Following my (I hope) out of character drunkeness last week, I had the opportunity to witness somebody else's drunken shame on Tuesday. The American gentleman in question managed to pass out at 9pm, was put to bed, climbed into another guys bed, pissed everywhere, climbed into at least two other people's empty beds and then, once he'd regained consciousness, staggering round the room, sighing and trying to start an argument with the guy whose bed he'd been using as a toilet. Not wanting to share a dorm with the smell of piss, me and Bob went for a wander round the block. This wouldn't normally be noteworthy save for the slightly pie-eyed opera singer we came across who had decided to give an impromptu performance on the street corner. Despite obviously being in the middle of a night out she was brilliant and got a standing ovation from us, her friends, the restaurant patrons across the street and the people who'd come to listen her from their balconies. This is the sort of thing that you tend not to get in County Durham and the sort of thing that makes me glad I came.
Having tired of the hostel routine me, Bob and a Canadian lad named Kyle went down Darlinghurst for a change of scenery. Ended up in a rock pub that's more in tune with our collective sensibilities than the high heels and testosterone vibe that predominates in many areas of the cross. It was fun. More importantly it was different.
It's generally agreed that change is a great remedy for any sort of existential funk, such as the one both me and my traveling companion have found ourselves in. It's not escaped my notice that all I seem to have been doing the past couple of weeks is go to work, go to sleep, go out for a drink on the weekend. I made a point of visiting the Gallery of New South Wales on Saturday. They've got a Picasso exhibit on at the minute that I thought might be worth a squint. Unfortunately the overwhelming majority of Pab's work were only viewable by paying money that I don't have. Instead I contented myself with the rest of the gallery's collection. In truth, the pre nineteenth century collection ain't all that, although they have their share of Rembrandts and Rubens etc. The twentieth century collection is much better though and I spent a pleasing couple of hours wandering round. 
There's also a fine collection of work by various aboriginal and Torres Straits artists. I got told off for taking a picture of one. Damn the Man.
Today we went to the Outpost street art festival that's being held on Cockatoo Island. Despite the name, the islands actually a disused industrial complex that can only be reached by ferry. It's a fantastic place to hold an exhibit. Canvases and installations are arranged down tunnels dug through rock, next to rusting industrial machinery, in the centre of empty warehouses and painted directly on to the skin of the complex itself. The art itself is witty, crude, irreverent and chaotic. My previous knowledge of street art doesn't really extend beyond Banksy and that person what does them space invaders and that. They also had ping pong. Cool as pants. Unfortunately, due to laundry related complications, we had to leave after what felt like half an hour. We will be back. And next time we'll bring sandwiches.
That's if I can afford sandwiches. My agency back in England never paid my accrued holiday pay into my account, which combined with a CPP payment that I wasn't anticipating has tipped my English account, which I never intended to look at for the duration of this trip into the red. I've now accrued several hundred dollars of charges, despite not spending a penny from the account.When I'm in charge the bankers will be the first against the wall. Then it'd be me next, for being such a wally and allowing myself to get into this situation.
Love and Fishes
Dave Denton
No comments:
Post a Comment