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 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 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.
I’m currently sitting on my balcony in Queenstown with a view of the Skyline Gondola and about 10 Christmas morning hang gliders trying to figure out where to even begin. Probably due to my hangover. Let me focus. Ok. In the morning we went to Puzzling World, which is basically a grown up version of the McDonalds play place. So Puzzleword has a bunch of rooms with crazy optical illusions and puzzles. In one room you feel like the room is slanted at a crazy incline and can barely walk across it, but when you roll a ball, up is down and down is up.
It’s hard to explain and that probably didn’t quite do it. There is also a giant outdoor human maze. We decided to tackle the Maze with our bus husbands. We figured between two doctors, a lawyer and an accountant (low man on the totem pole) how long could it possibly take? A long fucking time. I can’t believe they put mice through that shit.
I thought Stina was going to break down a wall to get us out. I tried to cheat like 12 times.
Then we were off to Queenstown! The adventure capital of the world. AKA, Rory’s paradise. We passed some beautiful lakes and crystal blue rivers on the way. Fairly standard for South Island. We also passed the 45th parallel, if that is cool to anyone. Doubtful. And then we arrived at AJ Hackett on the outskirts of the city for someone on our bus to jump off a bridge. We were at the famous “K Bridge”, which is the site of the world’s first commercial bungy (AJ Hackett and Co spells it this way, I do actually know how to spell bungee, just not much else).
We didn’t jump, as we were doing the canyon swing in about an hour, but suffice to say we signed up for a jump as soon as we got to our hostel. So pics in a few days! Then we were off to our Canyon Swing! A canyon swing is basically a bungee jump on crack. You are driven up into a canyon and then thrown off a ledge suspended in the canyon and swing through said canyon. Stina and I did a backwards tandem jump together first, to warm up. Then we each did a second swing where you hang upside down and the jumpmaster drops you…when you least expect it. Fucking amazing. Apparently if you jump topless its free. I told the guy 29 year olds can’t do shit like that, and frankly, no one wants to see 29 year old boobies flopping around in a canyon anyway. He asked if I was married. I said no. And he said “oh, then you are fucked. It’s ok for a guy to be old and unmarried, but not a girl”. I told him I was aware and why did he think I was throwing myself off a cliff? Ass hole. Later that night I became 25 again, so no worries.
After our canyon swings we picked up our bags and had to find our hostel. We stopped on the street and asked a girl working in a fish and chips stall where Church Street was. She said she didn’t know and would google it for us. It was the next street over. Literally, the cross street of her place of fucking employment. Stina could not handle the stupidity. I thought she was going to perform an impromptu sterilization right there at the stall. So I must repeat my question from the other day’s post: how the hell do these morons get themselves to work? I wanted to give her a card for my “how to not be loser” seminar, but I haven’t gotten around to printing them up. Bad for business, I know. I’ve been a little busy. We arrive at our hostel to find a lovely private room that basically looks like a hotel room. A little Christmas present I booked for Stina a few months ago. She looked like she was going to wet herself. We then bought a shit load of booze, as they don’t sell any on Christmas day here, and everyone knows that provisioning is always the key to a good holiday. $20 says half our bus will have no booze and be crying about it on Christmas day. The half that are losers.
And then it was FERGBERGER time. If you have not heard of a Fergberger, google it. It’s basically Queenstown’s In-n-out. Their claim to burger fame. The end-all, be-all of food in this fair little city. So we met up with some of our bus mates, queued for about 20 minutes, and settle into burger bliss by the lake. We fully expected to be disappointed, especially after the sad excuse for Mexican food we had the other night. Oh, that reminds me, we have two Mexican girls on the bus, and everyone just calls them “the Mexicans”. When they are late, our bus driver goes “Where are those damn Mexicans?”. She is totally serious. I laugh my ass off every time. There are two other girls who are not Mexican but are really tan and no one can tell the four apart, so we just refer to all of them them as “The Mexicans”. But I digress. Fergberger was the shit. They are literally as big as your head. They do breakfast burgers as well, so naturally that is now on the itinerary. Later at the bar I was so full I had to have one of our bus husbands rub my belly.
It sounds weird…but I’ve had him do it before, after all-you-can-eat pizza night. To a 29 year old overeater, a belly rub is better than foreplay. I can’t possibly be alone is this, can I?
And then it was bar crawl time. Also known as “7pm” here in NZ. And you people wonder why I pass out at midnight every night. 5 hours of drinking is like a marathon for this old bitch. We started at Loco’s where we did our secret santa gift exchange. Thank god one of the A-team people got me, and I was rewarded with rings that you can blow bubbles from ($5 max on the gift – I’m not sure how you can do better than bubble rings for $5, honestly. She outdid herself). These would come in handy later in the night…I’ll get there. Stina got this one girl, Sofie (who we like) a mini nerf gun that you can shoot people with. Basically, the best present ever. Sofie did not agree and was very disappointed. When we were shopping we must have forgotten that Sofie is a real girl and hates all things fun. More for show than go, if you know what I mean. So I gave her one my bubble rings in exchange for the gun and proceeded to put the gun to people’s heads and threaten to shoot them for about an hour. Doesn’t sound funny now. But vodka makes a lot of weird shit funny.
Oh, and someone got stick-on mustaches. Stina and I spent about an hour just fucking around with all the lame presents laughing our asses off. People were confused.
We then moved on to another bar which played non-stop Christmas music and we all danced our asses off for about 2 hours until normal, non-backpacker bus folk started to accumulate. We had a limbo competition using a string of tinsle as the pole. The DJ put up a $50 bar tab to the winner, so you know it was on. Stina, myself, and horse face (not sure I’ve mentioned her before, but her face looks like a horse and her voice is super manly – yes, more manly than mine!) came in second and some no-fun nancy skinny bitch took first. Games like that need to be scored on a sliding scale that take into account your weight-to-height-to-age-to-awesomeness ratio. The bar tab was wasted on this bitch. Later that night there was a competition for who could look the most Christmasy. As the only Jew in the room, I was naturally the obvious choice for our group of friends to thrown their support behind. It was clear that the boring bitch (who already won a game!!) was going to win, as the B-team decorated her, and they are FAR more numerous in number than the A-team and therefore had more Christmas shit at their disposal. So Stina literally stole the Christmas tree from behind the bar and I danced around holding it on my head. It was for sure a winner. But I was basically disqualified for theft.
The one time Kiwis actually give a fuck is when you put a tree on your head?! Come the fuck on! I demanded a recount. My plea fell of the deaf ears of the grinch working the bar. Bastards.
But our luck was about to turn. Because upon returning from the ladies room (where I pissed on a Santa Hat that someone had put in the toilet – zero fucks!!) Stina informed me she had found the hottest guys in the bar. So I did what any 25 year old gal would do…I went up behind them and blew bubbles at their (very tall) heads. As that did not illicit the response I was looking for (which was eternal love) I pushed my way to the bar next to them…the classic whoo girl move, been doing it for years ladies. Works just about every time until you turn 25, and then the effectiveness drops exponentially, much the like viability of your eggs. But it was my lucky night, because it worked. Stina got the hotter one, but I got the younger one. If we are being honest, the younger one got stuck with me. But 29 year olds who pretend to be 25 at bars take whatever scraps they can get. So bring on the 26 year old Sweedish wing-men! Did I mention these hot men were both about 6’8 and BROTHERS. It was a Christmas miracle. The bar closed so we spilled onto the streets and loitered about for a while. The extremely tall and good looking Sweedish men wondered how we knew everyone in town. We mumbled something about a bus but kept the explanation short, as we preferred them to think we were kind of a big deal.
Then, as you all well know, after the party is the after-party. We went back to our luxurious flashpacker suite to pop bottles. Yes, I actually said “lets go pop some bottles”, and yes, the Sweeds thought it was hilarious. So we spend the next few hours drinking Rose Sparking wine, dancing to the Jammy pack, and introducing the Sweeds to the baby dino. No, that is not secret lingo for some weird sexual move. It is literally where I just talk in a high pitched voice as a baby dinosaur. A Pterodactyl, to be exact. At one point my boo decided he also wanted to be a baby dino, so I made him get in the fetal position and then declared him re-born a Velociraptor Dino and instructed him to make whatever noise he thinks a baby raptor would make. It’s about as weird as it sounds. Keep in mind it was 2am and I had already drank every vodka tonic in town. After sufficiently scaring these boys, we sent them home to their parents. Yes, they were on Holiday with their parents. We also invited ourselves to (1) Christmas dinner with their parents, and (2) Their NYE party in Sydney. They don’t want us at either one. Shocker.
So we left off on the evening of December 22. I promised you a crazy party night, as I was promised by our diver that the bar would “go off”. Not the case. I was desperately hoping for some non-backpacker bus people so that I could momentarily be a normal person, but alas it was not in the cards. The Kiwi Experience bus was there, however. Which is basically the same as Stray (the bus we are on), except they average 5-8 years younger and apparently don’t shower. It basically looks like a bus full for kids who make bombs in their basements being sent to reform school. Seriously frightening. Thank the lord we went with Stray. Or I’d definitely have been arrested by now for kicking the crap out of one of those little shits. I called out the Sweedish storytelling photog and told him he was creeping the girls out and to stop taking pictures of them. Someone had to do it. He tried to play innocent, but I know better. There is probably a website somewhere with our heads photoshopped onto naked bodies in some sick bus-fantasy senario. I got in a fight with an 18 year old German boy who I had the strong urge to punch. I decided that was my cue for some Rory alone time (I’ve been doing surprisingly well up till this point). I went to my room at about 11pm just so I could drink my vodka sodas in bed alone and watch TV…because we actually had a TV. Stina stayed out dancing and what not though. I’m going to try to think of something exciting from the night to tell you.
The Dick Docs gave us a little insight into why men desperately need their services. Apparently in Germany, and sadly probably elsewhere, guys stick their dicks in vacuum cleaners. Like, for sexual pleasure. And apparently some of the older models have the motor in the front instead of the back. Ouch. So if you wonder why German men universally have the male-equivalent of the bitchy resting face, it’s probably because they are scarred by getting their penis caught in a hoover. We also learned about swaffling, which is just when you go around slapping shit with your dick. Basically the perverted equivalent of planking. Do we have this term at home? Stina and I informed them that this was typically just referred to as a dick slap. But “swaffling” sounds much more scientific so we’ll go with that from now on. Luckily, we have no swafflers on our bus. Can’t say the same for the kiwi bus. Oh, and I finally realized why I’m single. I’ve been using the wrong pick up lines. So, I’ve decided to steal the best line ever from our bus driver, Lego: “Do you like bread?” And if the answer is yes, follow up with “Do you like garlic bread?”. Because, let’s be honest, weeding out the non-bread eating freaks is imperative. I know my Brother is currently reading this thinking “Rory, you should not be eating bread”. He’s probably right.
We woke up bright and early for our helicopter ride to the Franz Joseph glacier!!! It was fucking awesome. Rory’s first helicopter ride. I can’t believe I’ve been looking for a boyfriend with a private plane all this time (please see section on why I’m single) when what I really want is a helicopter and I didn’t even know it! But seriously, these things fucking rock. We then spent about 3 hours hiking around the glacier. Is it weird that this my second time in crampons in 2014? Our guide was a horrid storyteller – every story he told us ended with something horrid happening. Like the one about the guys who got stuck in an ice cave for 13 days and had their legs amputated…right before we went into an ice cave. And he had a shit eating grin on his face at the end of each story, which was a bit eerie. I think I’m going to have to add an optional storytelling seminar to my social interaction course. The course load for “how to not be a loser” is looking quite heavy. Anyway, we got to walk through this big narrow crevice and go through a little ice tunnel on our bums. For the record, 3 hours on a glacier is about 1 hour to many. But at least we had a helicopter ride to look forward to on the way down. Little travel fact: Helicopter is the only way to reach this glacier, as it is the fastest retreating glacier in the world. In about 90 years it will be completely gone. Some pics for you below!
After our glacier experience we were supposed to go kayaking (you know Rory loves a double activity day) but apparently the water levels were too high and rough, so the trip was cancelled. We were secretly a little happy, as this meant we got to spend the afternoon lounging the hot pools and napping before ALL YOU CAN EAT PIZZA NIGHT.
At about 7pm, we headed over for the pizza extravaganza. Now, the “all you can eat” was bullshit for a few reasons: (1) they bring out garlic bread and fries first, so you fill up on that shit and eat less pizza. I knew their game immediately…but I still ate the fries. I have no self control. (2) After bringing out a bunch of pizzas, they they make you wait 20 minutes in between pizza rounds, so that you have time to realize how full you are…just mean, (3) They give you a free beer, also to fill you up – ok I just realized I’m complaining about free beer, so I’ll retract this one, but you see my point, 4) they have a “last call” for ordering pizza. Now, I’m not saying I wasn’t full. I couldn’t have eaten another slice to save my life. But that shit ain’t “all you can eat”. But alas we are in NZ and in true not-giving-a-fuck fashion if they want to call it “all you can eat” they will. The only other people that seemed outraged by this false advertising were our German husbands. Which is another reason for the “why we love our bus husbands” column.
After all you can eat pizza night was the nightly game where you can win free shit – tonight’s game was the same as last night’s – rock, papper, scissors (Stina gets spelling credit for scissors, thank you Stina). And guess who actually won??? That’s right, little old Rory. All of our bus mates had gone to bed, so it was just us and our husbands there to rep Stray for the game (one of the Dick Docs won last night). There were about 25 kids from the GAP Experience bus. Now, the GAP kids are basically annoying, loud, spoiled, rich British kids who’s mommy’s and daddy’s fund their travels and have not yet figured out that the world doesn’t actually revolve around their twitter accounts. Basically, the Kiwi Experience kids but with money and friends. I could practically smell the Chlamydia emanating from this group. So naturally, I was beyond thrilled when I won, which was probably the only thing in the world that could shut these little fuckers up. We went to bed before they could drink themselves annoying again.
I thought today’s blog would be pretty quick, as this was mostly a travel day. But then the sun went down…and you all know Rory and Stina can’t fight the moonlight. Today we were up at 5:15am to catch the ferry to the South Island. Only good part about being up at the ass crack of dawn is you can rationalize your need for a McDonalds breakfast without feeling like a huge fat ass. That’s a lie, I still felt like a fat ass. Whatever. We slept for most of the ferry ride since we were hungover, and got our new bus once we arrived in Picton. It’s basically a truck with a bus in the back…it’s fucking huge. So it was aptly named “the truck bus” and off we went. It was about a 5 hour drive down to Able Tasman National Park, but we did manage to stop in Marlborough for a little wine tasting. Bubbles were purchased, obviously.
About ten minutes before we got to our hostel, the owners rang (called) our driver and told her that (1) They have Air Force boys staying there, (2) They are seriously getting after it, and (3) last night they all got naked. Oh happy day for us! It was our intention to have a nice kiwi BBQ with our busmates and make it an early night. But alas, plans change. Once we pull up to our hostel, we are greeted on our bus by the owners and one of the Air Force men in a slutty Santa’s little helper outfit. He was the youngest of the Air Force guys and being hazed. He reeked of booze. Beer pong was happening. I should have known then what we were in for….
The hostel is pretty sweet – lots of outdoor space and fire pits, beach view. However 2 problems: First, the owner is total bitch. I’m talking serious see you next Tuesday shit here people. I almost flipped out on her at check in but thought it would probably be best not to get kicked out on night 1. Second, our room is a glorified tuna can. Literally. It’s a box. With a sliding glass door and two beds. And nothing else. No fucking electrical outlets. And this was the upgrade. Oddly enough, the dorm rooms do have electrical outlets. Because that makes sense. The people that pay you more should naturally have less amenities. Again, they just don’t give a fuck.
So our driver, Lego, cooked everyone a BBQ and Stina and I downed a few bottles of wine. A few of the other gals told us we didn’t have a choice and had to come out…we are easily persuaded so we started to hit the beer. And then the lovely gentlemen of the NZ Royal Airforce came to play. They were all three sheets to the wind by that point, which made it all the more fun. Stina and I found our two boyfriends for the night. Or rather, they found us. They informed us that they were on some sort of “team bonding” outing where they do shit like mountain biking and kayaking in the morning and then just get totally fucked up all day and night. On their last bonding adventure, they went “Tramping”. Stina and I giggled and explained that tramping essentially translates to whoring. To clarify what tramping entails they said “we went bush walking”, at which point we burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, for obvious reasons. It took them a minute, but they got it. It doesn’t sound funny now as I am typing it, but I swear it was hilarious. Trust me on this one.
After about 3 hours of drinking, we headed down to the bar with boyfriends and a bunch of the others. Oh, the bar. I was at a loss for how to explain this bar to you all, but don’t worry – it came to me. If Toby Keith and Bob Marley got together and opened a bar in NZ, this would be it. Oh, and it was open mic night. So all the freaks came out to play. The bartender was high as balls, so drinks took forever. I’ve seen glaciers melt faster than that guy poured a whiskey coke. One of the Airmen had a hat made entirely of glowsticks, which I stole within about 3 minutes. Ok so this is where it gets weird…you knew it was coming. This weirdo who had just hopped on our bus today was blacked out of his mind and walking around the bar trying to fondle all the Air Force guys. I’m talking like, full on dick grabbing, sitting on their laps, trying to kiss them. It was fucking hilarious. Now, you pull that shit on bunch of guys in the Air Force at home, you get your ass kicked. But – say it with me people – Kiwis don’t give a fuck! About anything! Not even some drunk weirdo trying to fondle them in a NZ honky tonk. They were shockingly nice to him, actually. Until Stina informed the weirdo that the boys were going to get naked later and they leave their door open when they slept. Weirdo’s eyes lit up, I died laughing, and the Air boys looked terrified. What else….oh! So remember a few posts ago when I was talking about how I wanted to bite that guy’s arm? Well. Yeeeeeeah. I bit a dudes arm. It was big and muscular. And I don’t know what got into me…probably all the arm biting talk Stina and I have had in the past few days, but I bit him. Not too hard. Twice. He was generally baffled, as one can imagine, but in true Kiwi nature zero fucks were given. Oh, then boyfriend got jealous so I had to bite his arm too so he didn’t feel left out. I’m so selfless.
The bar closed at midnight or so, probably so the staff could go get high. So back to the hostel we went and more beers were had. At this point it was just Stina and I and boyfriends left by the fire pit chatting. Boyfriend was starting to get the look in his eye. You know the look I’m talking about ladies. The one were they are contemplating how best to make their move. Sometimes the look reads like desperation, sometimes it looks pathetic, and sometimes (if you are lucky), it’s confident. This one was probably a mix of the first two. I took this as my cue to go to bed, and off I went. Stina said he was very sad. I would be too. I’m pretty awesome. Oh, you may be wondering why I did not want to make out with Air man…well, two reasons. One: not hot. Very nice. But not hot. Two: I found out over the course of the night that he isn’t actually in the air force!! He is their trainer! Wrong move boyfriend, the Air Force thing was the only card you had to play, and you tossed it. Stina followed to bed shortly after me, after her boyfriend asked her to “go for a walk”. We know what that shit means here. No thank you, sir.
Up in tomorrows post: I’ll give you a run down of the new bus characters and SAILING!
Yes, that is the title of my blog today. Because it basically made my week. This is what girls staring down the barrel of 30 dream of. I’m not saying he was the brightest bartender in the world, but I’ll take it. I guess that is my reward for putting on mascara for the first time all trip.
So, not much to tell from yesterday other than some drunken fun…but thats what you all like to read about anyway. So here goes. We left Mordor, but the scars of the hike still remain. I think I have PTSD to be honest. Some moron tried to steal my seat on the bus – she learned really quickly that was a mistake. We drove to Wellington, stopping along the way to have a little gumboot throwing contest (gumboot = rain boot). It’s like a thing here. You chuck a rain boot down a gumboot throwing lane (yes, they have actual areas in parks designated for throwing boots) and whoever gets it the furthest wins a free drink. We did not win. But anyone who saw me play softball when I was 12 could have guessed that. We also watched The Hobbit on the drive. What a stupid fucking movie. Has Peter Jackson never heard the phrase “quit while you’re ahead”? It was like watching a movie made by really rich 12 year old boys who just figured out how to masturbate…and think dragons are cool.
When we got to Welllington is started to rain. Too bad it didn’t rain the day before, because then we wouldn’t have been able to hike. I mean, no one would have stopped us (you know, since Kiwis don’t give a fuck if you die on a hike that you have no business being on) but I’d like to think I would have had the good sense not to go in the rain. Since I typically don’t get out of bed in the rain. I got a pedicure. The nail ladies were Vietnamese (shocker) and the moron in the chair next to me kept asking them if they were Chinese. “Is that Chinese you are speaking? You are from Vietnam? What language do they speak there?”. Someone please buy this bitch a bowl of Pho.
After that we did what we do every day day that it rains – start drinking early. All of our peoples from the bus were shuffling in to the bar and we settled in for a long evening of doing what we do best. Stina and I put down quite a bit of beer before the beer pong tournament began. If I’m being honest, we did not fare well. Probably because its been a while (you all know I prefer flip cup) and they were playing with only three cups. So just when you are getting warmed up, its game over. I talked the guys who ran the bar into flip cup (again, shocker), and he decided it should be a fucking 40 person game. I never even got to flip, because some Dutch skank took about 10 minutes to flip a cup upside down. Are they too busy prosecuting international criminals to practice their flip up over there in Holland? Priorities, people. Please. But she was hot, so none of the boys minded the fact that she caused us to lose to a bunch of horny undergrad skanks from Minnesota on a study abroad trip. It was painful. I yelled. Those same skanks kept shaking their boobs at the beer pong table to distract the guys. Well played girls, well played. Prob would have worked better if they had gone through puberty first. But you know boys, they’ll take what they can get.
The night basically turned into a big dance party. They let you dance on tables at this bar, so obviously Rory was a happy camper. I also cleared out the entire length of the bar area so I could dance to Footloose. Because I kick that song’s ass. Single Ladies came on – thats where it got ugly. That’s where it ALWAYS gets ugly. Ugh, why do I think I can dance when I get the drink in me?
The same bartender who needs a refresher course in radiometric fossil dating tried to hold my hand while we were dancing. A lot. It was weird. If I was a bartender, holding hands would not be my go-to move of choice. But I didn’t say anything – because everyone know you don’t piss off your bartender. After about 6 hours of solid drinking and way too much dancing, the clock stuck midnight. With a 6am ferry to catch the next morning, we headed to bed. Let’s be honest, I would have gone to bed either way. Even 22 year olds need their beauty rest.
Most people on our bus hopped off in Wellington, so we’ll have quite a few new people once we get to the South Island. Ring-a-ding is gone, Face is gone, Spaak is gone (we are actually sad about this one), American boys are gone, and our favorite British couple is gone. However, we still have our kick ass bus driver. But there is a silver lining here – new people for Rory to make fun of. Get ready.
The day was pretty uneventful. We were supposed to skydive, but mother nature had other plans. It rained most of the day. So we left our lovely lakefront retreat and made our way on the Stray bus to the Blue Duck Station in Whakahoro National Park (codename: Jurassic Park). On our way we stopped in a hot river and everyone jumped in while it was raining. Changing on the side of the bus on a highway in the rain was fun. Not.
Tonight is party night. Yes, another party night. But we have a free day tomorrow and don’t have to actually get on the bus, so hell yeah, let’s rage. You know it doesn’t take much to convince me. Today we chose our own rooms again, and again I found the best room (read: least amount of beds) and grabbed our favorite British couple to room with us. No 12 bed dorm for this bitch . But seriously, there was a 12 bed room. I would have died. Thankfully Stina and I are cunning and efficient. Two traits most of the people on this bus are in desperate need of. Bless their hearts. So let the party commence.
Our bus driver informed us that it was some Irish chick’s birthday. As if I need a reason to pop a bottle in the woods. Now you are probably thinking, how nice Rory, buying some rando girl a bottle of champs. FALSE. That shit is for me. You are a grown ass woman, buy your own champs. Besides, I think that chick went to bed at like 9pm. Stina and I made it till about 6:30 before we cracked that baby open. Then on to the bottle of Rose. And then the beer. We are halfway to drunksville, but the “party” was just getting started, so we headed over to the main cabin to start the festivities. I use quotation marks there because, as everyone knows, the party don’t start till I walk in. I yelled something like “who’s ready to rage?!” in true California whoo-girl fashion when I reached the group of sad souls nursing their beers. Everyone had the same look on their face: here she goes again. We are known around here as “the American girls”, or “Team America” when we are lumped with the three other Americans on the bus (one of whom is USC boy, who’s name I changed to Ring-a-ding kid – story about him to follow). I’m pretty sure it was my fault we were labeled as the crazy kids, but the rest of my team has not disappointed in helping the stigma stick. One of the American boys backed out and ate everyone’s food. Like, everyone’s. He was quite the pariah the next day. God I think I laughed my ass off for hours. The loud Americans are at it again. While most people are referred to as their country (the Dutch girls, the Frenchies, ect.), Stina and I have formed a different naming convention. We have “face”, which is the Canadian girl with the most severe case of bitchy resting face I have ever seen in my life. It’s bad. We had “Hair”, who was an American chick with the world’s worst haircut. Like when Felicity cut her hair and I died a little inside. We also have “Spaak” who got his name because one of the Frenchies told him he talks like Spaak from Star Trek and I laughed my ass off because is it was true. He calls me Sheldon, because he says I talk like Sheldon from BIg Bang Theory, too fast and he can’t understand me. The insult implied in likening me to a lovable genius must have been lost in translation.
But I digress. Things just get better when we find, in the middle of fucking Jurassic Park, a BEER BONG. Happy Hannukah to me. Most people are clueless as to what one does with a beer bong. I took it upon my myself to teach them, always a slave to bettering and education of others. So selfless of me. Then I broke out my vodka (we are on booze type #4, please keep up people), and thats where things start to get fuzzy. Stina enters a little axe throwing competition with the boys where she holds her own, I must say. Only in NZ do they start you a bonfire let you BYOB, then provide the equipment necessary for axe throwing. Unsupervised. One thing leads to another and Stina and I find ourselves taking shots of whiskey with the American boys. Shocker. Booze #5 – I promise thats where it ends. Now, my brother Brett told me a few days ago that he was giving me 5 days to roll my ankle, and taking the under. He knows me quite well, because tonight I roll my ankle. And I was partying in my sneaks to be careful! But it’s not too bad, just a little sore and I”m up and walking the next day. I spend the rest of the night drunkenly staring at the insane stars out here. Unlike anything I have every seen in my life. Little did I know, this place gets even more beautiful, as we would find out tomorrow, just around the river bend….
Monday, Dec 15
Today I woke up around 9 while pretty much everyone snoozed till about 11. Mother nature is back on our side and it is a beautiful day, hot with the sun out in full ozone-free force. I took advantage of the quiet morning by making myself breakfast and working on my tan. Then it was time for our kayak tour. Now, I use the word “tour” very loosely, because in NZ a tour usually consists of someone providing you with equipment and a few minutes of instructions before pointing you the right direction and saying “go”. See, when no one can sue anyone, no one gives a fuck. And I mean, no fucks given. Seriously, zero fucks given in all of NZ at any given point in time. It’s pretty awesome. So we set off in our kayaks down what was the most beautiful river I have ever seen. Go pro battery died, so we’ll have to wait for the hungry American boy who ate everyone’s shit to send us his before uploading. This is where I decided to name our lovely little two day home Jurassic Park. Because that is exactly what it looked liked. And while kayaking I felt just like Pocahontas. And what is Pocahontas without John Smith? Our “guide” (read: dude who threw our kayaks in the water) was seriously hunky and had fabulous arms. Huge, muscular arms. I told Stina I wanted to grab them. And maybe even bite one. I really did. Probably should have, because it’s not like he could have sued me. It was really funny at the time and we laughed our asses off the entire jet-boat ride back up the river. But now that I’m typing it I think it makes me sound like a predator. So I’ll stop. Anyway, the kayak trip we did down the Whanganui River was a section of what is one of the “9 Great Walks of New Zealand”. Yes, I realize it’s actually not a walk. But Kiwis give zero fuck’s, remember? So if they want to call it a walk, then its a damn walk.
The rest of the day was pretty mellow. We have to be on the bus at 6am to drive to National Park for a 7 hour hike to Mordor (as in Lord of the Rings – we are literally hiking there). It’s another one of the 9 Great Walks. And this one is actually a walk. I do have one funny little story before I wrap this one up. I was outside talking to Ring-a-ding kid (Stina told me to be nice, remember?). And he told me that when we all get back to the States I should come party at his frat house. Yes, that’s right people. 29 year old Rory was invited to a frat party. I about died. I told him that I can’t think of anything I want to do LESS than go to his frat house. I think he thought I was joking. But if I’m being honest, the sorority girl in me did hesitate for a second. But then I figured that their frat party wouldn’t even start until after my bed time, so what’s the point. Oh shit, he literally just asked for our contact info for facebook. If you are reading this, Ring-a-ding, a little self awareness is healthy. Accept it. And if it makes you feel better, I’m sure I’ve been described as the obnoxious American in many people’s blogs the world over.
Tomorrow, the hike from hell (or to hell, I guess) with a sore ankle. Can’t wait.