My Trip to Sydney, part 1:

So, at least for Massey University, they have an entire week in which to study between the end of classes and the commencement of finals. So, since nobody here ever goes to class/reads the material/knows what they're talking about (okay, so that's unfair . . . to the minority) this week is the week in which one learns an entire semester's worth of knowledge. Naturally, this means that I got a whole week to travel, so I figured, "hell, I'm in the southern hemisphere, I may never get back here, I wanna see Sydney." So I did. This is that story.

I woke up at the crack of dawn (8 o'clock) so that I could catch my first flight from Palmerston North to Auckland. All proceeded fairly smoothly, even the packing. Wait, especially the packing. My parents think that all those years of playing Tetris were for nothing, well. . . Ha, I showed them!

I arrived at the airport to find that a visa was required to get into Australia in one was an American. I had a brief second or three of oh-crap-I'm-an-idiot thoughts before the guy who was giving me tickets told me that he could get me a visitor's visa into Australia-for a modest fee. And thus began an entire day of nickel-and-diming that has been unmatched in my personal experience. Example: Just as I was about to get onto my first flight from Palmy to Auckland I learned that there's a $5 fee for taking a domestic flight in New Zealand. Bam. Five more bucks gone. Then, at Auckland, I learned that there's a $25 fee for the privilege of taking an international flight from New Zealand. My only question is, if they're going to make everybody pay these extortion prices to travel in NZ, why not just include them in the ticket price? Or does that make too much sense?

Anyways, I finally got on my flight to Australia, watched Shooter, the in flight movie, read a Sydney traveller's guide, and after three hours, I could see the city of Sydney from the air.

It's an interesting feeling, knowing that you're about to land in a city, all alone, that has more people in it than the entire population of the country that you just left. Interesting. Customs went almost smoothly too, there was only one hiccup. It turns out that when the guy in Palmy bought me a visitor's Visa, he typed in the wrong passport number by one digit. So, when I was standing in line at the Australian custom's desk, the Asian guy behind the counter typed in my passport number, found that I didn't have a valid Visa, and that I was in his country illegally. Of course, he didn't tell me this for a little while. The only hint I had that something was amiss was when he looked at my passport, looked at me, looked at my passport again, looked at me again, looked at my passport, looked at me and said "you look different than you do in your passport." At this point I had realized that something was amiss, I muttered something about having more hair in my passport picture, and watched as he pressed this large, red panic button on his desk. The lady in charge slowly sauntered over, they conversed in hushed tones for a little while, finally discovering that the number on my visa was but ONE digit off of the number that was on my passport, added two and two together, and finally realized that I wasn't an illegal immigrant. Rocket Scientists.

With that little snafu finally sorted out, I collected my luggage and realized that the next hurdle was yet to come. I had to find my way to my hostel from the airport. Hmmm. Well, I hit an ATM, got some Aussie money, and began walking about the airport, asking random people what the best way to get to town was, when, unapproached by me, a large Indian man offered me a $10 ticket into town via a airport shuttle service. It wasn't a gyp, I knew the service was legit, so I accepted his offer, told him that I wanted to go to Glebe Point YHA, and he said, "sure, oh, wait, it's a Sunday, we don't usually go to Glebe on Sundays. . . but I can take you to railway square." Whatever, I thought, I'm sure I can find my way to the hostel from there. "But if the driver wants to take you there, he can, it's up to him." So I took the ticket, asked the driver if he'd take me to Glebe Point, he said yes, and I got on the bus. About five minutes from then, after I had given him my luggage and had found a comfortable seat in the shuttle, the Indian guy shows up again. He whispered with the driver, and I distinctly heard the words American, Glebe Point, and money. The Indian guy then opens the window and tells me that he has "convinced" the driver to take me to Glebe Point for only and additional 5 dollars. In other words, he found out that the driver was going to do me a favor, and figured that since I was an American, I was rich and dumb, and would thus pay his "discovery fee" of 5 bucks. He just didn't know that I was smart enough to figure out what he was doing. I gave him a death glare, handed the extra five dollars not to him, but to the driver, smiled, and sat back in my seat. That really did kinda piss me off, but it was the last "additional" fee that I would have to pay that trip, so it was okay, if irritating.

I then took the shuttle to my Hostel, checked in with the really nice lady behind the counter, went to my room and took a shower. Not to rid myself of the accumulated detritus of travel, but to prepare myself for the night's outing; I had tickets to the Sydney Opera House! It's been a small dream of mine for a few years, going to the Opera House, and I found it hard to believe that I was actually doing it. So I got all dressed up, asked the nice lady behind the counter how to get to the Opera House, and had her take a picture of me:
Armed with my double barrel power of Sexy clothing and bus riding knowledge, I got on a bus, asked the driver to take me to the Opera House, and sat back for my first view of downtown Sydney. I have to say, I rather liked it. But more about that later, for now, it's all about the Opera House. As I said, it's been a dream of mine to go there (ever since it showed up in the "Where in the world is Carmen San Diego" video game and TV show) and I was slightly overwhelmed with my first view of it. I was giddy, and outgoing enough to ask some nice looking older folks to get this picture:
I then took these pictures, it's just a pity that my camera is truly crappy at night-time pictures, 'cuz the view of the harbor bridge and Opera House at night is truly breathtaking. So I checked in with the ticket guys up front, they gave me my tickets, and I walked into the main room to see the Sydney Symphony Orchestra do a presentation of Beethoven's Emperor Suite and Beethoven's fifth Symphony. How cool is that? So when I entered the main room I took one quick flash picture, I attracted the notice of one of their security guards who informed me that we couldn't take any pictures of the inside of the Opera House whatsoever. Properly chastised, I went to my seat, hid my camera beneath my coat, and took these pictures:

The acoustics inside were amazing. A single, silent cough from one side of the room was easily heard by a person on the other side of the room. Of course, I know this from experience, because I was sick. The person doing those coughs, yeah, that was me. I felt like a bad man. Anyways, the performance was amazing, and, as I walked out of the Opera House in a symphonic daze, I realized that I had no idea how to get back to my hostel, and that I'd left my map in my other pair of pants. Yep. I'm a genius.

This means that I got a really, really in depth self-guided night-time tour of downtown Sydney as I attempted to find my hostel. I knew vaguely where it was supposed to be, but Sydney's a big town, and it is quite possible to get quite lost. Which I proceeded to do with style. Lucky for my, apparently I look rather intimidating or something, because I walked through areas that, if I were a mugger, I would use to mug people: non-existent sidewalks underneath freeway overpasses, abandoned seaside docks, dark streets with no light but the stars, basically all the places that one is supposed to avoid at night. Luckily for me, it was all abandoned. Literally everywhere but the main downtown portion of the city was dead, which made it difficult to ask for directions. One time, when I finally found a cab, as I approached I heard him lock the doors, roll up the windows, and shout "I'm full booked for the night." He then skidded away from me, leaving me with my jaw nearly touching the ground. Anyways, I did eventually find my way to Glebe Point road, and from there to Glebe Point YHA for one (of what was to become every) night of about six hours.

A picture of one of the many water. . . things that they have at Darling Harbor.

Day two continues tomorrow.