Trials and Tribulations at Wahroonga: My First 72 Hours in Oz

Hi All! After some 22+ hours in the air, I made it to Australia in one very tired, somewhat sore, disoriented piece. After clearing customs (side note- it seems my name has been added to some kind of list for airport security! I was pulled aside at RDU for them to do some sort of cloth swipping test in my bag, then was marked to be pulled aside in Aus customs to have a dogs sniff all of my bags! Do I really look like the drug dealer/ airport bomber type? I guess it is just another headache it looks like I will endure in air travel...), with my huge backpack on my back, my green bookbag on my front, and my purse over my shoulder, I stumbled through the airport, which though it had been over a year, was so familiar that I needed no real direction to know where I was going. I found the pay phones, deposited some assortment of the now strange Oz coins I had from my last trip (I will need to relearn this, along with how to order coffee and basics of Australia Rules footy) and called Bert. Someone had turned the volume way down on the phone, but I managed to hear Bert yelling my name on the other end. I told him I would meet him at the Wahroonga train station as soon as I could get there. And so ensued a very eventful morning...

It was still very early, around 7:15 am, but I stumbled down airport hallway to where the train station picked up weary travelers from the airport and catapulted them into the Sydney CBD. I saw the wall of computerized ticket sellers, and typed in where I was going. It quickly occured to me that while I knew the name of the train station, I had no idea what trains to catch to get there. I cancelled out the transaction, realizing I may need to talk to a real Australian ticket seller to find out how to get to Wahroonga. I stumbled up to the counter, and in a jet-lagged, mispronounced mumble, identified where I wanted to go. The ticket seller, visibly amused by my attempt at the strange name and my struggle to stay upright under the exhaustion and probably 150 lbs of baggage, was very helpful, providing me with a map and circling the exact trains I would need to take to reach Bert. I thanked him and attempted to walk down the stairs to the platform without breaking my neck. I looked at the screens reporting where the next train would be stopping and recognized the train stop I needed. I put my bags down to wait the 5 mintues it said it would be until the train arrived. A new batch of less-weary-looking travelers shuffled down the stairs behind me. I don't know why I suddenly looked like an authority on anything, but they took turns asking me about where the trains were heading and if they had the correct one. I did my best to answer, but explained I had just flown in from the other side of the world and was on about 3 hours of intermittent sleep, so do not hold me to the information provided. I caught the train to the central station, packed in with morning commuters, and then the one to Wahroonga without a problem. I will say that it had not hit me that I was actually, truly in Australia until, while on the train, the Opera House suddenly sprange into view, so massive, and I realized I was traveling across the Sydney Harbor bridge on the train. I thought to myself, how lucky all these morning commuters were, to be able to see that sight every morning. None of them looked very enthused, but my sleep-deprived self smiled and almost cried at the sight.

At Wahroonga, around 20 stops down the line and when only me and a quiet Asian girl eating a sandwich were the only people left on the train, I departed. With bags on my back and front and side, I made my way up the stairs to the street, hoping Bert had not had to wait for me long. I walked up and down the sidewalk, not sure where the best place for him to pick me up would be. There was a brick wall separating the road from the sidewalk, so it wouldn't be easy for me to jump into the car if he pulled up. I decided to put my bags down near a visable place and look for him. As I stood there, people walked by, on daily jogs, or walking dogs. An elderly man with a curly haired dog with a very girly name that escapes me now, walked by as slowly as I had seen anyone walk a dog. The dog sniffed my bags and I smiled and petted her. "She'll take any of that she can get," the man said, and I smile as they continued their slow journey down the street. I waited 20 minutes, 40 minutes, nearly an hour, and I was starting to worry. I looked back down on the platform, maybe he walked past me and hadn't seen? Did I have the wrong train stop? No, that couldn't be it, he spelled it for me and I distinctly remember him saying "r- double o", and how many other train stops had that? I had no way to call him with no cell phone, so I asked a passerby if they knew if there was a payphone nearby. There was one! Right down the hill! I carried all my stuff down the hill, now not very visable should Bert come by, but hoping to only take a minute. I picked up the phone and tried to drop in a coin when I saw it- "COIN SLOT JAMMED, CARD ONLY". Fair enough, I figured, and tried my credit card. No dice, it only takes Telestra cards, whatever that is. I begin pacing again, trying to decide what to do. I could catch a cab to his house, but then if he is not there, I would have no way of getting in and no way of calling him. I decide to see if I could buy my prepaid phone plan here and activate my cell phone, or at least see if I could buy this Telestra card the pay phone requested. With all my packs reapplied, I stumbled across the crosswalk and into a newspaper store. Success! I thought, and I spied a sign about Vodafone plans, my cell phone brand. I waited as patiently as I could behind some of the oldest men I have ever seen as they bought lottery tickets, finally giving up and putting my bags down. Tired, sweaty, I am sure looking horrible, I asked the man behind the counter if he sold the prepaid plans or Telestra cards. He wasn't a master of English, but assured me several times he did not sell either of those things, despite the fact it was advertised in his store. Feeling very defeated, fighting tears from sheer exhaustion, I picked up my various bags and heaved them from the store. I went back to my post in front of the train station, still at a loss of what to do.

The old man with the curly dog came walking on their return route, no less than an hour since they passed earlier. "Still waiting to be picked up?" he asked. I jumped on the opportunity, explaining I just needed to borrow his phone for a second to make a local call. He agreed, fumbling with his iPhone for several minutes to get to a keyboard. I thanked him profusely and finally reached Bert. Somehow, there had been a miscommunication and I guess he thought I was going to call him when I got to the train station, although I had no way to do so. He said he would come get me, and so I am forever grateful to the slow-walking old man and his curly haired dog. Bert picked me up within 10 minutes. We were both trying to figure out what had gone wrong. I almost got out of my mouth that I had been afraid he had maybe been in an accident when -***BAM***- we were in an accident.

While we were trying to do an u-turn, a postal deliverer on a motor bike tried to pass us on the wrong side and ended up almost under our front wheel. Bert pulled over the car to speak to the man and I slumped in my seat, trying to decide if it was time to pass out from nerves. The man wasn't hurt and neither the bike nor Bert's car was affected. The rest of the day was uneventful, really just me on the couch fighting to stay awake until a reasonable hour while watching daytime Australian TV. I made it until about 10 pm, but I did sleep on and off all afternoon as well.

Saturday I activated my phone in Hornsby. Joel, the phone guy, actually knew where North Carolina was because he said a girl used to work there from North Carolina. He commented on her accent and affinity for the word "y'all". I said, yep, that's North Carolina. Bert took me to his club for dinner and to watch what he calls "league" which is Aus rugby, which is different from Aus rules football, but from what I can tell is still huge men with little clothing and no padding or helmets attacking each other for a ball. Very entertaining.

Sunday, today, I did almost nothing. I think my sleep is almost back on schedule. I have rediscovered my love from Australian dairy products. I don't understand how they could be so much better than American, but they just are. A couple of things I gathered from my "nothing" of watching tv and reading the paper: Bikies, what they call biker gangs (I love Australians' ability to give things cute names that take all fear and danger out of something) are a huge problem currently. Apparently they use tattoo shops as a front to sell drugs, so they are outlawed from owning tattoo shops (not sure how you enforce that). Someone high up in the government is in trouble for some sort of sex proposition. Another Australian, and one who has an opinion column, thinks the US has 52 states (avid readers of Courtney's Australian blogs will remember last trip that she encountered a tour guide who informed her that the US had 52 states.). Is this something they are teaching wrong in school? Or are they counting Guam and places like that?

Tomorrow I move to Coogee. It is a cute little beach town south of Sydney. I will probably chill a few days, but I need to see the Blue mountains, use my coupon for scuba, and do my king's cross tour before I fly to Adelaide on May 4th.