Youngs Around the World

We flew out of Sydney on a gray, rainy morning and emerged in Adelaide, two hours later, under clear sunny skies. Our hostel was in the city center and we spent the day exploring the city on foot. Adelaide, known for its beautiful parks and gardens, has wide sweeping streets, nineteenth century European architecture, two universities, white sand beaches and an active cultural arts scene.

The gorgeous weather begged us to be outdoors and we happily complied. We found an Asian food alley and fought the swarms to indulge in a Chinese lunch on a busy patio. While chomping on our dumplings, we watched demure women in Geisha costumes handing out flyers to passersby and people lining up at a stall across the way selling Taiwanese bubble milk tea, which naturally roused our curiosity. Bubble milk tea, as we soon discovered for ourselves, is thick chilled tea-infused milk with gelatinous pearls on the bottom, which get sucked up through a fat straw. It’s brilliant! And it wasn’t just the kiddos lining up for it. We later walked through the nearby Central Market, stocking up on specialty groceries to get us through the Easter holiday.

Easter Sunday started out a little rough. I had this grand idea to lead the family on a nature walk that was recommended and mapped in our guide book. We started off well and, when Aaron instinctively second-guessed a proposed turn, I snapped the map away and arrogantly scolded him to follow the leader. It took a mere ten minutes more for us to collectively determine that I had misread the map and led us completely astray.

There have been moments in my life of sheer and utter mortification at my own behavior and idiocy – most people who know me well can attest to that – but it’s been a while since all of the blood rushed to my head in shameful, speechless self-deprecation. Aaron must have sensed my fiery emotional state because he graciously allowed me to fume in peace without adding a razor-sharp “I told you so” to my fragile state of inner torment. It feels awful to realize your own incompetence and even worse when it has been exposed. It wasn’t until hours later, when I’d had a chance to cool off, that we could laugh about the whole ordeal – how snappy and confident I had been and how quickly I became an ostrich with its head in the sand.

We lay around the hostel for several hours in the afternoon and then decided to get out for some fresh air and beer. The cool evening air was a welcome reprieve from the stuffy hostel and I felt my spirits lifting as we strolled down Rundle Mall Road, past street performers, sidewalk tradesmen, skateboarders and families, to a pub called Austral. Nearly all of the outdoor tables were packed with locals but we snagged one and sat down for a salty pub dinner and a couple of beers. The usually bustling Rundle Mall was wonderfully quiet.

We walked a while after dinner, enjoying our rehabilitated moods, and stumbled upon a fabulous community event called Northern Lights. The innovative creators devised a brilliant light show using a series of nineteenth century stone buildings, which transformed their classic facades into illuminated psychedelic cartoon houses. Each of the six buildings had several rotating patterns and “ooohs” and “aaahs” of the mesmerized crowd followed each successive change. The front courtyards of each building were full of spectators. Children squealed with delight. Cameras flashed. Ubiquitous smiles brightened faces, young and old. I darted from one façade to the next, beseeching Aaron to follow my movements and photograph all the best ones.

The Monday after Easter is a public holiday in Australia so everything is closed. We walked a few blocks to Linear Park on the Torrens River. It was another cloudless day so we rented bikes and rode on a trail along the river to Henley Beach – a quiet white sand beach frequented by locals and virtually untouched by tourism. We sat in the sand and made a picnic, staring out at the almost waveless sea. As we made our way back to the bike stand, there were many people on the trail and in the surrounding parks enjoying the beautiful weather. The river was dotted with fountains, black swans, ducks, and paddle boats with multi-colored umbrellas. It was refreshing to see so many people outside. We dropped off the bikes and walked the trail in the opposite direction through the city’s botanical gardens before heading back to our grungy home base to relax for the rest of the afternoon and evening. So that was Easter in Adelaide. No family dinners, no church (we’re Orthodox Christians so we will celebrate Easter on Apr 27 this year, which is no excuse for Sunday truancy), no chocolate bunnies…just a brief emotional breakdown, a brilliant light show and a sunny riverside bike ride.

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Arriving on the early plane from Auckland, we took a shuttle bus to our pre-booked hostel, Kanga House, in the Sydney suburb of Kings Cross. The hostel was disappointingly shabby, dirty and crowded with grungy twenty-year-olds; disappointing because we had such great luck with hostels in New Zealand. The bright side of the situation is that we have been forced to be outside from morning ‘til night. The kitchen is too cramped and dirty to consider self-catering so we’re eating every meal out – a nice change actually – and we’ve quickly discovered numerous takeaway sushi stalls from which we can stuff ourselves for less than $10. Kings Cross has undergone many incarnations from its nineteenth century origin as a neighborhood of grand estates to its current manifestation of funky backpacker vibe with a seedy strip club element and the token vagabonds with the heroin itch. Beautiful terraced Victorian and Art Deco homes turned into guesthouses are literally overflowing with backpackers and the sounds of drunken debauchery can be heard at all hours of the night. There is a bohemian café and pub culture as well as a deliciously multicultural cuisine offering, especially Asian fare. Despite our deficient digs, we really like the laid back aura of the neighborhood.

Strangely relieved to be without a car, we tackled the city on foot. Sydney is a very walkable city with wide sidewalks on every city street. We headed straight for the city center, strolling down William Street with its Bentley, Maserati, Ferrari and Lamborghini dealerships and cutting through beautiful Hyde Park, which on Tuesday midday, was full of people enjoying the outdoors: families enjoying picnics, young lovers entwined beneath shady trees, business people on lunch break, college coeds flaunting their toned and tanned youth, and tourists taking it all in.

We walked through streets lined with flashy, modern skyscrapers, their street-level windows filled with the most pretentious nouveau fashions and sidewalks crowded with flawless physiques sporting the latest trends. Curving around St. Mary’s Cathedral on the eastern edge of Hyde Park, we reached the entrance to the Royal Botanic Gardens and the adjacent Domain, a grassy recreation area. The welcome sign at the garden entrance said, “Please walk on the grass. We also invite you to smell the roses, hug the trees, talk to the birds and picnic on the lawns.” The lush green gardens with old European fountains and sweeping trees delighted our senses as we strolled along the winding paths.

One of Australia’s most tantalizing intrigues is its unique mix of flora and fauna. Walking under a canopy of trees, we stumbled upon a colony of grey-headed flying foxes, a.k.a giant furry bats! Hanging upside down from the tree tops, hundreds of the sinister little creatures screeched, squawked, played and antagonized each other as we watched in stoic fascination from below. Their glossy black bat wings wrapped vampire-style around their furry bodies to shield them from the sunlight as they dangled from the highest heights. We stood watching their antics and acrobatics, fearful of a flying fox descending upon us, voluntarily or by accident, until I finally decided that we’d tempted fate long enough.

We moved on to a scenic walkway along the edge of the gardens bordering scenic Sydney Harbour with a view of Australia’s most recognized structures: the Sydney Opera House. Positioned on the tip of a peninsula, the architectural masterpiece is set against a backdrop of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and jagged Sydney cityscape. It is undoubtedly the most photographed and striking view in Sydney. We walked to the front entrance for a closer look and then stopped at a café for a cool drink in view of the Opera House. Newly refreshed, we headed back through the Botanic Gardens, rounding the far peninsula while dodging bus loads of Asian tourists and taking a short cut back to Kings Cross.

The next morning was equally sunny and we set out for the ferry dock, cutting through the Botanic Gardens again since the dock is conveniently located next to the Opera House. Aaron wanted to do the Manly Scenic Walk, which is ten kilometers long and reputedly one of Australia’s most beautiful walks. It began with a ferry ride, with the best views of the Opera House, to the northeast suburb of Manly. Just outside the ferry dock, we bought provisions for a picnic lunch, picked up a good trail map at the Visitor Information Center, and followed the signs for the Manly Scenic Walkway. The well-marked path began by edging between a picturesque beach and a neighborhood of oceanfront houses amid beautiful old trees. It led us along sandy pedestrian beaches, through waterside nature reserves and along quiet coves dotted with white yachts and sailboats. The terrain changed frequently from paved trails to sandy beach to bedrock surrounded by subtropical rainforest and native bush. The path meandered through Sydney Harbour National Park, in which we spotted numerous goannas. Beautiful in a reptilian sort of way, the skittish foot-long lizards appeared every few minutes during our walk through the park, sunning themselves on rocks and running upright in quick bow-legged strides. After a long stretch along beautiful Clontarf Beach, the walk concluded at the Spit Bridge where we caught the city bus back to the city center. After two days of pounding the pavement, our feet were throbbing and we were actually excited about returning to the Kanga House to relax for the rest of the evening.

Day Three in Sydney began with a leisurely breakfast followed by a walk to Hyde Park. We claimed a shady spot under a big tree and became part of the sprawling scene. It felt wonderful to stare out across the open lawn, engross myself in the latest novel and enjoy the gentle breeze. We sat for just over an hour, which was all the idleness that my listless Bear could handle in one sitting, before packing up and heading for Darling Harbour. In true Sydney form of endlessly engaging sights and activities, Darling Harbour is home to the Sydney Aquarium, Sydney Wildlife World, the Australian National Maritime Museum, an aquatic-themed IMAX theater and two wharfs lined with trendy cafes and restaurants. We twiddled our thumbs outside Wildlife World, debating the prospect of paying sixty bucks for the privilege of elbowing our way through swarms of screaming children to see kangaroos and koalas in a simulated natural habitat before shucking the idea in favor of a visit to the Sydney Fish Market.

West of Darling Harbour, on the edge Blackwattle Bay, the warehouse-style fish market appeared at the end of a trail of raw fish stench wafting through the air. In the late afternoon, patrons crowded around a huge oyster bar; glass cases displaying gigantic Australian lobsters, soft-shell crabs, green-lip mussels, scallops, eel, squid, octopus, huge salmon, snapper, tuna, king prawns, sea snails, trout and every imaginable ocean dweller, neatly organized on beds of crushed ice; sushi bars, a wine cellar, delicatessen, bakery, and a fish and chips shop. The energy was high inside the bustling fish market as customers hand-selected the freshest items from the displays to carry away or enjoy with a bottle of wine at one of the indoor tables. Having just eaten a late lunch and having no desire to cook in the nasty Kanga House kitchen, we perused the colorful catch but remained spectators.

The walk back to Kings Cross was long and, on the verge of wilting in the afternoon heat, we stopped on a shaded bench in Hyde Park to rest. We sat for a while, listening to songs on our iPod and watching passersby. I am enamored with the park. I wonder how many people live here and take it for granted.

We treated ourselves to a lovely Vietnamese dinner at a place in Kings Cross. Feasting on Vietnamese spring rolls, crispy duck, and stir-fried seafood and vegetables al dente renewed our excitement for our upcoming visit to Vietnam. We are thankful for our matching adventurous palates. Shortly thereafter, we stumbled upon Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups – which we have been craving for months – in a corner store. With our sugary booty, we retired to our respective bunk beds like good little campers. Aaron painstakingly took the top bunk, aptly renamed “the penthouse”, because I get up more often during the night. For an only child, he is adoringly thoughtful and generous. This never ceases to amaze me.

Today, our last day in Sydney, finally feels like Fall. We awoke to drizzle though we haven’t felt a drop since we left the hostel this morning. The air is cool and crisp, overcast but still enjoyable. Many businesses are closed for Good Friday but we’ve managed to bounce from one café to another, maintaining a solid caffeine fix and attending to the usual rainy day business of planning travel and playing online. Tomorrow, we’re off to Adelaide on the morning plane.

We have really enjoyed our time in Sydney. It has all of the perks, style, cultural arts, elegance and luxurious temptations of a cosmopolitan city. For those of us in the zero-income demographic, there are manicured parks and gardens, pristine beaches, museums, galleries, a plethora of bohemian haunts to satisfy the multicultural palate, and plenty of interesting characters to keep the people-watchers intrigued. Sydney is walkable, livable and lovable. We love the healthy, vibrant outdoor culture and the beauty of the people, landscapes and architecture. Sydney is definitely a place to hang your hat.

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Somehow we must have driven through a cloud of bad chi this morning which subsequently hovered over us for the remainder of the day. It began with a terse dialogue about arbitrage, which resulted in a stubborn and profound silence for the three hour drive to Auckland during which we hit a bird with the car. We arrived at our hostel and checked in only to find that the kitchen and all of the restrooms were “closed for cleaning” and then got barked at by a Vietnamese cleaning man with a bad attitude when we stepped into the “closed” kitchen to put our perishable items in the fridge before heading out for the day.

Our first order of business was to drive to the rental car company to file a claim for our previously mentioned hit-and-run incident in Rotorua. We filled out the requisite forms but the two girls who reluctantly helped us were more concerned with getting rid of us so they could attend to their now delayed lunch plans. With a minimal exchange of words gradually breaking the morning’s stubborn silence, we then drove into downtown Auckland to check out the area and find some lunch. We splurged on a sunny oceanside patio restaurant and ate up the stellar ambience along with our pretentiously priced entrees. Things were beginning to look up as we strolled along the lively and fashionable Queen Street, window shopping and people-watching. We had seemingly reacquired our playful, happy mood as we arrived at the car to find a parking ticket! “(insert curse word here!)” According to the sign posted two car-lengths in front of us, our curbside spot was free on Sunday. However, after reading the ticket details, we looked around and noticed a “pay for parking” sign inconspicuously placed several car-lengths behind us. “(insert curse word here!)” Needless to say, we were not happy.

As we drove off in a huff, I, the appointed navigator, was distractedly reading the back of the ticket and neglected to navigate, causing the frustrated and short-tempered driver to execute a series of illegal u-turns which, if unluckily noticed by a keeper of the law, would surely have resulted in a further ticket. Thankfully, it wasn’t and didn’t – a minor detail that did not stop the navigator from verbally condemning the maneuver thereby fueling the driver’s ill temper even more. And shortly thereafter, that same driver misjudged the distance of a curb in front of the hostel and managed to break off a piece of the cheap Hyundai hubcap. “(insert curse word here!)” Was it the driver’s erratic behavior resulting from the navigator’s combined misdirection and criticism that led to the aforementioned mishap or might it have still occurred under more calm, cool and collected circumstances? The world will never know.

At the end of the day the Youngs wordlessly decided to call a truce, make dinner together and wash away our shitty day with a bottle of wine. The truth is that whenever we have a spot of bad luck or bad judgment, my spirits are actually lifted by the knowledge that, as long as we have our health, no small thing can break us. I remind myself at those moments that even a bad day on the road is better than a good day at work. No, it’s not always sunshine and roses on the road…but most of the time it is!

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A focused morning of driving landed us in the coastal town of Paihia in the Bay of Islands in the early afternoon. After checking into Captain Bob’s Backpackers – a mere fifty meters from the beach – we set off on a walk around town. The Bay of Islands, as the name suggests, is a picturesque ocean bay, which is sheltered by a cluster of 140 islands, large and small, and mostly uninhabited. Paihia, a quiet resort town with guesthouses, small hotels, restaurants, shops and a random smattering of beachside residences and vacation homes, is a haven for water activities, particularly sailing!

On a slightly brisk and cloudy morning, we excitedly boarded the Gungha II – a 65-foot ocean sailing yacht – with Captain Mike, our witty Canadian-turned-Kiwi skipper. We were joined by a young German girl with her retired parents as well as a couple of British honeymooners. We glided away from the pier on Captain Mike’s words, “It’s going to be a great day of sailing!”

The boat was beautiful and we had been on board for a whole ten minutes when the quiet discussion began about our need to have one. As the day wore on, the conniving blossomed into a new dream of sailing around the world with our young family. Naturally, we seized upon the opportunity to interrogate our wily captain about the ins and outs of acquiring and maintaining such a boat and he was happy to oblige our endless curiosities as sailing is clearly his passion.

As eager volunteers were recruited to help crew the boat, Captain Mike must have sensed my lackadaisical desire to sit on deck, chat, and enjoy the views because I managed to escape the draft. Aaron proved to be a trusty deckhand, however, pulling on ropes, tying or untying this and that, and compensating for my sheer laziness. I felt positively alive with the sun on my face and the smell of the salty sea air blowing through my hair. We sailed along at a leisurely pace while Captain Mike regaled us with his sailing stories and impressed all with his extensive nautical knowledge. We crawled into the quiet bay of Robert Island and dropped anchor just as the sky was beginning to clear. Aaron and I paddled the two kayaks to shore while the rest of our party motored ashore in the dingy.

The island was long and narrow with three turquoise lagoons and a forest-covered peak with a lookout at the top. We walked along the pebble beach, collecting periwinkles which Captain Mike would later make into bracelets for us. It was a steep climb to the lookout but well worth it for the stunning panoramic views. The waterscape was so beautiful in every direction that I found myself almost spinning in circles just to take it all in. We explored the island for about an hour until Mike returned with the dingy to pick us up for lunch on the boat.

After coaxing a couple of others to paddle the kayaks back, Aaron and I decided to swim back to the boat – about 200 meters against a light current. The water was refreshingly cool and, needless to say, we arrived hungry. We cracked open a round of cold beers – which rarely taste better than they do on a boat on a sunny afternoon – while the captain distributed simple basket lunches of fresh, healthy sandwiches and orange wedges. We lounged for a while after lunch because the Germans wanted to snorkel in the lagoon, which was fine by me since the weather had become glorious and I didn’t want the day to end.

By the wind, it took us over an hour to sail back to the pier, during which time I came into the possession of one periwinkle bracelet. I’ve never been a fan of seashell jewelry (I am my mother’s daughter after all) but since it is a token reminder of a lovely day (and it’s pointless to wear anything fine with cargo pants), the rattling periwinkles on my wrist are beginning to grow on me.

As we cruised in to the pier, I asked Mike if he was planning to take a group out the next day. If he hadn’t replied that he was hoping to take a day off, then I would somehow have convinced my little sailor to go sailing two days in a row. It was such a wonderful, relaxing and yet thrilling experience on the water. While we continue to contemplate what the future holds for two yuppies-turned-vagabonds, I have a mischievous suspicion that there will be sails in it.

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When I first met Aaron, he had a large world map in his home office with little red pushpins stuck into each of the places he’d been. I remember looking at that map, with the majority of the pins stuck into places in Central and South America, and thinking to myself “this man is going places”. A few months later, when we traveled together to Hong Kong with Aaron’s MBA class (coincidentally, the same week that the U.S. declared war on Iraq and the deadly SARS outbreak in Hong Kong reached near-epidemic proportions), we shared a twinge of excitement as we pushed the new pin into the map. That experience was pivotal in the early stages of our relationship because we realized that we shared an intense passion for seeing the world.

The first several days on the North Island unraveled as a mad dash toward Auckland. Having stolen a day here and there from our North Island itinerary to spend extra time in the South, we now find ourselves racing against the clock to fit in as much as possible before New Zealand becomes just another pin on the world map.

Wellington

Land ho! We glimpsed the North Island through the window of the ferry. From a distance, it looked much like the South Island – pretty forest-covered mountains separating the sky from water on the horizon – but the ship turned parallel to the coast and glided along until it found Wellington Bay with the quaint capital city curving around the bay in the shape of a crescent moon. We arrived around 5pm and checked into what felt more like a backpacker factory than a hostel. After being “processed” by a robot-like receptionist, we were handed a key to a bland, impersonal box of a room, which shared two dirty bathrooms with an entire floor of what seemed to be mostly twentysomethings. Hostels are like a box of chocolates…thankfully, we were only staying one night.

We drove about five minutes into downtown and set out on a walk to explore the city. I was immediately impressed by the number of theatres, restaurants and bars. It was Saturday night and the sidewalks were dotted with diners and drinkers at patio tables, enjoying the music that gave each venue its own personality. New Zealand seems to have a very young population and the larger cities have a small-scale cosmopolitan feel. We took a ride on the Wellington Cable Car up the side of the mountain to look out over the city. A sprawling botanical garden is designed into the mountainside, offering an alternative route back down to town but we opted for the return trip on the cable track and stopped for a quick dinner at a kebab place on the way back to the hostel. The next morning we were on the road early, ready to continue our journey north. Wellington is a great example of a city that grew smartly without losing its small town charm.

Lake Taupo

The town of Taupo, nestled alongside the biggest body of water in New Zealand, was another one night stand. The town has seemingly been built on the edge of the lake to cater to tourists stopping over on their way north or south. Still, it is a lovely small town. After walking along the lake for a while to stretch our legs, we strolled through the public park on our way back to the hostel. The park was swarmed with families – children climbing, swinging, squealing with delight over every piece of playground equipment; young couples lying under shady trees – enjoying the sunny Sunday afternoon. It reminded me of the slow-motion scenes in the movies of children on an idyllic day at the park while the threat of the end of the world looms overhead.

Rotorua

As we drove into Rotorua, another lake town, the smell of sulphur infiltrated our nasal passages. We know this scent well; after our Dead Sea mineral mud bath, we took hot sulphur showers and the earthy stench never quite came out of our bathing suits. We arrived around lunchtime and, after surprisingly little coaxing, Aaron acquiesced to spending the day at the Polynesian Spa. We set out on foot through the quaint little town of Rotorua, stopping into a shop here and there and eventually turning into the Government Gardens. The English-inspired grounds include a mock-Tudor museum, a bowling green, croquet lawn, an historic Spanish Mission-style bath house and the Polynesian Spa. We spent the afternoon soaking in a series of thermal pools overlooking the lake.

The next day was for Aaron’s chosen activity – the Zorb – which is a large plastic ball that you can climb into and get rolled down a long hill. As we walked out to our car, parked along the street, Aaron immediately noticed that it had been side-swiped during the night so we began our day at the police station filing a report. Thankfully, the minor dents and paint chipping didn’t affect the car’s drivability but the prospect of dealing with the rental company and filing an insurance claim still took the wind out of our sails and we decided to spend the day eating ice cream, playing online, and going to our first movie on the road – The Bucket List. Despite the morning’s early mishap, it turned out to be another great day.

Waitomo Caves

There is only one reason to take the 2.5 hour detour from Rotorua to the Waitomo Caves – Black Water Rafting! We had booked the activity in advance of our arrival at the Long Black Café in Waitomo and showed up early for coffee and a sweet before our adventure. It began with a lengthy process of armor assembly: wetsuit and jacket, over-shorts, neoprene booties, helmets, and white rubber galoshes. Hideously appareled, we hopped into a mini-bus for the eight-minute ride to the Ruakuri Cave. We selected rubber inner tubes from a huge stack on the edge of a clearing and practiced a few maneuvers on the ground. Then we walked to a nearby dock on the edge of a shallow river and took one practice jump off the dock into the water. The jumping form is as follows: standing on the edge of the dock with your back to the water and your buns stuck into the hole of your tube; on the count of three, you jump backwards, ideally landing in the reclining position in your tube. In our group of twelve, which included one grandmother, I was the only one to fail my practice jump and flip backwards into the river. (Aaron: Hmmm.)

We walked a short way to the cave entrance – a tiny, inconspicuous crevice in the rock, which I immediately envisioned as the vagina of the earth. One at a time, we crouched through the crevice and regrouped just inside the cavernous underground to let our eyes adjust to the darkness. The caves were created over thousands of years as the river slowly eroded solid limestone and the river still flows through them. With our lights on, we walked further inside, careful not to disturb the stalactites overhead, and climbed into our tubes. Keeping our bodies as straight as possible, we “limboed” through a passage with only about two feet between the surface of the water and the wall of rock above. We paddled for a while, admiring the rock formations inside the cave. The water was frigid (about 50F degrees) but our suits kept us reasonably warm. Only when I stuck my bare hands in the water to paddle did I really feel the chill.

We had two opportunities to jump in the manner we’d practiced, including one leap backwards off a six-foot waterfall. The jumps were my least favorite part of the trip but I managed to land them both with only minor aches and pains from the body-wrenching jolt as tube slapped water. Shortly after the big jump, though, came the most rewarding part of the journey. We formed a long “eel” by lining up single-file and grabbing onto each others ankles, turned off our lights and floated slowly through the damp darkness while overhead thousands of tiny lights twinkled like green-hued stars. These were the glow-worms. “Glow-worms are the larvae of the fungus gnat, which looks much like a large mosquito without mouth parts. The larva glow-worms have luminescent organs that produce a soft, greenish light. Living in a sort of hammock suspended from an overhang, they weave sticky threads that trail down and catch unwary insects attracted by their lights. When an insect flies towards the light, it gets stuck in the threads and becomes paralysed – the glow-worm reels in the thread and eats the insect.” (Lonely Planet, New Zealand, 2006)

We spent just over an hour underground and, though I enjoyed the experience for its uniqueness, I must admit that I was happy to see light at the end of the tunnel. Back at the café, we were treated to hot soup and bagels before heading off to check into our farmhouse hostel just down the road. Black Water Rafting: Check. I wouldn’t do it again but I’m glad that I did it once.

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