Sydney Part Two: The Bondi Adventure and The Best Cab Ride

The sky above Bondi Beach

It's good that I had my Hillsong Day and my new mindset, because Monday morning, the second of only two full days in Sydney, I woke up sick. That wasn't supposed to happen! What was going on? I had two music videos to record and a whole city to see. I laid low that morning, trying not to ask too much of my body and quickly defeat the illness. I had to get out eventually, though. I packed my backpack and a lunch, then set out to the train station. A couple trains and a bus later, I was at Bondi Beach! (And, so you don't make the mistake I did, I'll go ahead and tell you that's a long "i" at the end there. If you say "Bondy", you get confused or sympathetic glances.)

I hadn't even reached the sand yet when I heard a ukulele. It was a tall, wavy-haired man in denim, sat on a short, stone wall up the hill from the beach. I set my bag down and pulled my camera out, asking if I could record him a bit. He played a verse and chorus of an Eddie Vedder song and then I sat down on the wall next to him after he spotted my uke and I asked if he'd show me some chords since I don't know many. He taught me the cool, bluesy chords to the song he'd been playing and we messed around for a while, then he asked if I wanted to play his and we traded, proceeding to perform a duet of "Riptide" by Vance Joy. He was from Canada, but had lived in Melbourne long enough to sound like an Aussie and was in Sydney for a job interview. We made introductions at the same time as farewells. His name was Jamie.

There weren't many people on the beach that day, and most of them were running or wearing coats. The only people in the water were surfers with wetsuits, but there were quite a few of them and more turning up all the time. All gorgeous and tan and fit, I might add.

I watched the surfing action for a while, ate my packed lunch, and then fell asleep. It was wonderfully relaxing and the salty air was clearing my sinuses and marking me feel less crappy.

Some minutes or hours later, I began to try to talk myself into swimming. I hadn't brought a proper swimsuit, and as I mentioned, coats everywhere. But I couldn't really go to Australia without catching a few waves, could I?

So eventually I got up and headed toward the far left side of the massive, semi-circle beach where, if I wasn't mistaken, I could see a couple people in the water sans boards and wetsuits. It turned out to be a couple old dudes in Speedos, who probably swim every day of the year. It was clouding over, though, and very windy. I was worried about getting dry. Finally, a little blue sky showed itself and the sun found it, and I said to myself, "It's now or never." I stood up and pulled down my denim shorts, which was mildly terrifying since my upper thighs hadn't seen the light of day since...middle school? But there was no way I was swimming in jeans, and I knew from shopping experiences that my underwear looked like swim bottoms and my quick-dry workout top could pass for a tankini. So off I went, down to the waves and feeling very exposed, but quite confident.


I got into the water, slowly at first, and then got up the courage to dive into the next wave and get it over with. It was very cold, there's no denying that, but it was surprisingly refreshing and invigorating. Within a couple minutes, two guys who had been playing footie on the beach were in the water as well. Not to be outdone, I suppose.

I stayed in the surf for probably twenty minutes, until the current started pulling me to water where it was too deep for me to touch the bottom. I made my way in with some difficulty and then caught a decent wave that sped up the process.

Before

After

One thing I learned: black, stretchy underwear may look identical to a bathing suit bottom, but if you don't squeeze your butt cheeks with every wave, you will freaking lose them.

I laid on the beach until I was mostly dry and then, starting to feel drained, headed back to the house.



By the time I made it back, I felt gross. A hot shower didn't help much, so I set an alarm and took a nap. I felt even worse when I woke up. Sore throat, pounding head like I'd never felt before, achy and could not get warm, and in time I felt pretty nauseated as well. I was supposed to go to the Sydney Opera house to see Sufjan Stevens. I had a yet-unworn dress that suited me perfectly, and I couldn't wait to wear it around The Rocks. But every time I tried to get up, my head worsened. I slept through dinner. I buried myself under a pile of blankets, trying desperately to get warm, and as my deadline for leaving for the train station grew nearer, I grew more sure that I couldn't leave that room, let alone make the trip downtown and sit in a theater for two hours without throwing up. I decided I would try, though, growing very determined and standing up. I even started changing clothes. But my headache became almost unbearable and the tears finally came, hard and fast--both from the pain and the resignation.

I finally crawled back under the covers and started emailing my parents. I had already researched and found that I couldn't obtain a refund for the ticket they had bought me--that we had all gotten so excited about. I had to let them know that I wasn't going, and tell them I was sorry. I just couldn't go. I fell asleep about three times throughout the course of composing that email. My body was exhausted.

Then I made a choice. I had prayed fervently and tearfully for God to heal me, but promised that I would praise Him either way. So I did. I made a Facebook post about this choice, and had the joy of watching as it encouraged my friends and family and I was virtually flooded with messages of prayer.

Then I slept again, for hours, until I finally had to get up at half past 4am. I had been in bed for the better part of thirteen hours, on the second and final day of my Sydney trip, but I had already come to a peace about it.

I packed quickly and set out in the darkness for the ten-minute walk to the station. I hadn't given myself enough time and was pushing my weary body hard, my calves burning as I thought, "What if I miss it?" But I told myself that missing that train wasn't an option. I took comfort and motivation from a couple lines of dialogue in the film The Maze Runner.

Thomas: "What happens if they don't make it?"
Newt: "They're gonna make it."
Thomas: "Yeah, but what if they don't?"
Newt: "They're gonna make it."

I've gotten used to the fact that I will always draw inspiration from my favorite stories, and that they will pop up to help me at the most unprecedented times. I thought of how confident Newt was, completely free of doubt or fear, and just kept walking, with his voice in my head. I made it with a minute to spare.

Then it was trains to the airport, having finally gotten the hang of changing platforms, and I ended up with a -8 dollar balance on my Opal card. The top up machine wasn't taking my debit card, and I had already tapped off to see my balance, so I climbed over the turnstiles and booked it to the store where I had gotten the card so I could put more on it and not get in trouble. Once the clerk realized that I didn't actually need the card anymore, he said, "Oh, I'll just throw it away for you. Don't spend ten dollars on THAT." I thanked him, and headed to check-in.

It was all I could do to not sit down in the short check-in line because I had so little energy, so I was very happy to get through security quickly, find some food, and sit down by a window. I bought some kind of mango-pineapple (I think) smoothie and some raisin toast from Le McCafe (heh) because it was the only thing that sounded appetizing and I wanted to go easy after not having eaten in about twenty hours. It was delicious and helped give me some strength. Upon arriving at my gate, my weary heart was indescribably comforted by the sight and warmth of the early sun along with the thought of Gandalf the White riding to the aid of Helm's Deep, while Gimli tells Aragorn with a gentle smile, "The sun is rising." (See? I told you. Inspiration and encouragement from the strangest sources.) It was an, "Everything will be alright," sort of moment.


I cannot tell you how relieved I was to set foot on an Emirates plane again. That steaming cloth at the beginning was like ice water in the Sahara, and made me feel so refreshed. Then we had breakfast and I watched Mortdecai, which was not as funny as I expected, but Johnny Depp and Ewan McGregor are too good a pair to pass up.

Then I was back in Auckland, yet another trip through Customs, and quite a long wait in the airport before time to catch my bus that evening. I had a wonderful, blueberry muffin and a passion-fruit granola yogurt parfait, then allowed myself the luxury of watching some videos on my not-quite-dead-yet iPhone. Then I made a pillow out of a sweatshirt, found a quiet corner, draped my arm over my backpack, and fell asleep. Airport floors are comfy when you're tired.

I missed the memo that the bus I needed to take was not an InterCity bus, but an Airport bus. So I sat for a long time in the cold before I came to terms with the fact that I'd missed it. I was back inside to see if the next bus would get me to Manukau in time for my connection to Levin, but the lady said it wouldn't.

So, resigned to my fate, I walked back out and to the first in the long line of waiting cabs. The driver, a friendly Indian man who had been in Auckland for quite a few years, put my suitcase in the "boot" and then asked whether I preferred to sit in the front or back. I chose the front, and thus began our conversation. He said he had seen me in the airport a couple hours ago, and I told him about missing my bus, choosing not to complain about it, but ending with a simple, "But it's okay."

He had started the meter on the dash as we left, and I really wasn't sure it would be "okay", but I was determined not to let it get me down. I knew I was in that cab for a reason.

We talked the whole way to Manukau. I told him what I was doing in NZ, he told me about what he does for a living besides driving, and I was thrilled when he said he thought I was from Australia.

He said something about how his mother lived over this way and that he might drop by to see her house even though she wasn't there at the moment. That struck me as a little odd, and it should have been my first clue. He parked just down a little hill from the bus stop and I pulled out my wallet. The meter read $49, if I remember correctly. He reached up and cancelled the total, saying, "Oh, don't worry about that. Just whatever you think is good." I was stunned. "Really?" He nodded, brushing it off like it was nothing. I realized later that his reason for mentioning another "stop to make" in that area was to rationalize that choice. He had started the meter counting up when we left, so at some point on the drive, he made the decision to disregard it.

Overwhelmed with gratitude and relief ($50 is a hard blow on a small budget), I said, "Is twenty alright?" He said it was, and I thanked him fervently. I wish I had gotten his name.

And so ended another chapter in my journey.