Day 7: Raising the Bar

Contrary to what some of you may think, the lowered drinking age of Australia was not a factor in my decision to come here. It was, however, the definition of “added bonus.” To commemorate my first night out drinking legally, I’ll summarize the night, in the style of my favorite author, to the best of my ability. I had met a 23-year-old guy from Portland before the weekend named Clarke, a fellow member of the Work and Travel Company, who has been my first good friend while in Australia. We decided to go out Monday night and see what the bar scene was like.

7:00 pm: I meet Clarke on the roof of the hostel where they are having a barbeque. For $5 I get a burger (a kangaroo burger) and a beer.

7:03 pm: I have finished my “roo” burger. It was delicious. I consider the possibility of importing kangaroo meat back to the states.

7:10 pm: Clarke and I have struck up a conversation with a British guy who has been in Sydney for 4 hours. He is too jetlagged to pick up on the fact that he has mustard on his chin, and that Clarke is making fun of him for his poor hygiene.

7:30 pm: We are sitting in an establishment called the “Side Bar,” drinking beers and talking with the one decent looking bartender. She is from Vancouver, a fact I exploit by asking her if she has ever been to Seattle.

8:05 pm: There is little happening in the Side Bar. A private party somehow managed to get free wine, but I am told that it isn’t for me. Frustrated with the lack of people and unfair distribution of free alcohol, Clarke and I leave.

8:15 pm: We end up at “Scubar”. The place is packed and incredibly loud, but they are having “World Famous Crab Races” tonight and I insist that we stay.

8:20 pm: In an attempt to get a table, we start up a conversation with two British girls. They are drinking some bright red drink from a pitcher, which they refer to as “snake bite.” Fascinated, Clarke and I decide to split a pitcher.

8:30 pm: It turns out snake bite is just a mix of beer and grenadine syrup, and that the bartenders at Scubar are very slow. Not even the heart shaped foam pattern made by the grenadine amuses me, probably because of the level of attractiveness of the bartender (tiger-mauling-victim level).

8:45 pm: I elbow my way through the crowd to sign up for the next crab race. For a dollar, I register crab #17, dubbing him “Dinner” on the sign up sheet.

8:49 pm: Dinner crawls inside his shell and refuses to move at the start of the race. I curse my horrible luck and vow never to return to Scubar.

8:51 pm: There is a line to get into Scubar that goes around the street corner. I loudly inform everyone in the line that it is not worth it, and that the crab races are rigged.

8:55 pm: A group of British people who Clarke knows decides to leave the line and join us instead. We head back to Side Bar in hopes that it has gotten more interesting.

Unfortunately, it didn’t get more interesting. Except for a random trip to KFC, which happened lord knows when, the rest of the night was a bore. I was back in my room by midnight and asleep not much later. All in all, my first bar hoping experience was a bit of a let down, but thankfully I’ll be here for another 4 months.