Bum Bags to Kissing Point

What do kissing, souvenirs, mandarin, pigeons,  hookahs, and avocados have in common?

Absolutely nothing.

But … today I joined three friends in exploring some new parts of Sydney. Daniel, Rachel, Tess, and I began our day at the Paddington Markets. They are very similar to the Saara markets in Rio, for those of you who have been there.  Loads of fancy nothings that you think you need in your life, but probably would do much better living without. I debated whether one might benefit from some striped thigh-high stockings, a t-shirt with “I love London” written on it (who doesn’t?), a kangaroo-testicle key chain, dried pineapple, or maybe even a cool leather fanny pack. Actually, the word “fanny” is highly offensive here. Aussies call it a “bum bag.” They like their alliterations, and are much better than we Americans at describing the nature of an object. A slide is a slippery dip. A cup of tea is a cuppa. Cans of beer are stubbies. A bachelorette party is a hen’s night.

Though sorely tempted by all those glamorously essential knick knacks at Paddy’s, I ended up just buying a dress. A dress that apparently looks like a bandana. Maybe this makes me a cowboy. Maybe Eric’s description of my returning to the US with a tan and a hat will come true after all.

After the markets, we ventured to Chinatown, where conversation and eating of coconut danishes ensued. We sat across from one of those Hello Kitty stores where it looks like a flamingo threw up because everything is pink. While we talked about ink wells and The Patriot, a nearby pigeon massacred a dumpling he had found.

It then began raining torrents of heavenly emotional breakdown. Lots … and lots … of rain. With plans for an evening hike severed, we decided to choose a random ferry to ride. The boat to Kissing Point looked promising, so we hopped on. Daniel tried a few lines on Rachel and I about the nature of a place such as “Kissing Point.” In Rachel’s words, the fact that this group of people doesn’t mind being “ridiculous” with each other is a good thing. Kissing Point ended up being this little rocky beach. An old woman smoking a hookah pipe served as the greeting, with a lone fisherman tucked in somewhere behind her on the quiet dock. We spent a bit of time just soaking up the union of rain and sky while meandering through the layers of crushed seashells, before getting back on the return ferry. It was the kind of place that is just simple enough to make you overwhelmed with its brilliance. Especially with the rocks and shore besieged by the rain.  

Later, I was told by some Aussies not to go there after dark.

Our evening concluded with dinner at a pub downtown. I had a chicken wrap with avocado, while Rach and Tess, who seldom get meat at their borderline vegetarian homestay, indulged in lasagna. I don’t remember what Daniel got because none of this is important anyways.

Randomness from throughout the day ....