Astoria, Portland, United States

Goonies Never Say Die – A Goonies Tour of Astoria

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The Celica cuts through the early morning mists that shroud Lewis & Clark National Park’s towering pines as I drift in and out of sleep. Besides me, my girlfriend taps along with the tune of Paolo Nutini’s Candy and takes in the chill fall air.

Despite being half asleep on account of our early morning start and a filling breakfast of amazing Noah’s Bagels with a jalapeno shmear, I’m also excited like a kid on Christmas morning. Just an hour from now I’ll be standing in beautiful Astoria, home of the legendary Goonies.

Jalapeno bagel from Noah's
The best bagel I’ve ever had

If you’re not a product of the 80s you might not recall Stephen Spielberg’s delightfully dark children’s film about buried pirate treasure, evil real estate developers, and a lovable mongoloid by the name of Sloth. Some of my earliest memories are of watching the funny and sometimes scary 80s classic, and the opportunity to explore the town in which it was filmed was too good to refuse when I was only an hour away in Portland.

There is no official Goonies tour, but I’d done a little research and managed to piece something together for our little day trip.

And as our car pushed on down the winding and damp roads, I was reminded of the scene in which Mikey’s brother, Brant was thrown off of the road while attempting to ride a pink bike…

The Goonies House

Goonies house
Standing beside the sign welcoming Goonies

The first stop on our Goonies tour was also the most important – a chance to stop by the house where the infamous Truffle Shuffle was danced.

Despite it being midweek for our trip, we weren’t alone in fighting for a parking spot on the surprisingly crowded suburban street. We passed a handful of smiling tourists on our way towards our destination. Clearly we weren’t alone in our pilgrimage.

Located at 368 38th street, the legendary Goonies House lays at the head of a steep driveway where a sign welcomes all Goonies who wish to come by and pay a visit.

The house is owned and used as residence these days, so unfortunately you can’t go inside to check it out, but you’re still able to stand out front and pose for photos as long as you respect the owner’s privacy.

The place doesn’t look quite the same as it did in the movies, obviously. The elaborate gate opening mechanism isn’t there and the front drive isn’t the same one down which the Goonies ride in search of pirate treasure. But there’s a kind of magic standing in the spot where one of your childhood favorites was filmed.

Data’s house is located nearby at 370 38th street if you want to check that out too.

The County Jail

Our next port of call was the county jail from which the Fratellis escape during the film’s opening sequence. I found myself humming the memorable Goonies theme song as my Goonies tour rolled on.

goonies county jail
Standing out front of the County Jail

The jail, no longer used to house prisoners, is located at 732 Duane Street. Again, you’re not able to go inside, but you can still pose out front in the same space where a circle of fire allowed Mama Fratelli to bust her kid out of jail. Pretty cool.

The Museum

flavel house museum

It doesn’t play a huge part in the movie, but I also took the time to swing by the museum where Mikey’s Dad works in the movie. It features for all of a second in a scene where the Goonies ride through town, but it’s located nearby at 441 8th street and is actually a museum in its own right by the name of George Flavell House Museum.

We opted not to fork out to venture inside due to our tight budgets, but you can find out more about the museum by checking out its website (linked above).

Haystack Rock

The last location that I’d hoped to hit on my tour was Haystack Rock – which plays a pretty crucial role in the movie but is actually located some miles distant at Cannon Beach.

It’s only about a 35 minute drive, but our day couldn’t be all about my Goonies tour – we were off to Seaside to have a wee bit of clam chowder and saltwater taffy.

Relationships are all about compromise.

All Done!

It’s something special to make a pilgrimage to a site that holds some kind of significance to your childhood self. Whether you’re heading to Forks because you’re obsessed with Twilight or you want to do the Seinfeld tour in New York – we all get a kick out of walking on ground that we associate with a younger, happier, or better time in our lives.

A Goonies tour is a fun day trip out of Portland and it’s also a good excuse to explore beautiful Astoria. I’ll have to share more of my trip there with you in a future entry.

Australia, Sydney

An Aussie Bucks, Part II: Old People and Strippers

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You can read about the rest of our bucks party adventures in Part I of this story.

Partying with the Elderly

old australian veteran

A bus full of drunk Australian lads rattles its way back up the winding road away from Bobbin Head in Mount Kurin-gai National Park. Our four eskies full of beer have been reduced to a lonesome collection of Oettinger and Sol – not exactly the beer of kings.

The dire beer situation forced a stop over in Asquith to pick up some much needed refreshments. A duo of Tooheys Extra Dry cartons and a Hahn Super Dry carton were piled onto the bus and we ushered a few of our less adventurous (or more catatonic) companions out of the bus and onto a train bound for their homes.

Our lunchtime BBQ had become a distant memory to our famished stomachs, and so we wound our way through crowded streets and pulled up out front of the Asquith Leagues Club.

Our motley crew made our way through sign in while I regaled the security guard on hand with the tale of how my wallet was stolen on Christmas Eve while I was at midnight mass.

“God was angry,” I informed him, “Somebody’s going to hell“.

Behind me the second half of our group – split up so as not to arouse suspicions that we were a rowdy bucks party.

“What the hell are you guys doing lurking back there?” I slurred drunkenly, completely dispelling the carefully constructed illusion.

“Do I know you?” the best man asked, hoping I’d take the hint. I did not.

“Jesus,” I complained to the security guy, “You give a guy syphillis one time and he treats you like a total stranger“.

I then wandered off in pursuit of a beer and a pretty barmaid, leaving the security guard to inform my friends that this was “the best sign-in ever”.

Hold your applause folks. I’ll be here all night.

Our time at Asquith Leagues was not particularly exciting. While the girls at the bar seemed to appreciate (or at least smile indulgently at) our feeble attempts at flirting and our enthusiasm for our bistro meals when they were brought out, the average age in the place would have been 55+. Not exactly a happening night spot for a bunch of guys looking for a good time.

And so it was that we clambered back into the bus and went off in search of women of lower morale fibre…

Showgirls and Bucket List Item #169

man and a stripper
Another shot of another stripper from another bucks night

The trip into the city was a bit of a blur for me. Truth is, I fell asleep for much of it. Being up since 5am and being drunk certainly aren’t conducive to wide eyes no matter how much [V] energy drink you slam down your gullet.

But soon enough we were in Sydney’s beating heart of sin and excess – King’s Cross.

Walking down the garishly lit streets put me in mind of my time in Las Vegas. Impossibly good looking girls poured into revealing dresses strutted past chattering loudly about some boy they’d met or how their hair-dresser was the absolute best in the world. Men reeking of cologne and beer staggered past telling tall tales while security guards eyed all of us impassively from their stations out front of various clubs, bars, and strip joints.

For some reason we were relying on one of the two gay guys in our party to find a strip club. He opted for Showgirls and the men at the door were only too happy to usher in a bunch of drunk guys. We forked over our $25 entry fees, paid through the nose for $9 Coronas, and settled into a booth that put us a little too close to one another

No man wants an erection while rubbing shoulders and knees with his compatriots.

At some point during the night – just as I was contemplating going home – a cute looking stripper with pig tails and obviously fake boobs made a show of ‘bumping’ into me.

“Oops!” she giggled as she rubbed her chest along mine, “I’m so clumsy“.

She had glitter around her eyes.

“I’m Taylor,” she said.

It’s the oldest trick in the book, but damned if it didn’t work.

Ten minutes later I’d forked over $100 for a private dance and the opportunity to check item number 169 off of my Bucket List.

#169 – Get a lap dance in a strip club – Done.

 

Sorry kids, no photos.

Once my dance was done it was time for me to make tracks. I had work in the morning and my long day had taken its toll. I said my goodbyes, got a kiss on the cheek from the lovely ‘Taylor’ as I left, and staggered back to Central Station for the ride home.

It was – as all bucks are – a thoroughly enjoyable and exhausting day. And a tad expensive as well.

And while the ‘no camera’ policy does mean I don’t have any good photos of the day, the groom-to-be was kind enough to text me this cute number to send you out with a smile.

 

A man in a dress and camos
The groom-to-be all dolled up for laser tag
Australia, Sydney

An Aussie Bucks, Part I: Laser Tag and Beach Cricket

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It’s true that what happens on a bucks night stays on a bucks night, so I’ll not be mentioning any names or reporting any crimes in this one – but I couldn’t let such a fun and varied day pass without sharing a few of my own adventures and observations with you.

Alas, the bucks had a strict ‘no cameras’ rule, so you’ll have to make do with a few random photos that loosely fit what I’m talking about.

The Journey

I wake before the sun has begun its ascent. The air is cold and outside I can hear the first spatters of rain as they strike the branches that shield my window from the morning sun I’d usually wake too.

I wash the sleep out of my system in a too hot shower, throw my backpack over my shoulder, and walk out into the grey half light of a miserable Saturday morning. A few dog walkers and early morning joggers are my only company as I wander up to the bus stop and wait for the 426.

I strike up conversation with the shift worker sharing the bus shelter. He marvels at my kindle as I try to find a new book to read. I eventually settle on Jeff Long’s post apocalyptic Year Zero. It’s fitting company for a dreary morning.

Cloudy sky in Sydney

I get off the bus at Railway Square, walk through the claustrophobic tunnel that links Railway Square to Central Station. Already the place is abuzz with activity. Where are all of these people going at 6am on a Saturday morning?

A ninety minute train ride takes me from the heart of Australia’s largest city to the mist shrouded forest suburbs north of Kuring-Gai national park. The air is still cool at 7.30am and the rolling waves of mist and rain have chilled me to the core by the time I’ve crossed the road and ducked into the bakery to grab a breakfast of a sausage roll and a Oak ice coffee.

A dirt stained bus rattles to a halt in front of the liquor store across from me. Our wild haired driver stubs out a cigarette as I approach.

“You must be Chris,” he greets me as I step into the bus and come face to face with eight complete strangers. Introductions are made and I settle into the nearest free seat.

The bus lurches out onto the highway again and soon we trade carefully tended suburban lawns for breathtaking views of the Hawkesbury River and thick Australian bushland. Ribald stories begin to filter their way down from the back of the bus as a bladder full of vodka cranberry is passed back and forth.

Our bus pulls off of the freeway and bumps and rattles down a narrow road that eventually gives way to dirt. We’re afforded occasional glimpses of the world below through a thick curtain of mist that has filled the valley we’re descending into. The tell-tale hiss of a beer being opened starts me awake as I hang halfway between sleep and consciousness.

Soon we pull up out front of what we assume is First Strike Laser Tag. The morning air is laced with the sickly sweet stink of horse manure.

Another car pulls up and we collect a few more revelers. The owner of the ranch informs us that we’re not in the right place.

We head on farther down the road and eventually find ourselves in a broad clearing. Water clings to the knee length grass and sleepy campers emerge bleary eyed to greet the day.

We pile out in front of a pair of cargo containers with a tarp drawn tight between them. A man in camos stands behind a table laden with weapons.

It’s time to do battle.

 

laser tag man
Laser tag at a different bucks partu

Legen…wait for it… dary Laser Tag

The groom-to-be’s vetoing of paint ball meant we went with the slightly less macho alernative when it comes to running around shooting your friends and pretending to be bad-ass army soldiers.

First Strike Laser Tag, based halfway between Hornsby and Gosford, specializes in providing an alternative to paintball without sacrificing too much of the experience.

Our battlefield would be a stretch of woodland criss-crossed with hiking trails and fire roads.

Once we’d been briefed and had weapons assigned, we pulled on our camos and were split into two teams – imaginatively titled ‘Team One’ and ‘Team Two’.

Our first mission, a straight out skirmish designed to familiarize ourselves with the weapons, saw my motley crew edging cautiously between gum trees and stepping too loudly over logs. Little did we know that our travels were attracting the attention of a few hungry locals – mosquitos were finding purchase on bare skin while leeches snagged on socks and crawled up to where ankles were unprotected.

Some of us played a cautious game and lurked behind trees while others careened wildly into the midst of our enemies and saw their lives erased in a matter of seconds. A few more enthusiastic members would slide down hill, roll into cover behind logs, or crawl forward arm over arm as if standing up would draw lethal gunfire.

The poor groom-to-be found himself an easy target in his white evening gown.

Our team carried the field and then it was time to pluck off leeches and launch into a pair of VIP games. One team would escort a member of their team towards a heavily guarded flag which the others were charged with defending.

We did not fare well. In fact, four of our five team members were back sipping beers under cover before ten minutes had passed. Somehow, inexplicably, our loudest and least athletic member just happened to be our VIP and made a last second dash for the flag. Tumbling down a hill like the boulder in Indiana Jones, he somehow managed to avoid being shot and crashed into the flag.

We had stolen victory!

giant beer sydney
My mate Dave sucks down a giant beer at the Lowenbrau in 2010

Two more games and two more victories follow, and then it’s time for celebratory beers and a welcome reprieve from the constant drizzle that had soaked through our camos and ensured every one of us reeked of sweat and damp.

War stories were exchanged and leeches were picked off of ankles and wrists and necks before being stubbed out on the end of angry cigarettes.

And then, bellies full of beer and little else, it was time for lunch.

Cricket, Skinning Dipping, and a BBQ

Our next stop, after a brief layover at a BP to restock on Red Bull and beer, would be the shores of the Hawkesbury River at beautiful Bobbin Head in Kuring-Gai national park. Eskies were toted down to the waterfront and the BBQ was fired up for a traditional lunch of snags (sausages), steak, and onions on white bread.

It doesn’t get much more typically Aussie than that.

beer near the river
Good beer. Different river.

While some of the boys stripped down to their shorts and braved oyster cuts by wading into the river, others set up the cricket stumps and began an impromptu game of cricket.

We were soon joined by a trio of Indian-Australian kids who put our increasingly drunk party to shame with their bowling form and fielding. Most of us were reduced to throwing arms hopefully in the direction of fast moving strikes or batting with one hand while the other held a beer.

inflatable penis bucks night
Shenanigans at my mate's bucks in 2010

We’d started out drinking Tooheys Extra Dry and Hahn Super Dry and had somehow been reduced to sipping tins of cheap German swill and flavorless Sol from Mexico. Hell, one of our party resorted to polishing off the better part of a bottle of Ouzo on his lonesome.

By this point the rain had given way to overcast skies and the beers had well and truly taken their effect. I managed to faceplant in attempting an ambitious run up for a bit of pace bowling.

After that, I decided to stick with spin.

It was 4pm and the day was young. The buck had yet to complete half of his Buck-Et List and we’d not touched on the more debaucherous aspects of a bucks weekend.

But that was set to change…

chris and stripper
Oh hi, I'm a stripper. I wonder if I'll feature in the next entry?
Idaho, United States

Riding the Route of the Hiawatha

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A Good Companion

One of the things I’ll always remember fondly about my two year relationship with my ex was the way she always kept life interesting. I’ve spoken in the past about what makes a fantastic travel companion and one of those traits, to me, is the ability to find fun in a variety of things.

During the course of my time with my ex, we went on a whole bunch of random adventures. Some of them, such as rock and roll dancing lessons or taking surfing lessons in Manly weren’t for me. Others, such as running the City 2 Surf or learning to scuba dive are things I loved and still do to this day.

A couple on the route of the hiawatha
Posing at the Route of the Hiawatha in 2009.

We went on a Portland Brewery Tour, hung out in Vegas, camped on a miserable Korean island, discovered the brilliant Hart’s Pub, took a photography course in The Rocks, climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge, hiked in the Blue Mountains, did a whirlwind tour of New Zealand, and a whole bunch of other stuff.

Fallon and I parted ways over a year ago now and she’s since been engaged and is set to tie the knot with the love of her life later this year. We maintain a good friendship and it’s random adventures like the one I’m about to share with you that I will always remember as the best part of our time together.

The Route of the Hiawatha

The Olympian Hiawatha train line between Chicago and Seattle hasn’t seen a train ride its tracks since 1980; but the stretch between St Paul’s Pass near Wallace, Idaho down to the western trail head has been resurrected as a 13 mile bicycle track that offers spectacular views of northern Idaho pine forest, a number of tunnels, and a relatively easy ride that families can also get out and enjoy.

A small fee of $9 for adults (and $6) for children gives you access to the trail and is used to maintain the park and ensure it will be available for future generations to use. While the train tracks have long since been lifted, the route is still just as it was when steam trains chugged across the country in the 1900s.

a tunnel route of the hiawatha
One of the smaller tunnels along the Route of the Hiawatha

The ride, starting with a nerve-rattling one mile ride through the near total darkness of St Paul’s Pass (Taft Tunnel) runs down a gentle slope that crossed several raised wooden trestles, snakes through quite a few tunnels, and eventually ends at the western trail head where a bus is available to shuttle people back to the car park at the head of the trail.

You follow the same route the trains once took and this affords a largely untouched view of the national park the trail moves through.

Alternatively, more hardcore individuals could spin their bikes around and tackle the uphill for a 26 mile day.

In addition to bringing your own bike (although bikes can be rented with all equipment for as little as $29) it’s also advisable to bring a head lamp, warm clothes, and glvoers.

St. Paul’s Pass is a freezing cold, lightless bitch.

You can find out more about the Route of the Hiawatha and its history on the Route of the Hiawatha website.

Riding the Route

We woke early for the big ride. Despite it still technically being fall in Coeur D’Alene, Idaho; the air was thick with the cool of the coming winter as myself, Fallon, and her parents loaded our bikes onto the truck.

A pit-stop at Subway was the first point on the agenda, and why on earth don’t we have flat bread as an option here in Australia!? It’s amazing!

A scenic drive up towards Wallace (where Dante’s Peak was filmed) was accompanied by the music of George Strait. I kind of fell in love with country music during my six weeks living in Idaho…

Our drive takes us across the border into Montana, and soon enough we were pull up in a crowded car park alongside a yellow school bus. I thought they only existed in cartoons!

yellow bus hiawatha
A yellow schoolbus at the Trail of the Hiawatha

We saddled up, paid our $9 entry fees, and then it was time to strap on our head lamps and pull on sweaters and gloves. It certainly felt an odd way to dress for what promised to be a fairly sweat-raising bike ride on a bright sunny day, but St. Paul’s Pass would soon loom up ahead of us and all doubts would vanish.

Through the Mountain

St. Paul’s Pass (or Taft Tunnel) cuts underneath the ominously named Bitterroot Mountain and gives riders a one mile ride through near total darkness before they emerge on the trail. During the bone-chilling one mile ride riders also cross over from Montana back into Idaho. Kind of cool.

st paul's pass
Abandon all hope ye who enter here

The passage through the tunnel is just a little bit harrowing. When I say near total darkness I mean that. The light filtering in from the tunnel doesn’t travel far and the dim light of your headlamp does little more than call up ominous shadows and make you feel just a little bit dizzy as you shakily follow its bumping dance across the damp floor.

Christ, I’m in Moria.

The cold is something else entirely. The inside of the tunnel sees no light at all, so you can imagine just how frigid it is in that dark place. Water drips from overhead and hands rapidly go numb despite thick gloves. The sound of water rushing through the gutters that hug the tunnel walls remind you that there’s a potentially ankle breaking tumble if you veer too close to the edge of the tunnel.

riders hiawatha

It’s with genuine relief that we emerged into the now blinding sun on the other side of the pass, and we paused to tug off jumpers and gloves before heading back out onto the trail.

We’re far from alone in our journey either. It’s a bright sunny day and families are out in force. We pass hardcore riders on expensive bikes and children being towed behind their parents in garishly colored carts.

Down the Hill

The ride after the harrowing tunnel journey is surprisingly pleasant. A gentle incline means pedaling is sparse and the sun overhead soon warms my cold bones. I’m a little shaky on the bike at first, especially when we pick up speed and need to round corners where crashing would involve a fatal fall to the pine forest below.

There ‘ain’t no fancy safety railings here, kids.

route of the hiawatha

The vistas that the ride provides are stunning. It’s hard to imagine a train chugging along the broad path that we ride, but periodic tunnels remind us that this leisurely ride was once part of the American lifeblood.

We pause from time to time along the way to hydrate or pose for photographs by particularly enchanting pieces of scenery. Trail mix becomes my new favorite snack as the sun rises high overhead and we near the halfway point.

hiawatha tunnel

We decided earlier in the day not to ride all the way to the bottom. Instead we’ll turn around and ride back up the hill. The sweat in my arm-pits and the pain in my calves after the downhill makes me sure that this wasn’t a good idea…

hiawatha trestles

Special mention must go to the spectacular views afforded by the trestles that lie along the route. Standing atop an old wooden bridge high above the forest below is a real treat. There are some great photo opportunities to be had as you stand there with nothing but the whistling wind and the creaking of timber to keep you company.

The Uphill

At the point I did the Route of the Hiawatha (September 2009) I had only just finished the Couch to 5k program, and runs such as the City 2 Surf were some way in the distance.

route of the hiawatha

I’m ashamed to say that the uphill portion of our ride really did me in. My calves ached and my poor lungs struggled to make use of the thin Idaho air. Fallon was kind enoguh to send her parents on ahead without us so that they didn’t see me struggling like a lifelong smoker, but I still felt pretty ashamed at just how much I struggled on a fairly gradual climb.

Soon enough we were back at St. Paul’s Pass and one mile of darkness separated me from a rest I felt in dire need of. We saddled up, gritted our teeth, and emerged triumphant from the other side. We’d managed to cover over 18 miles all told, and I was in ready for a Bud Lite and a good, long rest when we got home.

Worth It?

My legs ached for a day or so and I felt saddle sore for a week, but I look back on the Route of the Hiawatha experience as a real joy. It was by no means a casual Sunday stroll when you factor in the uphill, but the views and the mountain air were really a wonderful introduction to Idaho.

standing at the route of the hiawatha trail head
I survived!

There’s something very cool about traversing St. Paul’s Pass as well. Similar to the experience of black water rafting in Waitomo’s famous glow-worm caves.

Idaho might not be packed full of tourist sights, but you can do far worse than spending a day out in the sun exploring a little piece of history nestled at the heart of some stunning natural beauty.

route of the hiawatha route of the hiawatha tunnel route of the hiawatha

Have you ever done a particularly memorable or scenic bike ride? I’d love to hear about it.

Australia, Sydney

My New Year’s in Sydney

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A Confession

I hope you’re sitting down.

Believe it or not, but despite being 28 years old and having lived in Australia for most of my life – prior to 2011, I’d never celebrated New Year’s in Sydney.

In fact, I’d celebrated two New Year’s in Gwangju, South Korea before I even thought about standing underneath the world famous fireworks in Australia’s greatest city.

(Shutup, Melbourne)

With New Year’s 2011 fast approaching and it becoming painfully clear I wouldn’t have the money (or the time off work) to jet off to some exotic location and emulate last year’s New Year’s in Fiji – I instead opted to stick close to home and show my brothers a night out in the big bad city.

With that in mind, I began the search for the all important venue.

 

Do we hit the big party at Black Cherry in Newtown or the house party in Annandale my housemate recommended? Would it be best to watch the iconic fireworks from Circular Quay, Observatory Hill, or some quieter spot on the picturesque north shore?

With so many options available to me it made sense that I wouldn’t make the decision until that day. The plan? Pre-drinks at mine, a house party in Ultimo, and then a lengthy walk down to Circular Quay to see the biggest (and first) show of the year.

girls at a party
Some multicultural shenanigans at the house party

Pre-Drinks: An Aussie Institution

It’s not a true night out in Australia without the hallowed tradition of meeting at somebody’s place for a few sly bevvies (beverages) before the main event.

So it was that my American friend, my brothers Dom & Leigh, and my brother’s girlfriend joined my housemate and I for a few quiet beers before heading on into town.

After a rainy December, Sydney had turned out a brilliantly sunny day for the affair. Perfect weather for lounging around on our porch with a few ice cold beers, some cheese and crackers, and some entirely inappropriate conversation.

bald man in a party hat
Rocking a party hat and sippin' suds

A few beers, mojitos, and tumblers of white wine later we were off to Ultimo for the house party. Stuart and Karyl, our gracious hosts, had again organized a fun shindig to celebrate the end of 2011 and the start of 2012. Mouthgasm inducing cookies, ice cold James Squire 150 Lashes, and a horde of expats were on hand to ensure good times were had.

A room full of Spanish girls, an Irish guy, a handful of Aussies, a lesbian from Melbourne, a Pom and his aunt, two Americans, and a pretty English model sounds like the beginning to some elaborate joke, come to think of it…

All too soon it was 9pm and the distant sounds of the early fireworks display were exploding in the background. We hurried through our final drinks, scarfed down a last cookie or two, and began the walk into the city.

 

The Fireworks

Along the way beers were fished from handbags and the cleavage of our lady friends as we strolled alongside several hundred others who had come upon the same idea. Photos were taken and new friends were made and lost in the space of minutes.

You know how it is.

Somewhere along the way our group got split into two as my posse picked up a clearly drug-addled chap who dubbed himself Steven and tagged along for the rest of the night. He bought our friendship with a massive bottle of rocket fuel (mixed spirits and pineapple juice) and his inability to behave for even two seconds.

No sooner had I bought him a large glowing light saber that he was out whacking strangers across the backsides with it until a female police officer smartly liberated it from him and told him the first shot was free.

The second, she said with grim face, would be assaulting a police office.

Stephen was quiet(er) after that.

Drunk men in Sydney
Dom and the infamous Stephen smother my brother's flash rebounding shirt

Midnight fast approached and we realized our ambling pace wasn’t going to get us to where our friends would be waiting at the Botanical Gardens.

I made an executive decision and hurried everybody to Darling Harbour. After the all important toilet and booze pit stops, we took up an isolated spot (or as isolated as one can be in a crowded area) and settled in to watch the fireworks explode overhead.

fireworks over sydney
Photo by Danya Rose.

The show from our Darling Harbour vantage point was not quite as good as we might have hoped. Obviously the Harbour Bridge and Opera House are not visible from that point, but we still did get quite the display of fiery flowers exploding over Sydney’s iconic skyline while a more modest display took place from a barge nearby.

Thanks to my good friend Danya for providing some snaps for me to use. My own attempts to capture the fireworks with my tiny Finepix point and shoot were nothing to write home about.

Fireworks on Sydney Harbour Bridge
A crimson crown atop Sydney's iconic Harbour Bridge. Photo by Danya Rose.

As is traditional, couples all across the city locked lips. My brother and his girlfriend got their midnight kiss on and even I was lucky enough to steal one.

And trust me, kissing a relative stranger is slightly less depressing than kissing your girlfriend of two years goodbye to start the New Year…

 

Waiting in line for late night Oporto's
My brothers waiting for their post drinks hamburger

And the Finish

The night from that point on was a bit of a blur. I personally blame the rocket fuel…

We stumbled up to Strattons Hotel where my friend Olivia works behind the bar. The rest of our party had already made it there by the time we staggered in and ordered our first round of drinks.

I recall precious little of the evening.

English Stu taught my already quite adept brother about fighting. I stole as many kisses as the night would allow me. Shots were had (and spilled) and rounds were shouted. Toe-curlingly good kebabs were eaten. People were dropped off at train stations and taxis were shouted at for refusing to pick us up.

Good times, it is true, were had.

My first New Year’s in Sydney wasn’t any more or less amazing than others I’ve had in the past. We drank, we sang, we kissed, and we did silly things.

Maybe someday I’ll get down to Circular Quay for the fireworks as they should be seen. I know many of my Sydney based blogger friends were lucky enough to do so.

Truth Is…

Truth be told, New Year’s is always going to be a disappointment because we have this habit of making it out to be such a significant event. As if midnight ticking over and the calendar changing to a new year somehow erases all of the year’s disappointments and failures.

We’ll magically change and become shiny new people.

2011 was, by and large, a fucking awful year for me. I got 2012 off to a good start. I had a good time with good friends and my fantastic brothers. I kissed a pretty girl.

But when Sunday morning rolled around, nothing had changed. I was still the same guy living in the same house and working the same job and dealing with the same issues.

One of the big lessons I’m learning (very slowly) as I grow up is that there are no magic changes or quick fixes. No date on the calendar or moment on a night out is going to fix the things I don’t like about who I am or where I am in life.

Hopefully this year, in addition to completing my 2012 resolutions, I can also learn that any changes I want to make in my life will need to come from within myself.

And you?

How was your New Year’s? How did you ring it in and what will you be aiming to do in 2012 that you didn’t in 2011?