The Full Monty
The white Ibis is the equivalent of the raccoon in Australia - in fact, it’s as pervasive, persistent, and precocious as its trash panda Canadian cousin. Bin Chickens, as they are affectionately (or not so affectionately) referred to, are a menace to Australian society. Little did we know that we would be introduced to Australia's most intrepid mascot so soon into our stay.
On a recent sunny afternoon at a charming beachside diner, a poor lady was blissfully indulging in her meal while washing it down with a pint of the pub’s local craft beer, unaware of the imminent chaos that was about to unfold. Without warning, like a feathered phantom, the sneaky bin chicken swooped down from the heavens, its beady eyes fixed greedily on the golden prize – a solitary French fry. With lightning speed, it snatched the fry from right under the unsuspecting lady's tanned fingers, leaving her stunned and frozen in disbelief.
That's when we realized the true purpose of the spray bottles at every table – they weren't just for a refreshing mist on hot summer days, but rather, they served as the first - and really the only - line of defense against these avian thieves. What ensued was nothing short of a battle royale over fries, with diners brandishing their spray bottles like knights wielding swords, determined to protect their precious meals from the relentless onslaught of the feathered intruder. As the chaos settled and the embarrassment subsided, the lady and her partner stormed off, leaving behind a whirlwind of feathers and half-eaten fries.
Being on an island in the middle of the Pacific means enjoying and embracing the lifestyle of the tropics. Time seems to slow down, and trends take a leisurely stroll into the past. Australia, or most specifically the state of Queensland, in its own charming way, seems to have a knack for resurrecting old fads like they're going out of style... again. Take mullet haircuts, for instance – they're not just for the youngsters trying to reclaim their '80s glory; even the wise old balding gents are getting in on the action, hoping for a taste of their youthful days. And tattoos? They're practically the local currency, each one a masterpiece of creativity and self-expression.
Alexandra Promenade, where you see many of these trends from the ‘80s, is a beautiful and busy street that runs parallel to the Pacific Ocean in the seaside resort of Maroochydore (pronounced Mah-roo-chee-door). Every morning the migration of what seems like the world’s fittest people descends upon the rough seas. The masses are early to rise, surf, sunbathe, and swim - it's like a daily movie shoot, and I feel like an extra. During one of my walks, I was doling out my “Mornings!” or “G'day Mate!” to whomever caught my eye as I walked along the promenade. An elderly gentleman, oblivious to my presence, decides the street is his changing room. With the determination of a man on a mission (or perhaps just an aversion to walking a few hundred meters to the change room), he strips down naked right then and there. As fate would have it, my footsteps catch him off guard, and in his full birthday suit, he greets me with an enthusiastic "G'day Mate!" Talk about breaking the ice….
I sheepishly wave hello, pondering whether this spontaneous rendezvous officially makes us “mates”. Embarrassment fills the air, but not for my new birthday-suited friend – he seemed to revel in the hilarity of it all.
Beach culture, mate, it's a whole different world out there. It's like stepping into a parallel universe where shirts are optional, and flip flops are more like foot suggestions. You'll see blokes sauntering around shirtless and carefree, balancing a grocery basket in one hand and a towel around their neck like it's the latest fashion statement. Meanwhile, there's me, navigating the aisles of the grocery store, clinging to my t-shirt like it's a security blanket in a sea of bare torsos. It's a world where grocery shopping doubles as a fashion parade and every aisle is a catwalk.
But hey, when in Rome... or should I say, when on the Aussie coast, it's time to embrace the barefoot and the t-shirt-less lifestyle, whether I'm ready for it or not. While the girls have fully embraced the no-shoes-required rule, I'm still grappling with my inner fashion police. Oh well, I suppose I'll just have to “toe” the line and join at least the barefoot brigade. I am beginning to realize that sometimes the best experiences happen when you're willing to shed a layer or two - both figuratively and literally.
The aroma of barbecues sizzling along the ocean promenades is enough to make anyone's stomach growl. Despite having just eaten, the temptation was too much to resist. It's like my stomach had a mind of its own, leading me straight to the source of those tantalizing smells. As luck would have it, an Aussie mate must have sensed my hunger, and before I knew it, I found myself face-to-fork with a delectable pork chop topped with gourmet cheese. With a twinkle in his eye and a forkful of goodness, he graciously offered me a taste, and let me tell you, it was a flavor explosion like no other. But when he insisted I take a whole chop to enjoy, I couldn't help but feel like a kid in a candy store – or rather, a man with a pork chop in hand.
As a polite Canadian, I initially declined his generous offer, but he was having none of it. "Mate, you're on holidays, and you're a growing young man!" he exclaimed, as if to reassure me that devouring a pork chop mid-street was the epitome of vacation bliss. And so, with pork chop in hand and a heart full of gratitude, I ventured back to my bewildered family, who couldn't quite fathom my impromptu feast. Kasia's shock, Janice's disapproval, and Ayana's amusement painted quite the picture, leaving me to wonder: had I truly regressed to childhood antics over a single pork chop?
So far, I am learning that the best moments are the ones you least expect, whether they involve battling feathered thieves or indulging in impromptu barbecues by the ocean.
