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.
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