sarahcentric

Woah woah woah…Something’s coming to me. Huh? That can’t be! Wait, yeah. Huh? No. Yeah, that’s right…

Remember Australia?

Noooo, that didn’t happen.
Yeah, I think it did!
Everyone calm down. Let’s retrace my steps.

So yesterday I was definitely in Long Island City looking for a dress for the third and final wedding of the year. Mos def, because the dress I LOVED was this awesome little pink and orange sarrapi, (a made-up word my sisters and I use for a special outfit), would have made me look like a Bollywood star, and cost about 4 million dollars. I decided against due to lack of funds and lack of balls to wear that bold of a dress.

Alright, you got that? Good. Now, stay with me here. It’s about to get confusing. Around this time last month, I had left Sydney to get to a little resort town called Port Douglas way up north in Queensland. The plan was to hit up some major tourist destinations including the Daintree Rainforest, Great Barrier Reef, and the little beach where they both meet up, Cape Tribulation. This was the longest stop of my trip; 7 days to get all of those in and still have lazy days in between filled with burnt toffee gelato, fish and chips, and beer. I highly recommend the lazy days to obsess over how you may die in this area of the world. Is it jellyfish season? I can’t believe there was a funnelweb spider in my room! Those fish in the reef better not touch me!

Back to New York City this past Friday afternoon-Brooklyn specifically. Do not let the Australian flag confuse you. My friend had one of those crap-ass weeks that make you question whether or not if it is really wise to ever leave your apartment or talk to anyone. Ever. I suggested we consider that together over one of those fabled donut ice cream sandwiches that Greenpoint has to offer. Since she is the first person I ever met who DOESN’T LIKE donuts, (please don’t get me started on this… please.), we stayed local to her place with an international twist. We met up with her husband at Sheep Station, an Aussie pub in the middle of Park Slope. I didn’t hear one “g’day” or “how ya’ goin?”. But there was plenty of Coopers and Toohey’s to verify that Australia does exist. My friend’s husband is awesome plus South African. South Africa is not Australia, but they have enough in common for me to get my nostalgia on. Growing up, he ate Weet Bix for breakfast and the dreaded Vegemite on toast. “My friends in Port Douglas told me you are supposed to dab it on your toast with heaps of butter. Seems to me you all just like the butter and are using it to suffer through Vegemite. Don’t lie to me!”

Flashback to a month ago in Port Douglas- where the Coopers, Tooheys, and VBs are always fresh. It’s like the law. I met a lot of my Australian fears head on there, including my number one insecure hit: Stranger Danger. It’s an emotional thrombosis that occurs right before you walk into some swanky party where you only kinda know one person. Your nervous system sends out a billion warning messages of inadequacy, self-loathing, and all-around craziness as you approach the front door. Best case scenario, you push through the attack and get to the bar. Worst case, you take the first train back to Queens to watch Cosby Show re-runs with your weird-ass feet. I didn’t know there was a name for this condition until Joy the Baker perfectly described it. Stranger Danger is real.

I fell into this weird, in-between age for solo traveling. Not young enough to sleep with a 100 Swedish, French, and British kids in a hostel. But not old, rich, or bored enough to stay in one of the shi-shi resorts. This somehow put me into more of a locals category-chatting, eating, and laughing with the locals who worked at the restaurants and hotels. Within a week, I was waving to friends who shouted my name as they worked their shift. I turned down an invitation to party in some sugar cane field. I explained why there are always red cups in movies like Old School. And I made out with a real-live Aussie in alleys up and down Macrossan street who said stuff like, “I reckon” and “Ay?”. After which, I ate TimTams in my hotel room as I danced around to White Boys from hair.

Ohhhh, you’re totally confused. Queens, Port Douglas, Brooklyn, Australia. I know, I know. From the top…

I was here yesterday shopping for an old friend’s wedding where many of the guests will call me by my old college nickname, “Action”, or just “Jackson” if we weren’t best-ies. There was a break to stare at Manhattan and wonder how long I will live in this city, figure out what time it was in Port Douglas, and console a friend via text who was managing a major hangover.

And last month I was there for my last night in Port Douglas.  I had dinner at the Tin Shed with all of my favorite Port Doug’sters and special guest stars, the most adorable parents of all time visiting their son from Perth. They told story after hilarious story, and I laughed along like I had known them all for a year-because that’s open and warm good people like this make you feel. I thought of my friends in Queens and Upstate NY or cruises in Alaska who I am certain would have laughed even harder.  After dinner, there was more time with alley make’er out’er in a much more comfortable situation so that we could be…more, umm…comfortable. This did not make for a very comfortable 6:30 am flight to Adelaide. But it was so worth it.

Yesterday, I was here.
Last month, I was there.
And all the time, at the same time…everywhere.