My primary takeaway from Australia, besides the fact that Australians are some of the friendliest people in the world, is that the bits in comedy movies where Australians sound like they’re speaking a different language are actually not exaggerated.
On my first day in Melbourne, when I was admittedly a bit jet-lagged, someone was trying to sell me something and speaking at a breakneck speed. When my attempts to extricate myself from the conversation proved unsuccessful, I eventually just began picking random answers to questions, which resulted in the poor man being incredulous that I was apparently trying to book something last-minute that was very busy, although I haven’t the faintest idea what.
However, tasting my first aptly named “freakshake,” which had an entire cookie, brownie, jelly roll, and small jar of Nutella on top, along with a boatload of cotton candy (or fairy floss, as the Aussies say), gave me enough of a sugar rush to restore my spirits (and probably start me well on the path to diabetes).
On my second day in Melbourne, I embarked on a tour of the Great Ocean Road, which was hilariously all in Chinese because, being $100 cheaper than every other tour, it was the only one I could afford.
As the only non-Chinese person on the 50-person bus, I spent most of the day in vast amounts of confusion, but the most mystifying part was the beginning. The bus was not parked outside the tour agency, so we had to walk a block or two in our massive group complete with a guide wielding a stereotypical neon flag. When the bus came into sight, suddenly the 50 Chinese tourists (most of who were well into their 50s, and one of whom was carrying an entire watermelon) started sprinting across the road toward the stationary bus. Completely taken aback and confused about why everyone was running to catch a bus that wasn’t even moving, I brought up the rear of the pack. Once half the people were on the bus, it turned out the guide had led us to the wrong bus, so we were soon on our way again.
For the second time, as soon as the next bus was in their sights, everyone began the mad chase across the road, but I was ready for it this time and determined not to be left in the dust. I outran the masses and reached the bus first, but to no avail. As soon as I attempted to board the bus, I was crushed against the side of the bus by the tsunami of people behind me, who took my bag along with them, which was still connected to my shoulder, but they would not let me follow the bag, causing me to crush some other poor person against the side of the bus, with both of us unable to move until the flood subsided.
Highly disgruntled and disheveled at this point, I finally managed to board the bus and resigned myself to a seat at the very back of the vehicle. But my spirits were restored when the bus driver later grew very frustrated at the slow pace of the people exiting the bus (who had most likely already spent all their energy in the spontaneous marathon), and finally started shouting, “Quicka quicka, I closa the bus!!” Despite all the unexpected running, I would highly recommend this tour if you’re as much of a cheapskate as I am.
I spent my last full day in Melbourne in a wildlife refuge, surrounded by the most adorable wallabies and kangaroos that anyone could hope to see, but the train ride back was rather unnerving. A couple in their 30s decided that a train was as good a place as any to get into a full-on shouting match in front of their baby while the other passengers attempted not to make eye contact. The man finally left the train car to smoke out of frustration. The first problem with this is that there is no connecting tunnel between the cars, only the thin metal hitch between each one, which he proceeded to balance on while the train was moving. The other problem is that you’re not allowed to smoke in the train or between the cars, which a voice on the loudspeaker soon informed us. Most likely trying to help, a poor man said softly to the woman that maybe her husband should come back inside, but the ill-tempered man was looking through the window as he smoked, and this caused him to burst back into the train and yell, “Stop staring at my missus!” I thought we were all doomed to end up as police witnesses, but thankfully they soon exited the train without any further altercations.
The last adventure of the day was having dinner on a rooftop bar at sunset, where a questionable man eventually made his way to the table where my friend and I were sitting after trying to get several other girls to dance and being refused. He talked to us for several minutes without asking our names, and when one of his friends came over, he introduced us with names he made up instead of our actual names. Preferring not to go by “Julia” for the rest of the night, I dissuaded his friend from that notion, but the man still kept forgetting our real names, and when he directed the following statement at me: “C’mon, I know you want to dance with me, Julia…. I mean Sarah,” I told him he should go find a Julia to dance with, much to the stifled amusement of my friend.
But we soon forgot this troublesome incident as we came across a massive festival celebrating…. something—it was called the Mooba Festival, but since I’m not sure what a Mooba is, the name is less than helpful. Although I might never solve that mystery (since I know I’ll never be able to decipher the answer if I ask an Australian), I quite enjoyed the festival, which included a carnival, fireworks, and a waterskiing competition, of all things.
Between the Australian accents and the Chinese tours, I may have not known what was going on for most of the trip, but whatever it was, I enjoyed it.
Sarah Anderson 