I got up early and poked around St. Kilda around my hotel. I ate breakfast at a local restaurant and strolled around the streets. Fleur told me St. Kilda was considered the red light district of Melbourne. I didn’t read about that on the damn hotel website. I have no idea why this place was considered the “red light” district. I only hung out in an after hours bar until 5am and hobnobbed with some crazy Kiwi and his two gay friends. St. Kilda is comprised of expensive shops, restaurants, and lots of bars. I suppose when I think of “red light” I think of strip bars, hookers, and drug addicts. Maybe I missed it, but I really didn’t get that sense when I was there. Especially when I found those $500.00 jeans Fleur and her friend were talking about. I took pictures of some school children on the way back to the hotel. They make them wear hats wherever they go because Australia has the highest rate of skin cancer. I started walking off when a teacher came out of the yard and yelled at me. She grilled me on why I was taking pictures of school children. I was surprised and pointed at their hats and dumbly said I thought they were novel. She yelled at me again and told me not to take pictures of children. I slunk away feeling like some sort of child molester or something. I can’t really blame her. There are some really sick people out there, so she was being protective. I just felt really bad. So, I went back to the hotel to get ready for some drinking.
Rachel told me to meet her at Flinder’s Station in front of Federation
Square. I think it’s the central meeting place for Melbournians. I sat around people watching when she called me again and told me we were going to a 90’s party first and to make sure I dressed 90’s. I looked down at my clothes and shrugged. Definitely not 90’s attire. I figured after a few beers no one would care. I met Rachel and her friend Jackie outside of the station. Jackie was one of those girls who dyed her hair black and hated the world….but LOVED 90’s music. Rachel grilled me on why was I talking to a Kiwi and two homeless guys the night before. She said the Kiwi was a regular and never talked to anyone at the bar unless he ordered beer. I laughed and said I had that effect on people. I mean hell, I’m this complete stranger hanging out with her at a 90’s party. She told me I was the only American girl she had met that drank beer and it was the reason why she invited me out. Personally, I like drinking beer because I like remembering what I did that night. Liquor is always a toss up with having a good time or lying in the street puking. I guess beer for me is a sure fire way for me to be safe. I discovered that Australians are terrible dancers. The worst. And they do not know what a pitcher is. I ordered a pitcher of beer for my new found friends. The bartender looked at me quizzically and held up a pint glass. I shook my head and said “pitcher” again. She held up a bigger gl
ass. I laughed and said I needed something bigger. She said- “Oh you mean a jug?” Jugs? That’s what they called them here?
After our “jugs” of beers the girls wanted to leave for another party. So we ended up crashing a private party at some bar. The Aussies were amazed that I knew every single word to Bust a Move (and why wouldn’t I know all the words!). I took a picture of Rachel dancing in her white ridiculous 90’s shoes. It was the only picture I took that night because I didn’t want to be the stupid American casually taking pictures of people. We finally caught a cab into Chinatown to check out this warehouse party. The place was huge and contained hundreds people. The men looked like they came straight out of that movie Trainspotting. Lanky, cropped hair, and punk clothes. The ladies were dressed to the nines. I looked down at my shabby clothes and felt a little self conscious. Here I am in a dank dark warehouse party and the women looked like they stepped of a Paris runway show. Red high heels, short bubble skirts, and leather jackets. I drank a couple of beers and managed to creep out into the wee hours of the night.
Rachel told me to meet her at Flinder’s Station in front of Federation
Square. I think it’s the central meeting place for Melbournians. I sat around people watching when she called me again and told me we were going to a 90’s party first and to make sure I dressed 90’s. I looked down at my clothes and shrugged. Definitely not 90’s attire. I figured after a few beers no one would care. I met Rachel and her friend Jackie outside of the station. Jackie was one of those girls who dyed her hair black and hated the world….but LOVED 90’s music. Rachel grilled me on why was I talking to a Kiwi and two homeless guys the night before. She said the Kiwi was a regular and never talked to anyone at the bar unless he ordered beer. I laughed and said I had that effect on people. I mean hell, I’m this complete stranger hanging out with her at a 90’s party. She told me I was the only American girl she had met that drank beer and it was the reason why she invited me out. Personally, I like drinking beer because I like remembering what I did that night. Liquor is always a toss up with having a good time or lying in the street puking. I guess beer for me is a sure fire way for me to be safe. I discovered that Australians are terrible dancers. The worst. And they do not know what a pitcher is. I ordered a pitcher of beer for my new found friends. The bartender looked at me quizzically and held up a pint glass. I shook my head and said “pitcher” again. She held up a bigger gl
ass. I laughed and said I needed something bigger. She said- “Oh you mean a jug?” Jugs? That’s what they called them here?After our “jugs” of beers the girls wanted to leave for another party. So we ended up crashing a private party at some bar. The Aussies were amazed that I knew every single word to Bust a Move (and why wouldn’t I know all the words!). I took a picture of Rachel dancing in her white ridiculous 90’s shoes. It was the only picture I took that night because I didn’t want to be the stupid American casually taking pictures of people. We finally caught a cab into Chinatown to check out this warehouse party. The place was huge and contained hundreds people. The men looked like they came straight out of that movie Trainspotting. Lanky, cropped hair, and punk clothes. The ladies were dressed to the nines. I looked down at my shabby clothes and felt a little self conscious. Here I am in a dank dark warehouse party and the women looked like they stepped of a Paris runway show. Red high heels, short bubble skirts, and leather jackets. I drank a couple of beers and managed to creep out into the wee hours of the night.
No comments:
Post a Comment