AUGUST 19-22 PREVIOUS | NEXT | HOME | CONTENTS | ABOUT | SEND EMAIL Art Apartment, Bad Bowling Wednesday, August 19; Noosa - Maroochydore Once awake, we didn't linger long in our room/zoo. We picked up fresh pastries from a bakery and ate a leisurely breakfast on the beach. We browsed in the upmarket shops on Hastings Street and I called my cousin Mary. Mary was another cousin of mine that I had never met before, and I was looking forward to visiting her after we left Noosa. She and her husband Donal, a doctor originally from Belfast, lived in Brisbane with their children Donal, Jackie and Marie-Claire. Donal and Mary emigrated from Ireland to Australia about twenty years ago with their (then) two toddlers. Initially they lived in Dysart, a tiny bush village four hours inland from Mackay in central Queensland. Later they moved to Brisbane, and subsequently bought an apartment in the town of Maroochydore, located a couple of hours north of Brisbane on the Sunshine Coast. Mary travels to Maroochydore in the middle of the week so that she can concentrate on painting, one of her favourite pursuits. She studied art at university and has taught art as a substitute teacher in Australia. I reached Mary in Maroochydore, but she was on her way to Brisbane for the day, so she told me how to find the apartment and arranged for us to get in. At midday, we took McCafferty's as far as Maroochydore, and caught a local bus to a tall residential complex overlooking the ocean. Once we entered the sixth floor apartment, we were presented with an exhibition of Mary's artwork - there were attractive oil paintings, pastels and watercolours tastefully decorating the walls, each bearing her signature. Post-It notes were stationed thoughtfully around the apartment too, inviting us to try the chocolate biscuits, cook some food from the fridge, take the surfboard for a spin. Post-Its also announced the apartment's less obvious quirks - only turn the television on using the switch on the wall, remember to bang or shake the jug kettle to get it to work, and, oh yes, there is an extra surfboard stored in the fire cupboard outside the front door. It felt unusual to be in a real apartment again - for weeks we had been staying in characterless accommodation catering towards the masses, and it I found it very pleasant and homely to be somewhere that exhibited the taste of an individual, a place where valuables did not have to be signed in, signed out, or tied down. I could take cutlery out of the drawer without having to leave a deposit for it. I could put food in the fridge without having to write my name on it. I could fall asleep on the couch and know that I wouldn't be disturbed. The feeling of security without the need for security. The apartment had an open balcony that faced the ocean. We could see surfers bobbing out in the water beyond the breakers, a cluster of black wetsuits that rose and fell with the swell. Occasionally one of them would break away and try to catch a wave into the beach. Sometimes the figure would wipe out and disappear into the surf, but some of the surfers rode waves all the way in with more style than a supermodel's wardrobe. We went for a walk along the beachfront and watched the graceful surfers carve up the water. We lingered by a skateboarding rink just above the beach, laid out with smooth and shaped concrete, pipes, edges and ramps. Kids from six to sixteen exhibited their boarding talents, their brand-name threads, and their shit cool attitudes. Surfers in training. We were really getting into the spectator mood, so we hung around and quietly criticised the kids whose daring moves didn't go as planned. Back on the beach, we remotely criticised real surfers. We continued on to a ten-pin bowling alley behind Mary's apartment complex, and quietly criticised the people playing there too. Not enough power. Too much spin. Not enough backswing. Terrible hairstyle. Convinced that we were better sportspeople than those we had been watching all afternoon, we signed up for a couple of games of bowling. We could have tried surfing or skateboarding, but that would have meant passing up the opportunity to wear the super-fashionable red and blue bowling shoes that came with lane rental. We entered ourselves into the bowling computer as Randy and Suzie (if you had been wearing those shoes, you would have gone incognito too). In the lane next to ours, a couple of teams of young women were getting serious about their game. Strategic huddles, whispers and nods preceded each bowl. Congratulatory slaps, claps, and cheers followed each bowl. There weren't any "Ooh, unlucky!" or "Better luck next time!" consolation comments needed in their lane. Denise (oops I mean Suzie) and I had the monopoly on those. Our bowling balls seemed to be magnetically attracted to the gutters and consciously avoiding the pins. We hit a couple of lucky strikes, but it was obvious that neither of us would make the big leagues. Another dream shattered. On our way out, I peering into the window of the pro bowling shop and wondered at the accessories of the modern bowler. There really wasn't all that much to accessorise with. It was possible to get a custom-coloured bowling ball or a grip-correcting wrist strap. Several styles of bowling ball bag were on offer. A small selection of depressing bowling shoes lined the shelves. That was it. Obviously the world's large sporting good manufacturers hadn't yet discovered the potentially lucrative niche market of ten-pin bowling. I tried to imagine the pro store once this happened - racks of merchandise lining the walls - lycra bowling underwear, team warm-up suits, support belts, heart-rate monitors, Gore-Tex, computerised swing correctors, carbon-fibre ball cores. The mind boggles. We met Mary later on that evening. She was great. She can talk forever though - the only time Denise or I ever got a word in was when Mary paused to drink from one of her chained cups of tea. Loads of Laundry, Suffering Surfing Thursday, August 20; Maroochydore We got up late, with no plans made for the day. That usually meant that we were destined to do laundry. Destiny held true. While Mary worked on her painting in the apartment, we hung out down at the launderette, feeding the machines with clothes and coins and watching the fabrics spin until lunchtime.   Laundry Day. In the afternoon I had a go at surfing. I had taken a lesson when living in Sydney, and thought I might have learned enough to make it enjoyable. I borrowed one of the boards from the apartment and took my surfin' sheila Denise down to the beach. She didn't want to surf, but had agreed to go with me for image purposes. I need not have bothered with image though, for there were few surfers around to impress - the conditions were poor and they had all found something better to do. Even to my untrained eye, the surf looked less than perfect. The waves coming into the beach were of a decent size, but they seemed to be breaking very heavily and abruptly, with all of their momentum being directed downwards rather than toward shore. I was not overly discouraged by this (perhaps I should have been), so I snatched a good luck kiss from my sheila and made my way out through the shallows. I managed to get through the breakers, but my attempts to catch a wave were fruitless. Several times I positioned myself in what I thought was the right place at the right time, but the oncoming wave would just pitch me forward and crash on top of me. I would be pounded violently underwater, the breath knocked out of my lungs, and tossed about like my laundry during the spin cycle. The surfboard underwent its own independent tribulations at the end of my leg rope. I managed to catch and ride a couple of waves inshore after they had broken, but it was like riding the merry-go-round in a theme park full of roller-coasters. After the spin cycle - the smiling exterior masks a heavily battered ego. Spluttering to the surface after each wipe-out, and growing more tired each time, my enthusiasm began to fade pretty quickly. I persevered in the difficult conditions, and managed to surf for a bit on my knees, but my concentration was slipping as I grew tired, and I started to make more and more mistakes. It was taking longer to resurface after each wipe-out, and a couple of times I was slammed so far underwater that I hit the bottom quite hard. When it got to the point where I seemed to be just setting myself up to be knocked down again, I got the message and retired into the beach. Denise, who claimed that she had been watching me, was devastated that since my surfing wasn't worthy of the term, she couldn't respectfully call herself a surfin' sheila. There was little I could do to comfort the poor girl. The rest of the day and evening was without highlight. I got a short, short haircut (low maintenance for travelling purposes) and spent the evening watching tv, chatting with Mary, and drinking tea. Lots of tea, Kawarren style. Too much tea for Mary's overworked electric kettle. The appliance clearly thought that it was being asked to perform far beyond its warranty, and boiled water reluctantly only after much coaxing, jolting, and power cord-fiddling. Torpid Town, Copious Cocktails Friday, August 21; Maroochydore - Brisbane It was time to head south again. Denise and I bought Mary some flowers as a thank-you gift. I had proposed buying her a new jug kettle, but Denise had vetoed the idea, citing it as too practical. Mary seemed to really like the flowers, arranging them carefully in a large and beautiful Waterford Glass vase and promising that she would have a go at painting them. Perhaps Denise was right - I doubt if Mary would have painted a jug kettle. We drove with Mary through the rainy afternoon to Brisbane, the largest city in Queensland, and we checked into a hostel. Brisbane was founded as a convict settlement in 1824 and has since grown to a city of over a million people. Despite its size, the city reputedly retains the atmosphere of an unrushed (some would say boring) outback town. Reports from other travellers and from Mary and Jackie had prepared me for the fact that there isn't a lot for a tourist to do in Brisbane. Mary had detoured into Donal's old school on the way into the city so that we could take a look. It was a impressive and stately-looking place, complete with decorated brickwork, mature ivy, manicured gardens and a large solid-looking cannon in the front courtyard, but the fact that Mary considered the place a city attraction worried me. Later, after wandering around the city centre in the rain for a couple of hours, Denise and I began to understand. Malls and shops are only interesting up to a point. Tourist guides listed the Botanic Gardens as an attraction worth a visit, and somewhere in the city there was a giant pineapple that I had been told was worth a look, but in the rain neither of these options were viable. A cruise on the meandering Brisbane river was rather pointless for the same reason. Museums? Not really - we had neither the patience, the time, the inclination, nor the bus schedules necessary for such an excursion. In desperation, we consulted Denise's normally inspirational guidebook, but even it seemed to be have struggled to fill a few pages on Brisbane. It did say that the attractions in the city are "more social than structural," which we took to mean as "Instead of wandering around looking at buildings, get yourself into a pub and start drinking!" By this time, we had already strolled through the streets and looked at the buildings. Some of them were quite interesting - Brisbane's layout is remarkable in that there are old 19th-century halls and buildings immediately next to high mirrored office blocks throughout the city centre. It was unusual but not unattractive - I liked the contrast. We took the guidebook's advice and arranged to go out for the evening with Jackie and her friend Roger. We arranged to meet them for dinner at a fish restaurant/bar/nightclub next to the river called City Rowers. We arrived on time, but I was refused entry because I was wearing battered Converses and not shoes. The situation looked bad, as my only shoes were in a crate on a ship en route to Ireland, but when I mentioned to the bouncer lady that I was part of a reservation in the restaurant her attitude changed completely. "No problem, just go around to the back entrance." We did, and let ourselves in without any trouble. What I found illogical was that there was open access leading from the restaurant to the bar from which I had been turned away. The bar's dress code may have been smart casual, but the "smart" part of the code obviously didn't reflect on the door peoples' intelligence. As it turned out, we had more company for dinner than just Jackie and Roger. Roger's sister Jenny was there too, and Mary, Donal Jnr, and Marie-Claire arrived shortly after Denise and I. We enjoyed a good meal and good company - I chatted for a long time with Donal, who had taken time out from preparing an important presentation for his university law course to join us for dinner. I ordered a dozen fresh oysters on Roger's recommendation - when not a patron of the restaurant, he is a chef in its kitchen, so I was confident that he knew what he was talking about. His endorsement was well justified - the oysters were so tasty I easily finished my dozen and could have kept going. Jackie, Denise and Jenny slur their way through "I Wanna Hold Your Hand". After dinner Mary, Donal and Marie-Claire took their leave. In their place we were joined by Steve, our now off-duty waiter and a friend of Roger's. We all shuffled upstairs to the bar/nightclub - free to us thanks to the company that we were keeping. The night progressed as nights-out do, with music, laughing, dancing, and the consumption of large quantities of alcohol. Karaoke was proposed as a means of entertainment after we had collectively sunk a couple of rounds of discounted and dangerously strong Long Island Iced Teas. Denise was dragged onto the Karaoke stage by Jackie and Jenny to sing the choral version of The Beatles' "I Wanna Hold Your Hand." I was not really in a fit state to give them a well-judged review, but I thought that they did pretty well. Not to be outdone, I climbed unsteadily onstage and gave my all for Elvis' "Don't be Cruel," complete with my own smooth moves and gyrations. Fortunately for me, there was no film left in the camera by that point in the evening, so no visual (or aural) record exists of the performance. Several games of bad pool later, we were released from the last embrace of Jackie's multiple farewells, and stumbled out through the rain to a homeward-bound taxi. Shallow City, Dimpled Dancefloor Saturday, August 22; Brisbane - Surfers Paradise The Gold Coast. Forty kilometres of uninterrupted beach stretching from a point about an hour south of Brisbane all the way to the New South Wales border. Australia's most popular, most superficial, and most commercialised holiday destination. With a skyline of towering apartment blocks, a gaggle of theme parks, and more shops, motels, bars and nightclubs than a truckload of VISA Platinum cards could handle, the magnificent beaches of the Gold Coast hardly rate as an attraction to the area any more, despite the fact that they provide the only free activity on the Coast. Surfers Paradise is the unsubtle hub of the Gold Coast, and offers the most garish extremes of the package holiday resort at the most inflated prices. The concept of "play during the day, party at night" rules in Surfers Paradise, and the frenzied pace at which holidaymakers rush to relax in the city is only matched by the speed with which local enterprises relieve them of vast amounts of money. The only culture in Surfers is beach culture, and those practising it are just passing through. The closest thing to a museum in the area is a Ripley's Believe-It-Or-Not gallery on the Orchid Avenue Mall, sandwiched between cheap T-shirt shops and fast food joints. Ironically, despite its name, savvy surfers don't even linger in Surfers Paradise, for the best swell is usually found to the north or south of the city. During peak season the beach is crowded, the prices are jacked up even higher than usual, and accommodation is tight. In short, Surfers Paradise wholeheartedly embraces all of the most unappealing characteristics of a resort holiday destination anywhere - I cannot understand why anybody would choose to take a holiday there and I would certainly never visit such an obscene place myself. If Paradise is theirs, shouldn't "Surfers" be "Surfer's"? Denise and I stepped off the McCafferty's bus in Surfers shortly before lunchtime, by which time I had managed to dilute my hangover into a mere mantle of weariness. Denise, who insists that she never suffers from hangovers, also seemed to be lacking a certain spring in her step. We checked into our hostel and walked downtown. The day was cool and overcast, so currents of tourists cruised the malls instead of lying on the beach. We meandered around the malls ourselves for a while. We found two types of shops. One sort sold items that were cheap, tacky and had "Surfers Paradise" emblazoned on them somewhere. We steered clear of those - we didn't want to take home any souvenirs that could possibly link us to the soulless city. The other shops specialised in items or services so far outside our budget that they were effectively invisible to us. Before we knew it, we had walked the main thoroughfares, but seen nothing that warranted further investigation. Ironically, one of the largest resorts in Australia was one of the few places where Denise and I were left with nothing to do. The afternoon drifted past as slowly as the heavy clouds overhead. We found ourselves back at the hostel in the early evening. Colourful chalks on the reception notice board advertised our hostel's evening activity - an organised bar-hopping session complete with discounted cocktails, reduced cover charges and strangely-named DJs. The steaming shower stalls and the painted faces of made-up girls flitting along the hostel balconies alluded to plans for a big Saturday night out. But not for Denise or I. We fell asleep on our bunks as twilight turned to darkness, and didn't get up until long after the excited whispers and hurried footsteps outside had died away. The hostel courtyard was unusually quiet, and the coloured fairy lights in the trees over the patio twinkled in solitude. A few souls watched mediocre television in the lounge, and a pair of rubber-gloved employees wiped down the kitchen for the night. If we were looking for diversion, it appeared that we would have to venture outside the hostel gates. The beach was only a few blocks behind our hostel, so we navigated around hotels and apartment complexes until we hit sand. We carried our sandals and strolled down to the shoreline. The strand was deserted, and only the warm glow from the high-rises illuminated the surf and the shadowy dimples of the sand. The air was refreshingly cool. The sound of the breaking waves was so soothing compared to the gaudy neon in the distance that I couldn't help but feel that we had the best part of Surfers Paradise to ourselves. We danced together, just a little way above the waterline, recalling to memory the steps we had learned during a ballroom class in Sydney. The slow step, the cha-cha, the waltz, even the jive. I hardly stood on Denise's toes at all, a remarkable achievement, and she followed my leads smoothly and confidently. Our dance teachers would have been so proud. PREVIOUS | NEXT | HOME | CONTENTS | ABOUT | SEND EMAIL