that fun fact. Compounded to the fact that many foreigners extract American food to purely be Mcfood, well, you get the idea, I should have felt the comfort of my homeland with ol' Ronald.

But as I listened, and moments later the reality of the event sunk in, "Osama Bin Laden is dead," I felt even more detached from home, or rather AMERICA. A text and some fries don't translate to being on the home-front of jubilation.

12 hours later, I waited impatiently as the hostel's Internet slowly refreshed to the same. Check your Internet connection, try again later. No, I couldn't even check my favorite form of breaking news, The New York Times, for what by now was hardly even new news.

Around the city of Shanghai, I could hear guards whisper in Chinese, grabbing my attention only when an accented English name would surface, Obahhma... ;alskdfj a;klsdjf .....Osahhma Ben Laden.

Everyone worldwide knew, but the news was just a side-note to the day, and perhaps only reminded when a foreign face brushed by.

Two days later, I read about the American reaction. Was it too much? Commentators asked. "Hey, hey, GOOOODbye."

I felt a pang of jealousy. What would the world think of that? Perhaps too much, also. I was jealous; I wanted to experience the momentous moment, a chance to feel part of history, to feel at home.

Nope, instead, I was stealing a McDonald's fry and living in the People's Republic. An experience to feel as foreign as possible, sometimes even at McDonalds. Not even here do we speak the same language.

My reality, living abroad is like that internet connection, try again later. This (or any other) reality probably won't hit "home" until I've reached there, just like the way a skype screen is detached from a real kiss goodbye.

Trickery in the mountains.

I knew hiking Tiger Leaping Gorge wasn’t going to be easy. It’s a mountain after all, even if it does have Chinese characteristics—terraces carved into the sides at unthinkable heights—this only reassured me that indeed the Chinese are crazy, not me. I’d probably break a sweat, sure, and inevitably curse myself for not running more prior to the 28 bends, but hey, I could do it. I’d backpacked Patagonia—I knew what I was doing.

Wrong.

I wish I could say it was just at the 20th bend that the difficulty crept in. That, later I'd find that it hadn't been my calves that had gone weak like limp pasta, but like a foreign fool, I’d fallen for the trap of the Chinese Minority woman selling a bowl of her locally grown weed--it's offered everywhere a foreigner may travel to in Yunnan--and yet I had blissfully decided to sit for a spell. (But really, later I'd scream, "What sucker would do that before hiking a mountain's steepest, most unforgiving hurdle?" And truly, I do not know.)

For those who don’t know the “bends,” they're zigzags that curve like a tight-coiled spring, not akin to a natural trail in the least. They’re undisputably the hardest part of the whole 18-mile hike. In the matter of those 28 bends, which only spread to roughly 300 meters, you ascend that distance three times over, I'm sure of it. But we hadn’t even gotten close to those troubles when our turmoil began.

No, we hadn’t even found the trail. We had only paid for it.

“200 meters ahead, turn left,” the Chinese ticket seller told us in plain English. Easy enough, we thought.

Running track in high school is only my preparation and attempt to understand the measuring system outside the United States. But no matter my time away, I’m ingrained like the homing syndrome of a duck raised by a human. I’m sure I’ll always think in pounds, miles, and Fahrenheit. 200 short meters, however, is simple because of my running sport. I can even visualize the speed that used to go with. But we breezed past the 200 meters, there was no clear left turn.

She was a bitch, I’d hear Wes rant 30 minutes later, still speaking of the ticket seller, as we tried without luck to find our exit from the paved highway. We needed to find the high trail, the low trail wasn't a challenge. We asked each passing patron, in car or foot, retracing our steps several times over as each pointed in contrasting directions.

(Later, this would become typical of the signage. Not highly visible, in the least if you actually looking at the trail.)

That's the thing, the Chinese are notorious for giving you false answers if you ask one for directions. Rather than admit they’re not sure, they'll save face by replying, yes, that way, I am sure, even when they have not a clue.

First, you're a chicken without a map, then you lose your head once you ask, where?

So, on the second time we climbed up the same gravel road (it just seemed wrong), we asked again, and I prayed to the nonexistent gods of China (officially an atheist country) that we’d finally find the trail-head before the sun slipped past the mountains encasing us.

We had a meeting point to make before the sun quit, our bed at the Naxi guesthouse.

(The fake trail sign created by donkey men trying to sell their steads, true asses.)

A surprise--another post!

Oh shit, yeah, I wasn't kidding about blogging.

So, maybe we were both surprised.

Scroll to the bottom of the page to see a blog post that was long overdue on the "edit" phase. Hopefully the large mountain will catch your eye.

Now, go check it out.

A freak show in orange.

"Have you been there yet?"

Is was the same question each time, Shaolin Temple was always the place in question. Each resident wanted to know.

Zhengzhou has little to offer to the tourist, but the country's kung fu center is its one and only. Even Shaq felt it worth a trip. And yet it's not even in the city. Kung fu fighting monks wouldn't do that. Shaolin, rather, is a little less than a two hours drive from Zhengzhou, tucked away in a mountain range that suddenly pops out of the spring green fields in the matter of minutes. Poof, there we were.

And with that gray, unexpected mountain came the city. A small, even grayer mess made of tiny warriors-to-be. Young boys in a wash of neon orange or red, whatever the uniform color choice of the day, lined up in precision cut formations throwing punches, undercuts, or high kicks in a dance-like routine. The training schools swished by our van's windows in a colorful blur. Each motion controlled to perfection; yet I, on the other hand, barely had enough discipline to finish my book.

The van stopped and a green larger-than-life monk statue greeted us properly, welcome, you're about to get your ass kicked, it spoke to me. The mental prowess of the kung fu mind can do that.

We rushed inside. We had shows to attend, according to our stern English-speaking tour guide. The school always provided one, but usually the xiaojie, or miss, only spoke Chinese and had to be translated through one of the school's teachers, back to us. This was a change, but then a look around and I could see a German and Italian tour flag fluttering among the dark-haired Chinese. Certainly, Shaolin was on the tourist's trail.

And for good reason, Shaolin, though certainly touristy, is cool. Monks that can stand upside-down on just two fingers to a hand, well, that is just freakish and worth a coo, or two. Climbers behold. These monks were like monkeys on flat land, but after 5 minutes into the show. I could imagine if they took to the nearby mountain, they could climb that just as rapidly, moreover, even with show-like performance finesse.

That's the thing, it's all a show, more perfected than the boys throwing punches outside the great center's gates. These guys, and they can only be guys, are the best, more practiced than any sport I've ever conditioned myself to. They wowed the crowd easily.

The life of a monk is constant dedication. However, a kung fu fighting monk is importantly different than that seeking pure religious fortitude. A kung fu monk can eat meat and marry a girl. I fell into a daze of fascination, another victim to the power of the crazed feats: a back bend propelled by the suction of a cup, a balloon popped through a shield of glass all by a thin needle, and more back flips and high-air kicks than I had the energy to continue photographing. The final bow came and the 1 o'clock show ended. These boys had one weird 8-5.

We continued around the complex, a vast maze, the possibilities are actually quite fascinating, including a cart ride up the mountain. I could have stayed much longer. But after the obligatory sights, as our guide told us, you haven't been to Shaolin until you've seen this; a stone engraved with a large monk. Eventually, our minds turned to food and leaving.

And we were Christened, we became Zhengerzhouers, properly.

Happy Mother's Day!

I can't imagine my life (or success) without you!

I love you Momma Bear & so do all your little cubs!

Pawney :)

Refreshment no. 2.

"I'm so jealous, your life is always so adventurous," I could hear the faint words from an old wall post rumbling through my mind.

Really? I mean, really?! I thought.

It would seem that way at times, certainly. Though Facebook, as you know, is a tool of profile control that can tell any casual looker from afar, I am awesome, see. And I like the sound of that, sure, I remember myself in high school. However, in Zhengzhou, it just isn't so. I'm always desirous for more; pining, in fact, for that deep love of home. Continuous "adventure" includes eating thousand-year-old eggs, a Chinese delicacy, for Thanksgiving. I certainly didn't find that awesome.

A waiguoren is always an outsider, by (Chinese) name and principle. And that sense of striving to belong is a strong force, no doubt.

Yet, in Shanghai, that need to run home dissipates, or at least its presence becomes only a whisper into your ear, rather than a noise-splintering car horn--BBBBBBBBBBBBEEEEEEEEEEEP---can you find what doesn't belong? It's a question of finding your district of comfort. Puxi or Pudong?

Rather, in Shanghai, foreigners clutter the streets, in comparison. A blond, maybe even a ginger, and a brunette can take residence along side the usual black-haired mainstay of the streets. And they're all residents, not tourists. American corporations like Cold Stone Creamery ice cream find company with noodle shops, bubble teas, and Chinese restaurants that never include fortune cookies or square takeout boxes. After all, it's still real China, even if it doesn't feel like it. But when compared to Zhengzhou or Nagoya, Japan, Briana's adopted home, and as similar of a comparison as Japan and China can get for twin cities, we thirsted for those American characteristics that have taken root. Blond hair in Asia is not always a treat. It can be attention beyond desired. We each have our own horror stories and equally, claim to fame. Briana's been known to be a Hermione of Nagoya. A complement of high esteem, hello Harry Potter!

But sometimes you just don't want to be a freak. That kid. Even if it may be popular in Asia, it's a brand I don't endorse.

When I picked up Briana at the airport, I asked, want Mexican food? With its inherent references to another nationality, its appeal, however, is much more American at heart. Margaritas & Tex-Mex burritos. A call to Iowa City's late-night Panchero's. As friends from college, we needed a good throw-back.

I could see the vibrant energy of it from the cab window a half-block away--America! The Mexican restaurant was overflowing with drunkards or those almost there. We found out, 30 minutes too late, we had missed the free flow special of tequila-loaded margaritas for 100 kuai, or $15. The drunken stumbles and slurs were decidedly American, or at least foreign, certainly the college basketball jerseys were. Briana smiled wide as we sat down, this, feels like home.

And it did. It was glorious, indeed, as the days that continued were also, each small reminders of home, one with Chinese characteristics that is.

Yet, I felt uneasy in my burrito munching and expensive Reuben sandwich choices; I could probably eat rice for the entirety of my stay in Asia for cheaper than that one meal. There's always so many opinions on travel; what is the best way to do it? Are you a conscientious traveler, an ugly American, or a bobbing dollar tag begging to be ripped off? In a city like Shanghai, what is real & true? Are you a fool for just clinging to American imitations, or worse, corporations, in the Pearl of the Orient?

While in the daytime smog, I would feel lost in a tangle of what to do. The sun, draped in a thick haze, would also cast a fog over my clear thinking. A need to save always permeated my conscious too, but in a city that begs you to spend (& truthfully, I crave it too), its claws snagged deep. Why not?

But once the night lights turned on. It all disappeared. The voices faded. Shanghai was all glory and an oyster for the mere hours the sun waited to take hold again. This is where I should to be for the holiday weekend, I would think. And equally so to Briana, the perfect place to show off China's city of flash and class. A city of legends that stretch through the night and culture of new & old. A place not quite a melting pot in an American-sense, but a confluence of globalization, most certainly.

A refreshment, at least, in its own right.

A ritual reawakened.

It's a feeling I wasn't expecting to cross again--the rough caress of an ostrich wing, but this time I didn't intend to get close enough to touch one--I just wanted a friend to. I had had enough the first time.

"What do you want to see in China?" I asked Briana as soon as I heard of her plans to visit.

She had 10 short days, but the Chinese have a penchant for the freaky so if that's your thing, it could be any host of odd and otherworldly things you could see--a wall you can supposedly see from space is just the first on a tourist's list, but after 8 months--it's actually quite tame on the Richter scale, I've learned.

An ostrich, she told me, her first and only real request. It was reasonable. A picture of someone riding one is certainly awkward and leaves quite the powerful and lasting impression on the mind. I remember my first time...

It was the first item added to her intinary of odd China. In a country so big, even larger than America by the space of a Florida or so, you have to pick and choose in such a short space of time. Paul Theroux, a famous travel writer, details its vastness in his book, "Riding the Iron Rooster." It took him a full year to ride each train, touching all the far reaches of mainland China. One long year.

A local in Japan, Briana had already become intimate with the quirks of Asian living. Squatters cross borders all throughout this half of the world. This fact made planning simpler, in fact, more narrow. I knew just what we both needed. Refreshment. I had the same itch last semester, right around the holidays. Asia can get wearing, especially living in a large, booming Asian city that offers little to a white, female waiguoren, an outsider. It's no secret Asia loves the white male, the true foreign hero. As chicas with not even a small hope of fitting in, we needed refreshment to its grandness, or in other words, a dose of mini America, without the post-guilt after eating at McDonald's.

I already knew the perfect prescription--Shanghai.

An absence too long? Yep, I know.

I don't need reminding.

However, I do have a photo tease and another (no longer empty) promise of more to come. I've already got a notebook with ink greasing its pages. Get yourself ready for some "Oh, god; Anna moments" to come.

A trip to the Wild West? Think again.

Ever since I lived in Beijing almost two and half years ago, to this date, I've always wanted to visit Yunnan; China's southern most province, a place named for its clouds, but more notably known for its immense mountains, it's easy to like. And as you learn by living in China, you become the envy of any Chinese national just by spending a day there.

I marked my planner as soon as I found out this semester's Chinese holidays; Labor Day in May, Dragon Boat Festival in June, and QingMing on April 1st. Travel time. As a foreigner, that's what these days were to me, days to escape Zhengzhou.

In reality, QingMing is about travel, yes, but to a destination that is a grave, hopefully not your own. As much as I could tell, like a Memorial Day with more vigor and less nationalistic pride, QingMing is about honoring one's ancestors. As so, the living offer food, tea, wine, chopsticks and more. Mostly though, from the bus window, I just saw neon sparklers, a single branch of leaves from a tree, and empty alcohol bottles acting as attentive love.

But before that happened, we had to leave Zhengzhou, which despite what you may have expected, isn't easy. First, we had to get approval. We had originally wanted, for a second attempted try, to head West to China's Wild West, Urumqi.

After four weeks of hesitation, the school was still floundering for an answer to our request, finally, after a few more ignored emails, they called, "Why?", they wanted to know. It's not safe, not to be trusted and it'll be cold, their reasons.

True, it would have been cold--- 35 degrees as a high and that's not in Celsius. Urumqi is just the capital of Xinjiang province in the far West of China's automonous region. The miles that seem to stretch endlessly share borders with Mongolia, Russia, Kazakhstan, and Kyrgyzstan. Don't even ask me how to pronounce that last one. In addition to holding the world's most inland city from the sea, dedicated with a monument, The Heart of Asia; the region also boasts mountains, deserts, highlands, lakes, oil, and more deserts. Oil being the reason for the Chinese strong hold on it. A week before the holiday, China Daily noted on the front page teaser, "Xinjiang, crippled by blizzard."

But its controversary, the other two reasons--it is not safe, the people can not be trusted--intrigued me. I wanted to go! A China with Muslim characteristics greater than its Chinese, wo sei, my favorite Chinese idiom as to say, holy crap! As Peter Hessler writes in his book, River Town, everything has Chinese characteristics: democracy, Shakespeare, arguably anything. Even Bugs Bunny, as I've learned, has a Chinese voice and scream.

Xinjiang, however, is still a wild card in the eyes of the Chinese, with mosques, bazaars, a Turkish-based language and Italian-looking people, the Uighurs. 35 hours in a train seemed worth it to me.

But yet again, I wouldn't find out. The administrators won with denial. We took our licks where we could and settled for an extra day of holiday time during Labor Day as a conselence prize.

All of this, six days prior to takeoff and yet somehow we came to be seated with Lucky Air, which only seemed to be more ominous than good, headed for Kunming, capital of Yunnan. Who can deny the province of clouds?

Two and a half months to go &......

soooo many blog posts to catch up on! It's happening though, mark my words.

For now, a tease of a post. Yunnan, China, so much better than Henan.

Qing Ming is spring break in Chinese...kind of

Spring break, however, doesn't really exist in the Chinese context. It's simply spring and the rice is ready to plant.

So, it could be more fitting that in English, one of the translated names for the holiday is about working instead of breaking. Rather blunt and literal, Qing Ming can be found masquerading around the web as Tomb Sweeping Day. A day for the dead. It's other moniker, the festival of Pure Brightness, perhaps a bit more poetic.

For me, however, the Qing Ming Festival simply means no obligation for 5 days. Naturally, I'm flying the coop. On Friday I'm heading south to Yunnan to hike the deepest gorge in the world--Tiger Leaping Gorge.

Mountains, rivers, Naxi, hell yes.

The picture to the left is one I took in Guangxi province in the fall, it's located just southeast of Yunnan.

And the wall falls.

Finallllllllllllllly back.

Blogging to resume shortly.

Are we in Florida?

Around mid-morning we saw the sky scrapers rising in the distance. I had the map, but hadn't been paying attention to it, per usual, and wasn't expecting to see the looks of a big city to our left. We had left Brisbane three hours ago and Sydney was at least 700 miles away still.

After ignoring them for a few minutes, panic got the better of Ingrid.

"Anna, please tell me we're not heading back to Brisbane?" Ingrid pleaded, rather than asked, as the skyscrapers grew larger and more imminent.

"I don't think so..." I trailed off as I flipped the map in every direction to figure out what could be the reason for the metropolis. While Ingrid is driving, her wrath is not something to be toyed with, I knew from experience in Brisbane and didn't want to go back to that. But it had seemed like another mess up, for sure.

The idea was to cruise south to Sydney and along the way we'd make detours when worthy. This included Queensland's infamous and seemingly endless stretch of white sand, collectively known as the Golden Coast. I didn't know what to expect, but as I read the description of Surfer's Paradise in Ingrid's Rough Guide to Australia, while searching for a better map, it highlighted our ignorance: "Surfer's Paradise is known for its sweeping coast of skyscrapers as well as its beautiful beaches."

The high rises were actually lofts for vacationers, not businesses, of course. It's apparent popularity seemed more than enough to validate a stop and in tune, the sun had come out after the storm.

In Bill Bryson's Down Under, he talks about the Surfer's Paradise of the 1950s, before the commercialization rolled in as quickly as the immigrants that fueled Australia's quick prosperity did. Before that, Australia's total population was low and its existence was marginal. After WWII, the times were a changin'. Postcards from the era emblazon the shifting ideal of the time, affluent families playing in the sand, surfers catching waves and girls dressed head to toe in swim ware. Exactly what you'd expect: happy, wholesome, good times. Promiscuity and indulgence was no where to be seen. In the pictures, there are no casinos, party clubs, high rise apartments, mega shopping malls or any of the flair that has now stamped its signature on the place. Today's Surfer's Paradise is your Party Paradise. Forget the waves, the beach is only a small part of the equation. The ocean is just the jewel that brought people here in the beginning and as Ingrid and I stepped out of our car, it shined and rumbled like a jealous sister next to its pampered kin.

And to be fair, some of the buildings were unabashedly lavish and the people were outrageously gorgeous, particularly the lifeguard that filled every fantasy one could have about an Australian beach boy. But Ingrid and I kept walking, we wanted to steal a stretch of sand away from the noise. It was still early enough that we could. Our 12-person dorm in Brisbane, from the night before, was mixed gender and our roommates of the night had rewarded us with a melody of snores, only complemented with foul smells that drove us out and on the road at 6 a.m. I slept in the sand while Ingrid ran out to greet the waves. They were wild. The water was warm, a stark difference from Melbourne's beaches, just a few thousand miles made the difference from (barely) bearable to delightful. And at that moment, the sun poked through the few clouds in a sweat-drenching fury. I could certainly see the appeal, despite its Florida flashiness. In fact, the town directly south, which shows no distinction from Surfer's Paradise, goes by the name of Miami and invokes it too. However, if I was honest, neither Ingrid nor I wanted to leave hastily. We could have easily stayed longer and discovered what Surfer's Paradise turned into once the sun disappeared completely, but it wasn't in our plan. After a few hours and a blushing red burn, we continued on. Bryon Bay lay ahead and it promised even more.

That's unfortunate.

As our plane dove out of the clouds, the window view was just as bleak-- rain. Ingrid and I arrived in the sunshine state in a drizzle. A precursor to the flood that was quickly gripping the homes of western Queensland and eventually the metropolis of Brisbane. A week later and our flight would have been cancelled due to the lack of a runway.

Usually, I'd take pity on a city that was about to be hit by the stresses of mother nature in rage, but from the start, Brisbane never let me take that stance. Disdain, not pity, seized me.

After a stressful start into the city, Australians drive on the wrong (read:left) side of the road; Ingrid and I treated ourselves with some decent pub food and then combed the city for activities. Nothing. The town was dead. We did what we could in any city really, we drank wine, watched a movie and woke with the sun to make our escape.

That's what Brisbane was for me. A city of little to do, but to get out.