finding adventure in the home country…

You know those moments where you face yourself in inner truth. Those surreal, almost out of body experiences…where you get that sacred and hallowed chance to stare judgement in the eyes, like an outside observer… that moment of self-realisation where the light turns on and you see yourself for who you really are… not who you might pretend or desire to be… Last night was one of those moments…

After a few relaxing days cruising the isle of Tasmania (strewn with its many and alarmingly varied array of road kill and its inhabitants far too easily picked on…) with minimal catastrophe and misadventure…. The inevitable hit… when the hotel passes I had somewhat foolishly, though well intentionally, purchased turned out to be a crock of poop…  (A separate whinge to follow) and we found ourselves accommodation less and left to the perils of last minute availability…

Fearing not this set back… late at night, downtown Hobart, I marvelled at the electronic age in which we live as we scoured the usual suspects of last minute accommodation courtesy of a temperamental  laptop about the size of your average gents toiletries bag…  the highs of getting net connection, the lows of consistent dropouts and a dodgy mouse pad…  frustration as  the “ooh la la” flashy spa room listed as available online became suddenly sold as the receptionist clearly judged my voice as of not the right “type”… but calamity was avoided when we stumbled onto the “wrest point casino”… can’t get classier than the Hobart casino right?

Thus it was settled, and down town we drove to our new destination…

Little did we know, the streets of Hobart, back to the future style, are in fact a time warp… and as suburban quaintness gave way to 2.3 kids and a Volvo…the piece de resistance was in fact the time vortex itself… wrestpoint.

Enter the 70’s.

From the proper RSL issue carpet circa 1979 of varying mismatched shades of paisley to the LILAC walls and sailor style round windows… the Chrysler building relief sculpture on the wall to the round white shell dangly chandeliers overused on every light fitting…

Down corridors, down stairs (are we in the basement??) till at last… in the furthest reaches of the cheesiest building in the smallest city in Oz came our room…

The lilac gave way to amber and the paisley carpet achieved new epileptic inducing dizziness in the powerful shades of crimson and green speckles. The teal chiffon curtains affording us a sneaky view of the impressive and cold Derwent River lapping quite literally at our doorstop…

And the bathroom. Oh the bathroom….

Tiles of electric blue spattered with gold glitter sparkles, “les girls” style dressing room vanity lights and enough gold plating to make a costume jeweller squeal in delight….

And faced with such opulence came time to then face our true selves…

To dress outside our ratty backpacker day clothes and ride the lift to the grand point revolving restaurant and let our tastebuds explode with the fine flavours of modern and acclaimed French cuisine as the sparkling lights of Hobart slowly shone in the revolving round below us…

Or

To slum it with the gambling addicts, street style and “enjoy” the salmonella quality of the pre-prepared $9 burger and beer meal…

And thus, as we settled into the cushy leather lounges, and took a lusty bite out of our stale meat and overcooked chips… it dawned on me….. I’m really not a princess. No glitz. No glam…no dress and sparkles for me… but just damn fine beer and a stale burger bun….

The moment made all the more real by the unbelievably inspired burp from our fellow diners… a burp so loud as to rock the very foundations of our unsteady table… and instead of the gasp and groan of the dress clad, hair brushed passers-by en route to the lift up the tower  I found myself in a surreal state if hysterics… should I compete or should I have rued my own new level of low life bogan ness… our dining companions encore burp ensured that even if I did opt to compete however, unless I had a mega amplifier…there is no way I could top that!!!

But wait the story unfolds…

For faced with the realisation that as a grown woman of the world i am meant to demand these finer things… my willing accomplice and I did  in fact brave the 17 floors and found our way up to the splendour of the point restaurant after all… a little romance and a dessert list to rival my entire paycheck.. I opted for the lemon, ginger, lychee crème brulee… (I mean, what happened to good old fashioned icecream?) (Granted, this did come with a questionably portioned scoop of over rich white chocolate icecream)

And as we looked in awe at the suited diners around us and oooohed and aaaahed at the twinkly night lights of the city far below us it occurred to me. I get vertigo. I get motion sickness… our attempts at romance instead gave way to an hour of agony as I wrestled with motion sickness and the wish not to revisit said crème brulee

Here I was. 17 floors up. The finest dessert known to man plated in front of me and the gentle whir of the restaurant was doing nothing but making me want to curl up into a ball and reminisce of days of avid sea sickness….

Thus in conclusion… faced with myself and even trying to break the mold of my inner Bogan it has been shown to me. I am who I am… and princess I am not and you can find me firmly with my feet on the ground enjoying my stale burger. May you find your own little piece of burger paradise wherever in the world you are.

Hugs.

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