There were train rides, car rides, exotic foods and foreign bands all crammed into the space of a short 8 hours. Somehow (somewhat miraculously and beyond my understanding), I survived. As did the car's carpeting.
I made an improvised run with Wes into the city for several reasons. The first was pre-planned a yum cha (dim sum for those of you in the US) lunch with his dad. Wes went into work early in the morning, then had to swing back and grab me for the meal. The roads between here and there were nauseatingly twisty. I only barely survived the ordeal (well, rather, Wes' car's carpet barely survived the ordeal).
When we arrived, Wes' dad sat waiting for us at a small table upstairs, where we joined him for dumplings and other tasty treats. Once again, I proved myself to be the Inept White Girl with chopsticks, but managed to avoid dropping too much of my food on the tablecloth.
Overall, the meal was familiar, though much quieter than the sort of dim sum I'm used to having in Houston. Apparently, serving yum cha on a daily basis keeps people from acting like rabid animals when people come around with their trays and carts.
There was none of the shouting or waving of hands that I'm used to seeing and the restaurant boasted a far smaller crowd than I had anticipated. I stuck primarily to the pork dishes, because the combination of Sydney's winding roads and Wes' hurried driving turned my stomach in a few directions I didn't know it was capable of jumping.
However, as my insides settled, so did the conversation.
We talked about cameras, embarrassing childhood maladies (poor Wes) and the universal love everyone has for their nieces, nephews and grandchildren. We also discovered that all of Wes' relatives on his father's side had turned out the day before to meet me (and were shocked to discover that not only was I missing, but so were Wes' niece and nephew).
All in all, it was a very relaxing and very comfortable period--which is good, since the next few hours were terrifying by comparison.
I already said in my last post that I don't deal well with planes and flying. Well, I deal even worse with trains. The noise and the vibration from the wheels on the tracks makes the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. Unfortunately, in order to get to our next destination, Wes and I had to hop on the blue line at the Sydenham station and ride into the city.
The impromptu trip was prompted by an unannounced signing with Blind Guardian (the band that we saw Friday night, but that's a tale for another posting). Because Wes isn't insane, we couldn't drive all the way in, but had to ride the train instead from the suburbs.
Much to my surprise, the ride was easy and smooth, and very straight-forward. I'm not sure I'm ready to take on the rails by myself, but I'm definitely much more at ease than the last few times I tried trains out.
For those who don't know, the last time I attempted to get on a train was in New York on Long Island. I had a panic attack, scared a few passengers and ended up leaving the station before the train even got to the platform. The time before that was in DC, when my friend Ozzie (who is wonderful and lovely, but utterly useless at navigation in subterranean labyrinths--may I never have need to fight the minotaur with him at my side) nearly got us lost on the way back to the airport on the metro system.
By comparison, the Sydney trains are a breeze and incredibly straight-forward. Especially when you only have to take one train for a grand total of three stations in either direction. Thank God for that.
We arrived at Central Station where we headed out to find Utopia, the record shop where Blind Guardian was having their signing. Once I was off the train, I felt just fine. Well. Mostly fine.
The wind coming into the station as we exited nearly knocked me right back in again!
Apparently, the buildings of Sydney's downtown create a massive wind tunnel. As soon as you enter the streets, you're smacked in the face with a constant, steady flow of wind. And, no matter where you turn, it feels like it's constantly blowing into your face.
Good for getting your hair out of your eyes, as Wes pointed out, but also excellent for putting other foreign objects into them, as well.
Finding Utopia was really a simple matter. We walked down the street a couple of blocks, crossed the road and walked inside. There were very few people around, so we figured that the signing would be fairly small. It hadn't been announced on their Facebook page or the concert's updates, so we assumed that there would be very few other people around.
Some fans (you could tell from the T-shirts) were browsing albums and partaking of the free posters provided at the front counter, but there was no line that we could discern forming anywhere.
Suddenly, after Wes had paid for his two albums, a line appeared out of thin air. It was like someone snapped their fingers and they magically appeared.
All in all, there was perhaps a line of about fifty people (we thought it was more because of a trickily positioned mirror).
Shame-faced, we joined up at the end and waited. Slowly, more people filed in from the streets to join us. We gradually moved forward. Eventually, we realized our error with the mirror (which made 50 people look like 100 and gave the shop an extra, hidden room beyond the changing stalls).
The closer we got to the band's table, the more excited Wes got. We picked out where we thought Blind Guardian should sign each album (the front cover of one, a particular insert on the other's case) and discussed photo strategy.
It's hard to be sneaky with a DSLR, so we decided to just ask, rather than attempt any shots on the sly.
Finally, it was our turn. Blind Guardian sat before us in all their jet-lagged, travel-weary glory, wearing Adidas track suits and a variety of (dark colored) t-shirts. Wes knelt for a photo with Hansi (and I likewise knelt to take it). Then, at the end of the table, I asked permission to shoot a photo down the line of the entire band together.
 |
| Busily signing, but not too busy to pose for a photo! |
For the first (and not the last time), I discovered that my accent is apparently not very American to the untrained ear. The road crew member assigned to monitor photo-taking addressed me with directions, waved hands and a very short question.
In German.
I responded with "Sorry?" and a confused look. He repeated the question in English, "You're German, right?" And then we both had a laugh when I pointed to my T-shirt (a map composed entirely of text, depicting the United States) and said "No, sorry. I'm American."
Now, with loot in hand and photos in the camera, we headed out to explore Chinatown.
In Houston, Chinatown is a sprawling mess of strip malls. It looks almost identical to the rest of the city, except that street signs are bilingual and every shop in the area has the same neon "open" sign. Everything is tan and grey with stunted trees and crowded parking lots.
Sydney's Chinatown, while considerably smaller, is far more traditional. It looks (and perhaps more importantly, smells) like what people think of when you say "Chinatown".
The shops have begun to spill out past the gates as the area becomes more popular, but the majority of the storefronts still remain within the designated boundaries. There are restaurants, shops with grey market DVDs, CDs and even VCDs for sale, clothing and make-up stores, nail and hair salons and gift shops advertising "cheaper than duty free" goods.
 |
| The Golden Log, a monument in Chinatown representative of ... we're not quite sure what. |
We entered one DVD-CD-VCD-knick-knack shop for a quick browse, but mostly just walked up and down the streets, looking at posters advertising everything from j-pop idols to herbal remedies. With Wes' lovely camera around my neck, I'm sure I looked the perfect tourist (which is fine, since I was hardly the only one out and about).
After our little multi-cultural romp, we headed to Miranda Fair (also known as the Westfield shopping center) for a bit of late-Thursday shopping. While there, I picked up a pre-paid cell phone and this time Wes was the one confused for being from the wrong country. The girl at the kiosk where we picked up the phone thought he and I were from the same place because we "have the same accent". I had a good giggle over that, believe me.
With new goodies in hand (including saffron from Woolworth's), we headed on home where we struggled to stay up and beat the jet lag. It didn't really work, but we were at least fairly well-rested for our adventure the next day!
