Today I was awoken by a didgeridoo to the noggin, as Chet got a little carried away. Per usual, Stina and I dressed, packed, and ate breakfast in about 6 minutes and then waited an hour for everyone else to get a fucking clue. While we were waiting, I thought I saw something out of the corner of my eye. My first thought was that it was an island mirage, but upon closer inspection I realized that it was, in fact, a BEER BONG. Thats right, I had been camping with a beer bong the past two days and had no idea. How was “…and here is our beer bong” skipped over in the base camp orientation? Despite it being 7:30am, it was calling my name. Luckily we had a few beers left and so much to the horror of the staff, I hit that. I hit it hard. And I hit it well. Nothing lifts my spirits like a beer bong with breakfast. I then scolded the staff for not informing us that they had a beer bong. One guy tried to defend himself. But I explained that if he was a guest in my house, I would have promptly offered him a beer bong upon his arrival as that is just good manners. There was no arguing with my flawless reasoning and so he hung his head in shame.
At 8am we were off to Lake McKenzie, which is the island’s most famous post-card worthy sight. The night before we agreed with the Canadians that the party car (which is what we called any car the A-team was in) would be a country car, and so we blasted the country music. The Brits were very agreeable, bless their hearts, and suffered through my country DJ’ing with smiles on their faces. A bumpy hour drive through the forest and suddenly the foliage opened up to reveal a stunning crystal-blue lake. An oasis in the middle of a forest on a beautiful island off the coast of Australia. If this is heaven, take me to church. Now, apart from being beautiful, it is said that this lake is the fountain of youth and the sand makes your skin softer and your hair more luscious. You all know I’d probably jump in a pit of dog shit if I had a chance at getting one over on old father time. But alas, I still look the same, like a sprite 25 year old. I feel as though I’ve been lied to.
Now, today Stina and I had to make a list of shit that we need to teach this crew when they attend the “how not to be a loser” seminar with Prof. Rory Boston. This list is inclusive but not exhaustive, as these people need work. Lesson 1: how to get your lazy ass in and out of a car. I’ve seen sheep be herded into a pen through one tiny opening faster, and these ass holes had four doors. Lesson 2: How to have some fucking urgency in your life. Seriously, where is the urgency? How is it possible that people go through their entire lives at a snails pace and still manage to complete tasks such as bathing, feeding themselves, and earning a living? Do people actually enjoy spending their entire lives in a logistical nightmare waiting for someone like me to heard them? Because I feel I am perpetually stuck in a line behind someone who is paying in pennies and counting them out one by one. Do you want to know what I do with pennies? I throw them away. I literally thrown them in the trash. Because they are a waste of fucking time. Lesson 3: How to wipe your ass. I’d like to think that this doesn’t need to be covered, but based on what I’ve seen, I think some of these people may benefit from a quick “wipe front to back” tutorial. Just to be safe.
After the lake we went for a forest walk to look at some tree’s (refer to yesterday’s post re: my hippy guide) and had lunch. Then it was time for the drive back to Noosa, which consisted of about 3 hours of driving along a beautiful beach. The Brits were headed to a different destination so we bid them goodbye but had some extra seats in our car. And who jumped in? That’s right – the American B+ team. We then endured three hours of “take a picture of me with my head out the window!” and “Can you go pro video me riding in the car?!”. At one point the Touchy Girl called her boyfriend for a catch up with 6 other people in the car. No, you’re schmoopie! Touchy girl put her hand on Stina’s shoulder at one point and poor Stina looked like she was about to crawl out of her skin. I was actually waiting for her to flip her shit on them and just cheer her on, but she kept her cool. By the time we made it back to Noosa we hopped out of our car as soon as we were close enough to walk home. We got our pad thai on before heading back to the hostel and were in bed by 10pm.
Get comfortable, we have a lot of ground to cover, as we have been without wifi for 3 days. Without plumbing as well….
Wednesday, January 7, 2015
Today we were up bright and early for our 7am pickup for Fraser Island. The day started off innocently enough. Picked up by our guide, Simon, who is a big hippy (we are talking like, he doesn’t own shoes) from Norway with a slight Irish accent. I couldn’t stop calling him Chet, as he looked shockingly similar to a tour guide named Chet that Steph, Jorgie and I had in Peru who lit up a joint the second we got in his car. No relation though – I asked. Seemed like we were in for an interesting few days. We were taken to the DropBear tour office where we were shown a safety video that basically detailed how to not have your baby eaten by a dingo. The wild dingos on Fraser Island are the most pure native dingos you can find anywhere in Australia. Apparently they can get cray if you feed them. After the instructional video that is probably similar to one I will show in my “how not to be loser” seminar, we headed out on the road. Basically how this tour works is there are 4 jeeps and you just jump in one and switch off driving with everyone on the tour, while the guide leads. An Aussie caravan on the beach, if you will. Now I know what you all are thinking – will Rory manage to add another point to her license from across the world? Don’t worry, I did not drive. People were shocked Stina and I had no interest in driving until we explained we were from LA. Seven years of an hour commute each way is apparently the driving get of jail free card.
And we we were off! For about 20 minutes. When a tire fell off a car. Literally. The tire. Fell off. The car. Not the car I was in, but still too close for comfort. The guides with us called the office to inform them that we had some “car trouble”. Ummm. Car trouble is what you call it when a check engine light goes on, or your tire pressure runs low, or you run out of gas. I would call a fucking axel breaking and putting everyone in said car’s life in danger something more like “a major fucking accident”. If your entire business is based around people driving these cars onto and around an island, wouldn’t you think to, oh I don’t know, tighten a fucking lug nut? But then I realized we are in Australia, where they give only half a fuck about everything. So after our little snafu they put everyone in the three remaining cars and we just continued on our way, leaving broke ass car on the side of the road for the Company to come get at their earliest convenience. A few hours up the coast, one rest break that took entirely too long and a ferry ride later and we were finally on Fraser Island!
Fraser Island. You lovely little Oasis of gloriousness. What shall we call you? The actual name of the island, given to it by the aboriginal people that first lived there before the white men ruined their lives, was K’gary, which translates to “Paradise”. As that is pretty damn accurate, we’ll go with Paradise. Now, Paradise is the largest sand island in the world, and the only one with a rainforest growing right on top of the sand. So you have miles and miles of beautiful, uninhabited beach, rain forests with trees big enough to walk through, and tons of amazing little lakes and streams to discover. It rocks. What did not rock, however, was lunch. Lunch every fucking day. Make your own wraps. Sounds great, huh? That’s because you are picturing a burrito right now. And rightfully so. What we were fed was a sad amalgamation of ham, shredded cheese, a few veggies, a can of corn with a fork in it, and mayo. It was sad. However the promise of a lake in the middle of a sand dune kept our spirits high.
We spent the afternoon at Wabby Lake. A drive down the beach and a quick 10 minute (read: 20 minute through the forest) hike and we were at a lake that was created in the middle of a giant sand dune. Apparently this is the lake where they aboriginal men used to come for bro time – no ladies were allowed. We swam, we tanned, we played the name game. Everyone in the group fawned over how fabulous our tans are. It was a pretty great afternoon.
After the lake we headed back to base camp where we all claimed our tents and got showered for dinner. To be specific, Stina and I showered, changed, arranged our tent (no we did not have to put it up) and got a drink before anyone else could figure out which end of their sleeping bag is up. Typical. Dinner was an Aussie BBQ and was actually pretty fab. I was shocked it was made by the same heartless bastards that gave us DIY ham wraps, but people surprise you. Chet took us all down to the beach to watch the moon rise over the Ocean, which was surprisingly cool, as I don’t think I’ve ever actually sat and watched a moon rise. We drank with the A-team, played kings cup (which Brits call “ring of fire”) and a few other drinking games. Chet brought out a bunch of onesies at one point – one was a unicorn and one was a baby dino. Ok, I think it was actually a crocodile but work with me on this. So danced around in our onesies most of the night. I thought Stina might sleep in hers, as unicorns are Stina’s spirit animal just as Pterodactyls are mine. We headed to bed at a reasonable hour – basically once we got drunk enough to pass out in a tent.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Our wake up call was Chet coming up to each tent blowing in a didgeridoo. This was a big day of sights, but before we get into that, let’s talk some shit about the peeps on our tour. There were so many, so I’ll just cover the highlights. We have the Brits. The Brits are typically our favorites on any tour, probably because they share our dry sense of humor. Or perhaps it’s just been bread into us as Americans to stick with the Brits (or, more accurately, for the Brits to stick with us). Either way, they were rad so we hung with them erryday. Also in the A-team were the Canadian girls. They are super fun 24 year olds who didn’t shower once but still managed to look cute. They were basically Stina and I five years ago. Before we were ravaged by things like back-fat and full time jobs. That basically sums up the A-team. The B-team was composed of your typical boring couples and painfully shy groups of friends who look like they will cry if you speak to them so you just keep your distance. There were the Canadian boys – 20 years old, thought they were superman, and one had a mullet. Every day I devised a plan to cut it off while he slept, but come nightfall I always got drunk and forgot. Must find a different form of community service. And then, we have the wannabe A-team. The A-team posers are the most dangerous of all teams. We’ll call them the B+ team. While they possess social skills that lead you to believe, at first, they can function in normal society, you soon realize those skills need desperate sharpening. Our B+ team was mainly composed of a group of American girls. They claimed to be Californian, when in fact they all just happened to live in California at the moment. This much was clear from their constant losing battle with sand. It was like some mythical fairy dust that they just couldn’t quite figure out. Bitches were drowning in it. We have names for all of them, thats how bad it got:
1. Sick girl – Oh lawd, the sick girl. Hacking up a lung from the second we met her. Now, sickness is not something that automatically puts you on the B+ team. However when you spit your sickness in everyone’s face because you can’t handle not being the center of attention for one fucking second despite the fact that you should be put down for a nap, that’s when you get demoted to B+ team. There was some serious Jan Brady shit going on with this girl. She also couldn’t dance on beat to save her life, but one of the Brits explained to me that it’s because she is tall and tall people are always awkward dancers. Which is true. So I let that one go by.
2. Ugly girl – I know this sounds mean, but let me explain. What I mean by this nickname is that she is ugly to the point of it being offensive. Shit, it’s still mean. On top of that, she was ALWAYS late, constantly losing her shit and making everyone look for it, and had a serious selfie issue. Someone should break it to her that those pics ain’t making her any cuter.
3. Touchy girl – She is like the one girl in the sorority that is super nice but kind of creeps people out, so everyone tries to avoid her. Serious personal space issues. Always wanting to hug you, or tell you how awesome you are. As if I need to be reminded how awesome I am.
4. Old chick – she was older than the rest of her crew, and looked it, sadly. But actually the most normal out of all of them.
I just figured out how to do my community service – am giving them all scholarships to the “how not to be a loser seminar”. You’re welcome. Their first class will be called “Accepting your basicness 101” in which I will attempt to explain to them that the bad bitch club is not something attainable for everyone, for bad bitchness chooses us (Stina and I), we do not choose it.
So let me take you through the next twelve hours, with visual aids, of course: The first stop of the day was Eli Creek, which was basically a lazy river that dumped out onto the beach where tons of people hung out white-trash style. I obviously loved this place. We floated down the river and then lazed on the beach for a few hours. Everyone then commented on how I am even more tan today than I was yesterday. I tried to explain how the sun works, but that’s a losing battle. Then we saw the famous Maheno shipwreck, which is exactly what it sounds like. After that it was off to the Champagne Pools which are, sadly, not exactly what they sound like, as no bottles were popped. But they are still pretty cool – little pools on the very north of the island that the waves come crashing into. Sun went into hibernation for the hour or so we were there, but still pretty rad. After this it was on to Indian Head, which is where the evil white man killed a bunch of Aboriginal people. Bad, bad white man. Same story, different country. Next up was Pinnacle rock. Now, remember yesterday when we went to the bad-ass aboriginal dudes-only hangout at the lake? Well, this is what the women got. Some fucking rocks. When I scoffed at this inequality our guide tried to rectify the situation by explaining that there are plants at the base of the rocks that can, after a very tricky recipe, get you high. He really thought that helped, bless his heart. Our last stop was a sand dune. Only prob here is that our guide told us shoes were not necessary (and by shoes, we mean flip flops), when in fact it was a walk through a fucking forest. Not everyone has calloused hippy feet dude, please recognize.
We head back to camp and shower and change for dinner. B team has actually discovered we have showers and get in line for one. Stina and I are second and third in line (first in line had no soap or shampoo, which is the only way one of the sheep beat me to it). We then have dinner and proceed to get drunk, as the main goal of any camping trip is to get drunk enough to forget that you are camping. We discovered that the Canadian girls love country music, which upped their badass factor by about 20 points. I tested this by ensuring they knew at least the chorus to Devil Went Down to Georgia. They did. Once the B-team went to bed we had a flip cup game. Then a bunch of people went skinny dipping. In the shark infested waters. In the dark. Stina and I watched from a safe distance and saw things we cannot unsee. Went to bed once thoroughly intoxicated.
I’m going to post Friday’s blog tomorrow, because I my rambling has gotten out of hand.
Today we woke up to the sound of rain. Pouring rain. Which was fine, because this was a travel day for us – so rain all you want on travel day. We chilled out at the hostel in the morning and then headed into town to catch our Greyhound. After about a six hour journey with one bus transfer and never knowing what time it is because the time changes even though your latitude does not, we arrived in Noosa. We were picked up by our hostel, Noosa Flashpackers, and we checked into our PRIVATE room. Praise the lord. They fucked up our reservation (shocker) because 98% of all hostel workers are innately fucking retarded, and gave us a double instead of two singles, but luckily for them Stina and I are no strangers to cuddle time. As long as I have no crazy cunts in my room, I’m a happy camper. By the time we settled in it was around 6pm and we were informed of “Free wine and cheese night!” at the hostel. “Free” anything would have been enough, but follow that up with “wine and cheese” and there ain’t no mountain high enough to keep these gals away. We headed down and staked out a table. They put two bottles of wine and our own plate of cheese and crackers at our table. Big mistake. We basically handled that shit between just the two of us. People came over here and there to grab a piece of cheese, but I think we gave off the “don’t fuck with our table or our cheese” vibe and so most stayed away. We must have gotten pretty good at table protection on NYE. They looked afraid. Good instincts people. Don’t mess with a former sorority girl when it comes to cheese. We be cray.
A bit later we were ready for dinner. I found a very highly recommended Indian restaurant not too far into town on tripadvisor, so we headed out. Now, tripadvisor isn’t usually wrong. In fact, it has steered us to some pretty damn good Indian food thus far on our trip. But when it is, it’s DEAD wrong. And this time, it was. Worst service of the trip. Worst than then homeless pizza pot-heads in Able Tasman, NZ, worse than Christmas dinner in Queenstown. When your service is worse than the no fucks given Kiwis, you need to re-evaluate. Suffice it to say I wrote a horrible tripadvisor review while I was literally sitting at their table, where I basically berated the entire online travel community for their stupidity and general bad taste when they rated this restaurant so highly. And the owners were Indian!! Someone needs to plan a trip back to the motherland, because that tikka masala tasted like ass. Big disappointment. So we made it an early night. Again. We love early nights.
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Beach Day!!! It was a bit touch and go this morning, since when I woke up at about 7am it was pouring rain. But remember, we are basically in Florida, so that is just summer here. We got our free breakfast, which was very exciting despite the fact that it was just toast and cereal, because no one ever gives you free breakfast here. Then we made some sammies and headed off to main beach. Today was our first good look at Noosa, as it was dark when we went to dinner last night. It’s basically Byron Bay’s gentrified older brother. Lots of Aussie families on holiday with their kids, tons of surfing and boogie boarding (which I think we’ll have to hit up before we leave for old times sake – who doesn’t love a good boogie?). The main town area is basically one street with lots of “upmarket” shops, as they say here. And we are upmarket girls, so we fit right in. Basically, this is where the Golden Girls go to die in Australia. We settled in for a nice long beach day. We were interrupted by a few drizzles here and there, which were a welcomed distraction from the blistering hot and ozone-free sun, and only one downpour that lasted about 8 minutes. We waited it out under a tree and went right back to the beach once it died down, just following everyone else’s lead. We spent about 5 or so hours on the beach today, which was glorious. Read a book, got really tan. Life is good. As we sat on the beach, we lamented about how the hell we are ever going to go back to work after this trip. Can you guys just pay me to travel and entertain you via blog? Maybe I’ll start a kickstarter campaign called “fund my life, pretty please”. We headed back to the hostel around 5, with a quick stop at the bottle shop to provision for Fraser Island, and then ALL YOU CAN EAT PIZZA NIGHT. You should all know by now that Stina and I never turn down an all you can eat pizza night. We should. But we don’t. It was supposed to be dominos, which is my absolute favorite, but it was pizza hut. Vom. Very unsatisfying and I’m hoping I have finally learned my lesson. We then showered, did laundry, and packed up for our Fraser Island tour.
We leave in the morning for a 3 day, 2 night Fraser Island CAMPING tour, to be exact. If they make us put up our own tents, we are fucked. I am tent-challenged. We have been informed there are no showers, and one bathroom a ten minute walk from the campsite. So naturally we purchased lots of booze for this little BYOB camping trip. There is no way I’m camping without being drunk off my ass. No fucking way. There won’t be any internet, which means no blog posts for a few days (I know, you will all die without me…especially during the work week. I feel your pain. Oh, wait, no I don’t). But if I’m camping I’m bound to do something absurdly stupid, so I should have a pretty good post for you upon our return.
Today is Sunday, January 4, 2015. Today Stina and I double puked off the side of a kayak. And had to be towed to shore. I know you are all a little confused as to how we got here, so let me take you back. Back to last night….
Tonight was Rory and Stina “hit the town” party night. When the big 3-0 is only a few months away from sucking all joy from your life and replacing it with cellulite, you have to plan these nights well in advance. Because you can’t do it 5 times a week like you could when you were 19. Let me re-phrase, you shouldn’t do it 5 times a week. That shit ain’t cute on 30. The way I drank, it wasn’t even cute on 19. But fuck all that near 30 talk, because tonight, I’m 25. Going-out Rory is always 25. Are you rolling your eyes right now? I deserve that. Whatever, I’m 25 and I JUST WANNA DANCE! After fighting with the cunts for the shower and chugging a few bottles of wine, we headed into town at 8:30pm. The cunts, you see, finally woke up from their lighthouse-induced coma so that they could shower and promptly return to laying in bed sexting. I mean texting. See ya later, suckers. We made a bee-line for Beach Hotel, as planned the previous night. We grabbed a drink and started looking around trying to decide what group of boys to shamelessly hit on first. Just then a group of Aussie cougars came up to us. Well, two cougars and their B-team friend, who was more like a lioness. The cougars told us they were staying IN A HOSTEL. I about choked on my drink. Homegirls were knocking on 40. I can only imagine what fucked up shit they are doing to unsuspecting young tourists boys at that hostel. But then lioness came into town today and made them move to an air bnb, because she has birthed a child and has no fake tits and can’t be caught dead in a hostel (good for you, lioness). Apparently they are planning a trip to LA to make a movie, which is based on a book the lioness wrote and one of the cougars is adapting it to a screenplay. It’s basically a pathetic cougar tale that is a cross between “How Stella got her groove back” and “The Hangover”. Newsflash: even Stella knew to stay away from hostels. This entire convo ensued without the cougars noticing Stina and I giving each other the “how fucking pathetic” look. Go us.
The cougars did, however, explain to us why everyone keeps asking if we are Canadians. Aussies can’t tell our accents apart, and since asking a Canadian if they are American is insulting to Canadians, they just always ask if you are Canadian first. Apparently an American could never be insulted by someone assuming they are Canadian. It actually makes a lot of sense, since Canadians are like the teddy bears of the world. The teddy bear that you had when you were 5 and now you aren’t sure where it is and don’t really give a shit, but still think of it fondly on very rare occasions. But I guess thats something.
So now we are deciding, with input of the cougars, what group of men we will all hit on. It’s scaring me how well I am getting along with these ladies. Shit. Big fake titties cougar finds one she likes in a blue shirt, so I grab him by said shirt and haul him over to us (subtly is not my strong suit). He was with a big group of dudes, but the only hot one. So naturally, he immediately fell in love with Stina and I spent the night talking to his not-hot friends. Well, one was hot, but his teeth were fucked. Fucked up teeth knocks you down to an automatic 3, regardless of whatever else you got going on. Seriously, if you can’t fix your future kid’s teeth, do them and the world a favor and just sterilize yourself. But I digress. The cougars realized they had nothing to contribute and disappeared. No one cared. So you all want to know about the boys. They are all “Footy” players from Adelaide on Holiday. We asked them what the fuck “footy” is, and they spent the next 20 minutes trying to explain “Aussie Football Rules” to us before giving up and showing us a youtube clip. Basically, it’s a cross between American football, everyone else’s football, and rugby. It’s about as stupid as it sounds. I’m assuming at some point a bunch of dorks who couldn’t make any real sports teams got together and made their own sport so they wouldn’t feel left out. They couldn’t even give it a cool nickname.
The good news is that I didn’t bite anyone’s arm. The bad news – I managed to find an entirely new way to objectify innocent men at a bar. Stina’s footy hottie was telling us that one of the coaches is going to check them for “skin folds” when they get back, because they have all gotten so fat on Holiday. What are “Skin folds” you ask? It’s basically where you pinch people’s fat rolls. So naturally I had no choice but to go around to every dude on the team and tell them that I was sent here by their coach to perform a surprise “Skin fold” test on them. Arms and stomach. They were confused, but actually went with it. I was thoroughly entertained for hours. Literally, hours. When the night was winding down at the bar I invited myself over to the house they had rented for an “after party”. Stina was already invited, obviously, to make out with hottie, but as I had no one to make out with I really just wanted to keep raging. The boys obliged and entertained me for a few hours with drinking games, when more drinking was the last thing on earth I needed. We played kings cup, I argued with them about every rule (typical), they bbq’d, I ate a giant hot dog, we drank more, I passed out on their couch. But not before one of they guys (hottie with the fucked up teeth) showed me pics of his Columbian girlfriend and I told him she was ugly, because she was, and he got slightly offended. But I think he kind of knew. So I recorded some video on his phone saying I was going to sleep with her boyfriend (or something of that nature) and tried to get him to send it to her. I thought it was hilarious at the time. While I was entertaining half of the Adelaide fake sports team, Stina was making out with hottie. I mean, “on a walk”…yeah, they pull that same bullshit “bush walk” move over here too. I passed out on the couch. I made out with no fugly dudes with girlfriends. I did not steal anything. This is TOTALLY maturity. Ok, I’m at least halfway there.
And so this brings me back to today. We awoke around 7am in what can only be described as a rental frat house. We high tailed it out of there and caught a cab. Our cab driver asked if we were out for an early morning walk. I replied, “something like that”. He was old, his heart couldn’t take it. Now, when we arrived in Bryon Bay a few days ago we booked a sea kayaking trip for SUNDAY MORNING. What would ever possess us to do such a thing? It is, without a doubt, my single biggest activity planning mistake. For shame. But we had paid in full, so an old buff guy with tattoos who reminded me of Tori Spelling’s husband (just shorter, more buff, and obviously more remorseful) picked us up. Stina told him that we had a “very aggressive” night, so he would know to go easy on us. He loved us instantly and took massive amounts of pity on us (refer to Waiheke post re: old men loving us). We referred to him as “dad” for the rest of the trip. That fucking kayak trip. A day that will live in infamy for at least a week.
We should have known to turn the fuck around the second they gave us HELMETS and told us to CARRY OUR OWN KAYAK DOWN TO THE BEACH. These aren’t little pussy kayaks. Ocean kayaks are gnarly. We dragged that thing down to the beach Weekend at Bernie’s style and were sweating and exhausted before we even got in the water. Getting through the waves was fucking terrifying, but we managed to get out without flipping over (credit for this probably goes entirely to kayak dad). We started off ok, but quickly faded. Faded fast. And hard. Stina started heaving. Which then made me heave. Before we knew it we were both puking of the side of the kayak. One of the guides (the 24 year old hippy-hot guide) told us he has actually never seen a double puke off a kayak before. We are trailblazers. To add insult to injury, we didn’t even see any damn dolphins or whales, not even a turtle, which is the whole point of the fucking trip. Stina thinks it’s because we puked in their house and they were mad. But people piss in there all the time and no one says boo. It became very clear that there was no way Stina and I were getting ourselves back to shore, as we were still intermittently vomming into open ocean. So dad tied a rope to our kayak and literally towed our sad, pathetic assess all the way to shore. Everyone on our tour hated us. Because we puked, smelled like booze, complained a lot, and got lots of attention from the guides (like the extra attention given to kids on the spectrum, not because we are charming). I think you all know where the rest of this day is headed….we went to bed. I typed this blog, so that’s something. Oh, and we ate our thousandth pizza of the trip.
Today we headed up the east coast to make all our Aussie beach bum dreams come true. It was a 5am wake up call to catch our 7am flight up to the Gold Coast. Stina’s cousins and his wife actually picked us up and drove us….at 5:30am. I felt bad, but we are not in the business of turning down offers out here. Once we checked in, her cousins came with us through security to grab breakfast at the terminal food court. Australia domestic air travel is basically like being back in 1998. Anyone can go through security and your ID does not get checked. Literally, not once. Not even when they print your boarding pass and check your baggage. I guess that how it works when you live in a country that isn’t universally hated by most of the world. Zero fucks, Aussies style. It did, however, remind me that Home Alone 2 was not as far fetched as you think when watching it today.
It was a quick 1hour flight up to Gold Coast, and from there we hopped in our transfer van to take us to Byron Bay. Now, I realized I’ve already named Waiheke Island “Heaven”, but let me specify. Waiheke is where blue blood winos go to die, and Byron is where hippies and pot heads go. As they don’t mix in this world, I can’t imagine they mix in the next. It is a gorgeous long strip of beach with a little town in the middle that goes off every night. Now almost everyone we have met has told us that Byron Bay is their favorite place in Australia, and now we know why. Super chilled and laid back with an emphasis on fun and lots of gyros (called Kebobs here….don’t ask). What more can you ask for? We checked in to the Byron Beach Resort, which sounds classy but its really just a super chill beachy hostel. The property is pretty spread out, with hammocks hanging every 5 feet or so, the beach right across the street and a BOMB restaurant next door. Oh, and yoga in the back three times a day.
We spent the day at the beach, which was hot as fuck because the humidity here is like Florida, and then went into town to have a look around. We stopped at a travel shop to book our Greyhound bus tickets up to Noosa in a few days and ended up spending $1,000 each on all our activities, buses, and tours the rest of the way up the East Coast. What can I say, the travel desk guy was cute and efficient. We told him the tours we had planned and what else we wanted to do – he immediately surmised that we are “upmarket” (his words, but I like it) and we felt like he really understood the Bougie Backpackers. The prices were basically the same I was getting online, so why not let hot boy make a little commission and do my work for me while Stina and I stare at his blue eyes? Everyone is a winner in Byron! Feeling very accomplished, we headed to the Beach Hotel for a drink (Aussie lesson: a lot of the bars here are called “hotels” because back in the day places were not allowed to serve booze unless they also had places to sleep, so all the bars became a “hotel” and the names just stuck – history lesson credit to Dan). The Beach Hotel is, specifically, where Rory goes to die. A big bar, right on the beach, with TONS of dudes and everyone getting sloshed. Now, the dudes are all pretty mediocre, it’s definitely quantity over quality here in Byron, but there are a few diamonds in the ruff here and there. I am already getting a feeling my inner arm bitter is about to make a cameo. She can’t be stopped. We headed home early, since Sydney tried to kill us and all, with plans to return tomorrow for a big Saturday night out. Once we got back to our hostel, we found some crazy nut-bag cunts had checked into our room. It was about 9pm and they were all sitting in their beds texting…probably responding to dirty tinder boys and their pathetic dick pics. Those are the kind of girls I’m talking about here. But everyone wanted to go to bed early, and in a dorm room, that is a miracle. (Note: last dorm room of the trip!!).
Saturday, January 3, 2014
Today we awoke at 5am to what we thought was a fire when in actuality it was those fucking cunts waking up and yelling at each other across the room and into the bathroom. Screaming. At 5am. Stina and I both shot up out of bed. Apparently we had both separately resolved to tell them what they could shove up their dirty little namesakes if they said one more word. They did not, and thus saved themselves a baby dino brawl. Btw – they were doing a sunrise tour of the lighthouse in Byron. 5am, to see a fucking lighthouse. Get a life. We went back to bed and woke up around 9am to make the 9:30 yoga session. When we arrived we were told the 9:30 class was just ending. Confusion ensued. Apparently, for the last 24 hours, we have been on the wrong time, thinking it was an hour earlier than it was. We even had an entire discussion about how much earlier the sun sets here and how weird that was. We are morons. Can I blame Apple? I’m sure even the cunts figured out how to tell time in Byron Bay. Update: the cunts slept in the room ALL DAY LONG, because they were so wiped from their 5am lighthouse extravaganza.
So what do a couple of LA gals do when their workout plans are foiled? Why, we brunch of course. And then beach. We managed to stay on the beach for almost 3 hours this time without dying. I went topless, because when in Rome, until some creepy old man kept sneaking a peak and I discovered that my inner hippy is actually quite uptight. We headed into town that afternoon, went to visit our hot travel stud to pick up our vouchers, and then headed for the hike to the lighthouse. You see, instead of getting up at 5am and being a huge pain in everyone’s ass just so your lazy butt can catch a free ride up to the lighthouse, you can also hike up. The views were gorgeous, but if I’m being honest, by the end of it I kind of wishing I had woken up at 5am with the cunts. Why do hikes always seem like such a great idea and then turn into pure hell? This can’t just be me. The whole straight up and then straight down thing just drives me crazy for some reason. I can’t help but think how much better it would be with a tunnel and an elevator at the end. We grabbed some booze in town and headed back to the hostel to prepare for party night. This is where I’ll leave you for today. Don’t worry, party night will be in tomorrow’s….it’s a fun one.
Today I woke up feeling like I had been hit by a truck. I honestly felt so shitty that I thought I might have the flu. So I had to forgo beach day at Manly with Stina and instead spent the entire day in bed trying to rest up so I could actually make it to the ridiculously expensive NYE party we had already purchased tickets for. At a about 2pm I started to come back to life, very slowly. We started hitting the champs at about 4pm, which always tends to perk me up a bit. We had a little pre-party that consisted of our host, Dan, and 6 chicks – only one of which he is sleeping with. I think. One of his coworkers was there w/ a friend of hers. She was already drunk (I hope) and quite entertaining. She was bitching (in a funny way) about how her friend just cancelled a NYE party on her and she had nothing to do. Turns out, that party was still on, she was just disinvited because she hooked up with one of the guys throwing the party the previous weekend and woke up the next morning asking him “what are we??”. That is like “How to freak a dude out 101” girlfriend. Amateur hour.
At around 6pm, Stina and I headed out to The Rocks so we could get a good table at our party for the fireworks. We were, of course, 30 minutes early, so we grabbed a drink and hopped in the queue. There was a bit of line drama with people trying to cut. Shockingly someone else put the douchebags in their place before I had to do it myself. And thank god, because I needed all the energy I could muster so I could make it to fireworks without collapsing. But let the record show, I would have slapped a bitch if need be. We grabbed one of the few coveted tables with a great view of the Opera house and had to guard it with our lives for the next hour and a half until Stina’s friends (same group from Queenstown) arrived an hour late. I am obviously cringing as I say this, because you all know how I feel about punctuality. Needless to say, I was stressed. But since I’m trying to be “go with the flow Rory” I decided to heed T-Swift’s advice and shake it off. While we were guarding our table, this one fat chick kept putting her fucking drinks down, as if she thought the table was now hers. So I basically had to have an ass pushing competition with this bitch for an hour. It wasn’t so much the fact that she put her drink on my table that bugged me as it was that she was offensively ugly and I just don’t really like ugly people around me. It brings down the average of everyone in close proximity. Kind of like a really shitty house on a nice block. And if you were are using someone’s table, wouldnt general etiquette dictate a courtesy ask? We also had a mail-order bride with entitlement issues that rivaled the Kardashians trying to get at our table. She was escorted by a super old white guy with yellow fever and kept taking the smallest sips of champagne and putting her drink on our table. I thought Stina was going to punch the bitch out, but instead she just spit in her drink and we giggled the next time she took a sip. Mean girls ain’t got shit on us.
The party was open bar until 10:30pm and passed hour’derves which we all took full advantage of. They were actually quite generous with both, and thank god, because at AUD 280 I might have flipped out on someone if I had to wait 30 minutes for a drink. Nothing too crazy or exciting happened. It was actually a pretty mellow party. I didn’t end the night crying, so I have deemed it a success. To give you some background on my expectations – I fucking hate NYE. With a passion. That shit never lives up to the hype and I usually find myself shit faced in a bar, covered in glitter, trying to find my phone and/or friends. I think last year I sat on the couch with Jorgie eating carbs in my pj’s and we barely made it till midnight – and that was prob the best NYE I had in about 5 years. We were home shortly after 2am, after getting drunk Stina some McDonalds. No one lost their shit or puked. Perhaps this is maturity? if so, it’s painfully overrated.
Thursday, January 1, 2015
Happy New Year everyone! 2015 is going to fucking rock!! Let’s just enjoy this moment when we can tell ourselves how great the next year will be and actually believe it. Because you know in 364 days we’ll be saying “Fuck 2015! 2016 is my year!”. Do you want to know what my 2015 resolution is? To marry rich. Yes, I want to lose weight, find a job I actually like making great money, lose more weight, and try to be more positive. But marrying rich would really kill all those birds with one stone. And you know I’m always one for efficiency.
Today we took the ferry over to Manly Beach. We passed by the Microsoft Mega Yacht on the way there. It is either owned by the Company or some big shot at the Company (or so we were told). I have included a pic of it – and yes, that is a fucking helicopter on the back of it. Apparently there are multiple submarines included as well. This can all be yours for the price of $200 million and $20 million a year in upkeep. For the record, when I say marry rich – this is the rich I’m talking about. Just in case a genie in a bottle is reading this, I want to clarify. We seriously considered jumping off the ferry, swimming up to it and pretending like we were drowning. But those rich fuckers on board would probably have just sipped their Champagne and laughed at us as if someone arranged for a show where sharks eat us lowly poor humans purely for their entertainment.
Manly was pretty cool – more laid back than Bondi, which is fucking nuts. Had a bit of a Hermoa Beach vibe, just a bit bigger and more touristy. But today it was pretty crowded, and the jellyfish were out in full force so no swimming for us. All I wanted to do was get shit faced because I was finally feeling a bit better and what the hell else do you do on new years day? So we spent most of the day in bars (shocking, I know). If there is one thing I have learned while in Sydney, it’s that all the hot men are either working the bar or waiting your table. Seriously – hottest waiters I have ever seen in my life. Stina and I actually considered inviting a French bus boy home with us but then thought better of it. We made a quick stop at Opera bar on the way back to bid adieu to Sydney in style. On the way home, Stina wanted to get rid of some of her change. She counted out all the useless two cent coins taking up so much room in her purse, ready to throw them on the floor of the cab. Luckily, Dan and I realized these annoying little coins were actually two DOLLAR coins and stopped her before she chucked about $20. It doesn’t sound so funny now – nothing is as funny when sober. Perhaps the alcoholics are on to something there.
We were in bed by 10pm, as we had to be up at 5am for our flight to the Gold Coast tomorrow. Back to being real backpackers again. The downside is we have no family and friends to take us around and show us the sights. Good news is that showering is optional when backpacking.
We haven’t really had wifi the past few days so I’ll post a few quick ones just to update you (Australia and NZ hate wifi and therefore, hate me). Sydney has been quite a whirlwind and I got super sick (gross), but I’m powering through it. You’ll also notice I have slightly less to say. Probably because we have been hanging out with our respective families a lot, both who live in Sydney, and so I have significantly less morons in my life to make fun of these days. Don’t worry – we’ll be back to the backpacking thing soon and I’ll be back to my usual jaded and bitchy commentary on the complete and utter stupidity of our generation around the world. But for this week, we are normal people. And normal people play nice. I think.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Wake up in Queenstown, NZ. Today we slept in and quenched our hangovers with some Ferbergers for breakfast. Then it was off to the airport to catch our flight to Sydney! If you thought NZ was a shit show, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. So day one – here goes. We get in around 3:30pm and my fabulous cousin Kay picks us up from the airport. My grandma grew up in Australia. She was smoking hot and a bit of party animal (see, it’s not my fault – its genetics) so she and her two sisters would troll the Navy parties looking for hot American men stationed there – one of which was my grandpa. They married and he brought her back to Hermosa Beach. I just did it in the reverse order: Hermosa to Sydney. Minus the man. Shit, I knew I was forgetting something. So I have a bunch of family here, most of which I have never met, until now. Kay recognized me in the airport because I look like my dad (that damn nose) and she drove us to Marissa’s friend Dan’s place, which is where we will be staying. We have never met Dan. He is just super awesome, and probably a little crazy, because he invited us to stay with him for five nights in his awesome apartment in the CBD (CBD = central business district, the central downtown area. Aussie lingo lesson #1). Given the fact that the only things he knows about us are (1) we are friend’s with Mar, and (2) whatever he has gleaned from my blog, I think we can all agree he is a very brave soul. Pray for him.
At 6pm my cousin Carla (Kay’s daughter) picked us up to take us out for our first night in Sydney. I have met Carla a few times. The first time I was in high school and she was about 19 and a hot mess. By hot mess I mean exactly like me at 19; fucking awesome. The last time we hung out was when she was in LA with her hubby and a Wednesday night turned into fireball shots and spinning that damn wheel o’ booze at American Junkie. Oh, and jello shots at Sharkeez. So we are definitely related. She brought her brother, Ben, who I have never met but my brother Drew told me is smoking hot (Drew speaks the truth). Don’t worry, I’m allowed to say he’s hot because we are second cousins a million times removed (I think). That logic works, right? We all head off to the Opera bar for drinks. Oh, Opera bar. You saucy little minx. This place fucking rocks. Picture The Bungalow on crack, 12 times as big, and right at the base of the Opera house looking out onto the Harbor Bridge, and that is the Opera Bar. Stina and I fell in love instantly. And then we started to hit it. Hard. I knew the cousins would give me a run for my money and I was not disappointed. Later that night another one of my cousins, Andrew, showed up to say hi. But only for a few minutes because he was trying to bag some tinder slut. Do you, homie, do you. Oh, Andrew is hot too. There must be something in the water down here. We pretty much raged all night. By we I mean Ben and I. We all went back to Dan’s apartment and people fell off one by one. I think we had every intention of going back out to another bar, but you know how that goes. Went to bed when there was a faint light on the horizon – I think they call that the sun. Woke up on the couch the next morning at 10am with a raging hangover and Stina waiting for me to go to the beach.
Monday, December 29, 2014
Today we went to Bondi Beach. Bondi basically looks like the offspring of Hermosa (more tourists and bars) and Venice (less needles, same amount of tourists). But lots of fun, sun and tourists. I was down with the sun, and I’m pretty sure I had the tourist thing down, but fun I was not. Bad, bad hangover day. Spent most of the day laying on the beach chugging as much water as I could get my whoo-girl hands on. Suffice it to say, if you are ever in Sydney and looking to day party, or night party for that matter, Bondi should do ya well. Then it was back to the city for dinner and an early night.
Today we went on an all day sailing trip though Able Tasman national park. We woke up feeling surprisingly good, made breakfast and packed a lunch for the day and we were off. Boyfriends are leaving today…so it’ll be a quiet night in. Which we desperately need.
We get on our catamaran around 10am, which just happens to be beer o’clock. That’s right my friends, BYO sailing trip. The sun is actually shining, which is a fucking miracle in NZ and something we usually only get once every few days. Nothing too notable to tell you here. The usual shit: everything was so beautiful, blah, blah, blah. Big waves, the actual sailing part was cold, which is something you tend to forget because the prospect of being on a boat is just so appealing.
So since I have nothing too ridiculous story-wise, I’ll introduce you to some of our bus mates. Some are new, just joining the bus on the South Island, and some have been with us a while and I just haven’t discussed them. But since a lot of our key players hopped off in Wellington, we need to get you acquainted with some the new group:
We have the Germans. Who we refer to as “the Dick Docs” because they are actually dick doctors. Urologists, if you want the technical term. One of the poor guys actually offered that little piece of information to us, having no idea we would then use it to ridicule them endlessly. Have you boys learned nothing over the past week? FYI, we like the Dick Docs. They are fab. And hilarious. And honestly its just fun to talk in a funny German accent to them.
We have the weirdo who fondles men in bars, which I told you about in yesterday’s post. We basically spent the whole day on the boat making fun of that freak. Oh – apparently someone asked him if he was gay, you know, because he was grabbing dude’s junk, and he said no. We may have to stage a gay intervention to let him know that we are actually more aware of his sexuality than he is. I’m sure I’ll lead it. Can’t wait.
Who else…omg. The fucking storytelling photog. Another freak. This dude is from Sweden (does not look like it) and keeps interrupting people’s convo’s to tell stories. Problem: he is the worst fucking storyteller in the universe (yes, Kim Ortloff, worse than you). Not only does no one care because he’s weird, that shit never ends. Get to the punch buddy. It get’s worse. He spent the entire day on the boat taking pictures of all the girls. And I don’t mean sneaking pictures under the radar. He just walked around snapping pics of girls. I should get him an application for Girls Gone Wild cameraman. That is his calling. Fucking pathetic. Still, it get worse. This is what made me hate him on an entirely new level. His feet. They make me want to die, but I can’t stop looking. He has massive finger toes. He literally has one too many joints in each one. He could paint the fucking Cistene Chapel with those nasty litte fuckers. And he can curl them up and it LITERALLY looks like a fist. As in, a hand. I couldn’t make this nasty shit up if I tried.
There is a group of German girls who literally don’t speak. Like, ever. And they just stare at us. I have caught them staring at us like 5 times in the past few days. I’ve ruled out the fact that it’s because they think we are beautiful American goddesses. Not really getting an admiration vibe from these creep-tastic stares. And you never know with the Germans because they can be cray so I’m not sure what they are plotting. They are also fucking morons. It took them about 12 minutes to figure out how to get off the catamaran. I’ll give you a hint…it involves walking down steps, and….nope that’s it. And I was behind them, so you can probably imagine how close they came to be pushed off a boat today.
There is also a super smelly dutch girl who shall henceforth be referred to as smelly cat. She always stinks. And she is like the monkey on Family Guy, always lurking, just a sniff away. And then we have Bonnie. Oh, Bonnie, Bonnie, Bonnie. What the fuck are you doing on this bus? She is about 45 years old, if I’m being generous, and thankfully I’m in a good mood. She carries around a giant camera, wears soccer mom pants even though she has no children, and looks at all of us like we are the exact reasons she has decided not to procreate. However I suspect the real reason for that is the lack of men knocking on her door. And once they do knock, they probably find little children stacked in her over in her house made out of candy.
We do like some other people: A dutch girl who hates the storytelling photog even more than I do. Which is precisely why I like her. A French-Canadian who is pretty cool. We got some new Americans, but it’s definitely the B-team, nothing exciting there. We hang out with our driver a lot because she is fucking awesome. And her most-used phrase is “fucking awesome”. Anyone who uses the word “fuck” 498 times a day is a friend of mine. Today she caught Stina and I making Marcel the Shell and dino growling noises at each other and laughing hysterically (which we do about 47 times a day, on average). She told us she thinks we have problems. She is correct.
I think this bus Company should hire me to give a social interaction class to everyone before they get on. Like a orientation for how to not be a loser. Actually, fuck that. That would be awful for me. Great for the kids, but awful for me. Plus our bus driver thinks (knows) that I’m fucking crazy, so I don’t think they want me rubbing off on anyone.
I can’t end a blog without a little story of Kiwis giving no fucks. We went to a pizza place for dinner with a few peeps. It is actually the same hippy honky-tonk that we drank at last night. Small town. Can’t get a menu or water. Ask 4 times. Get menu and water. Can’t get anyone to take our order. Waitresses walk by and don’t stop when you say “excuse me!?” One of the two waitresses then sits down to have a nice meal. In the middle of dinner service. Other waitress then stops by her table to have a little chat. We finally place order. When food finally comes, we ask for a side of sauce. They tell us that we, their paying customers, have to go ask the pizza oven guy ourselves. They don’t do that. Stina goes to get sauce. They tell her to ask the waitress. She holds her ground and finally gets sauce. This is why the whole “no tipping” thing is not as cool as it looks. Not that Kiwis would give a fuck even if you did tip them. Oh, did I mention the part where someone drives a beat-up 1986 honda INTO the outdoor restaurant where 4 people who I’m pretty sure actually live in the car, together, get out looking like they just came from burning man. Bizarre, right? Who would do something so rude? Something that probably violates about 12 health codes. Oh, just their FUCKING EMPLOYEES. Yeah. Remember high-as-balls bartender from yesterday’s post? He was one of them. Wait, no health codes in NZ. Because THEY DON’T GIVE A FUCK. So yeah, we laughed our asses off through dinner.
Today we had the alarm set for 7am to catch our bus to Raglan. I was up at 6:45 because the prospect of getting out of that dorm room was enough to lull even my subconscious out of sleep. Since I’m sure you are dying to know what happened to the girl from yesterday’s blog, hot mess came home at some point during the night. And very quietly. Thank you, hot mess. You surprised me. And you have evaded a hostel STD for one more night.
First stop on the bus: a completely pointless stop at the main Stray bus office to give us an overview of how the bus works. Why was this pointless, you ask? Because everyone has already gotten themselves on the bus, so it would rationally follow that people already understand how it works. But hey, I’m not in charge (can you see me gritting my teeth even as I type this statement?). We drive out to the office and file in. Some intern gives us a two minute talk with a powerpoint presentation that she probably spent two weeks on. No information was given that my dog could not have gleaned from the website in about 3 minutes. After our little presentation we all stood around, waiting for someone to herd us. I think we all know who that someone ended up being. Now, I did tell myself I was going to “go with the flow” on this trip, but I had a beach to get to. So I began yelling at everyone to get back on the bus so we can leave. Some were pleased that someone, anyone took charge, but most just gave me the “who does this chick think she is?” look. A look I am very familiar and quite comfortable with. I’m knocking on 30 here people, telling me I’m a control freak with a serious lack of patience is not news to me. So, off we went on our way to the beach, with a supermarket stop (our next hostel is BYOB, so really a booze stop) and a quick trip to see a waterfall. The waterfall is named Bridal Veil Falls…because it looks like a brides veil. Unlike every other waterfall in the world. Those lucky kiwis.
Once we got to Raglan two morons on our bus were late because they went shopping on a 10 minute stop and made half the bus late for their surf school. I tell you this because I want it on the record that I did not flip out on them. Just rolling with punches here people. Just FYI, I am starting to think “laid back” is code word for “big giant pussy who doesn’t speak her mind”, but I”m gonna give it some getting used to.
Ok….I took a break in between writing this post and got pretty shit faced. Now where was I? Ah yes, so we headed to the beach just as the sun decided to go into hiding, so we sat on the black sand and laughed at the people during surf lessons. Well, I laughed at them. Everyone else probably just wondered what I was laughing at. Everyone wanted to leave but, of course, no one would say anything. So again I took matters into my own hands an initiated the trip home to the sauna. This brings me to what Stina and I have decided are the three rules of our time in NZ:
1. Always order less food than you think you need because these people are closet fatties.
2. Always buy more alcohol than you think you need. you will understand this in a second.
3. STATE YOUR PURPOSE. This one is probably the most important. Basically, if you want something, speak up and ask for it. And about 95% of the time you’ll get your way.
Now, on to the fun stuff. We went back to the hostel and immediately turned on the sauna. After sauana time, our bus driver cooked us a huge BBQ and we all got drunk. Well, some of us got drunk. I got really drunk. About an hour into our drunk bonding time with what will be our little crew for the next few weeks, our bus driver looked at us and said “you two are trouble”. I think it was right after the manager told us he had more wine for purchased and Stina asked “is it free if she makes our with you?” (point to me) and we were the only two that laughed. To this guy’s credit, I saw a moment of hesitation where he seriously considered it. How could he not? But alas, we have been identified as the trouble makers. Within a day. I can’t say I’m surprised, but we did show our hand rather quickly.
We drank though our measly two liters of wine in a box (sounds better than “boxed wine”, doesn’t it?) rather quickly, as you all who know us can imagine. Luckily, the very nice manager from Boston sold us another three liters. And no, I did not make out with him for it. I paid for my boxed wine like a lady! Boston guy seemed unsure when he stated the price, so naturally I haggled him down a whole $6. He looked at me like I was a fucking nut job for haggling with him on the price of a box of wine. But you know this little jew loves her a good deal. Our team lost trivia night. Primarily because trivia in NZ tends to be all about NZ, which is total bullshit, as I am American and therefore everything should be catered specifically to me. For our credit, Stina owned the question about Bey and Jay-Z’s daughter and I was able to identify Tom Selleck on a page of pictures of guys with mustache’s. I did proclaim “who the hell is that?” at the picture of Joseph Stalin though. Not my best moment. For the record, I would have been able to identify Hitler. Just saying. And this is where everything gets fuzzy. I ran around making an ass out of myself for another hour or so, we initiated a dance party where I probably taught everyone how to “drop it like its hot”, as I often do, and then woke up this morning in my bed with Stina handing me a cup of water and a few painkillers. I have a vague recollection of trying to hook Stina up with the pro surfer staying at our place. And apparently the only qualifications I required was that he, himself, insisted he was pro surfer. As the hottest guy in the room, girls were throwing themselves at him and offering to get him drinks. Stina doesn’t get boys drinks, they get her drinks. So we left him to the hoodrats and their varied STD’s. OMG! Speaking of STD’s I almost forgot to tell you about the douchebag from USC on our bus! So sorry, but better late than never.
He needs his own paragraph. Ok, why is a dude who is in a fraternity at USC (1) traveling alone (where are his “brothers”?) and (2) traveling while school is in session. I have come up with the theory that (1) no one likes him – not even other USC douche lords and (2) he was suspended for a rufie-related incident after which his parents funded his travels to get rid of him because they don’t like him either. But, to his credit, he did get laid at about 8pm. The pair of them came back with some story about a “hike” they went on. That fucker wouldn’t go hiking even if mommy and daddy put his bmw on top of hill, trust me. It was fairly hilarious. Oh, and at the beach he found out Stina was from Manhattan Beach and began to rattle of the names of spoiled frat boys that she may know (because he is really fucking cool and knows everyone you guys). She did not know any of them and I asked “how old are these people?”. “21”. Holy shit. He thinks Stina is 21. And me as well, by association, of course (just go with it, it’s how I sleep at night). Everyone was utterly shocked when they found out how old we really are. I’m not even kidding, genuinely shocked. Score 459 for team Rorina (Rory and Stina…can we do better?). Anyway, Stina talked me into being nice to him for the entertainment, so surely there will be more on this subject to come. We shall henceforth refer to him as Douchey McRich. I’ll probably change that tomorrow to something better, but I’m hungover and that’s the best I got.
It is now 8am and I am on a bus getting ready to go rappel down a waterfall inside a cave – and you all know Rory loves a good cave. And abseiling. And anything else that will prepare me to win the amazing race. And we might have to hitchhike tomorrow for a short stretch at a certain point when we hop off the bus. It’s a kiwi thing dad, don’t worry.
We are currently sitting in an 8 bed dorm room in a hostel (the dumb shits at the front desk fucked up our reservation – which is what happens when the job requirements are (1) a pulse and (2) nope, its just the one). I was originally terrified by the thought of sharing a room with stinky 25 year old boys, but it turns out the boys are quiet, respectful, and tidy. The girls, however, are incredibly frightening. And we just have one tonight. It’s like sharing a room with 19 year old Rory. And Rory at 19 is not someone you want to share a room with. Primarily because that crazy bitch would wake you up every night coming in late, scream down the hall at anyone and everyone, and think “handling her booze” meant puking in a toilet (LIKE A LADY!). These bitches be cray. I’m currently hoping the one we have in our room will slut herself out to whichever boy can afford to keep her intoxicated the longest and just not come back. By the looks of this girl, I think my odds are good. Oh, she also has a giant stuffed animal on her bed. I’m assuming that’s for when she needs to be held after the narsty hostel boys have their way with her. Dream big, girlfriend.
You are probably all a bit confused, so let me take you back in time a few days to explain how we got to this very interesting point in our lives.
Monday, Dec 8
Monday was pretty uneventful, we were picked up by the Stray bus and shuttled North to to little beach town of Paihia in the Bay of Islands. The weather was cloudy and was starting to drizzle when we got there, just our luck. We took the ferry over to the historic island of Russel, which was the first capital of New Zealand. Very quaint. But let’s just saymI can see why they moved the capital. Not much going on. When we boarded the ferry we asked our captain what there was to do and he said “just go have a look around”. Should have been clue #1. It’s this guy’s job to shuttle people back and forth all day every day and he can’t even think of something to entertain. We got some wine and nachos and headed back to the mainland. At this point it was still raining, and we noticed the hot tub was empty. We also noticed the hot tub being cleaned when we checked in a few hours ago. I don’t think I have to explain why it is necessary to actually SEE a hostel hot tub being cleaned with your own eyes before entering. So in we went, joined later by some very nice German fellows who we then interrogated about all the best activities to do and where in NZ to do them. 7pm was the big nightly hostel BBQ (included in our package, along with a free drink). It was absurdly mediocre (not very shocking) but plentiful. Sat around drinking happy hour beers until about 10pm, then off to bed for our 7am pickup time the next day.
Tuesday, Dec 9
This day will henceforth be knows as the day we glued our asses to a very big bus. Lots of bus time. A slightly uncomfortable about of bus time. We were picked up (along with about half the hostel) at 7am and drove for about 5 hours to reach Cape Reigna, the northernmost point in NZ. The rain thankfully let up by the time we actually got off the bus, so we had a hike around the famous lighthouse with some fabulous views (pics included below).
The (first) highlight of the day was sand boarding at 90 mile beach (no, its not actually 90 miles, and no I don’t know why they don’t put it in kilometers. I’m sure it has to do with the entire world’s obsession to be just like us Americans). These giant sand dunes sit right behind a huge and completely deserted beach. There is only one problem with sand boarding – you have to go up before you can go down. What a bitch. We all got boogie boards from under the bus and started with a baby dune to ease into the hiking up sand. The sun chose an excellent time to come out to play, because the only thing better thank hiking up sand is doing it in the blistering sun! Apparently I have quite the knack for sand boarding…I guess 10 years of boogie boarding at Torrance beach was good for something. After a few runs we were exhausted and settled for watching the boys have a pissing contest. After it was time to make our way back and the bus drove for about an hour on 90 mile beach…giant tour bus, just drove on the actual beach. It was oddly relaxing. After a stop for some of the “world’s best” fish and chips (sadly I cannot attest to this, as you know I hate seafood) we were back in Paihia where the rain continued. And then we stuffed our face…again. I’m not sure how New Zealanders don’t rival Alabama for obesity because their food portions are absurd. Or is that Mississippi? Whatever, fat is fat.
Wednesday Dec 10
DOLPHIN DAY! Up at 7am (these early call times are becoming a theme) for our 8am dolphin exploration tour. Basically you get on a boat and spend 4 hours motoring through the [absolutely ridiculously beautiful] Bay of Islands in search of dolphin pods. If there are no babies and the little buggers are in the right mood, you might get to swim with them. I figured with my luck there is no way we would get that lucky. Apparently my luck is changing. Not only did the sun come out for us, we found (1) a HUGE pod of dolphins with two babies, followed by (2) a second smaller pod with no babies that we were able to swim with. Problem #1 – watch out for sharks. No one else seemed particularly bothered by this, so I figured I would just go with the flow (sorry dad). Problem #2 – water was cold as fuck. Stina jumped in, snapped two pics on her go-pro and then turned to me and said “I have to get out”. And off she went. I can’t blame her, it was fucking freezing. I somehow managed to fight off hypothermia, despite being very worried about possibly losing a toe at one point, and found some dolphins to play with. It was pretty amazing. They get extremely close to you and juuuuuuust when you think it might be ok to reach out and touch them, they ghost on you. Those cute little fuckers are fast. Way too much good fortune before noon. The day only got better as we were able to get in a few prime tanning hours before heading back to Auckland. Note: when people warn you about how strong the sun is here, believe them. We are contemplating visiting a burn unit. That’s a lie…we put on some lotion and packed a bathing suit for tomorrow like good Californian girls.
Tomorrow is adios Auckland for good! The Dinos are headed south!