A severe weather warning was issued for Sydney on the day we were due to fly in from Cairns. 90kmph winds were forecast on the breakfast news. The toast dropped from my unclenched jaws as I pondered the "plane" terror to come.
Mid-afternoon at the trendy "Pier" in Cairns and I had quaffed 4 honey and wheat beers, 2 G&Ts and popped a few Diazepan tablets. I was sort of prepared.
True to the TV and subsequent pilots announcement, we were violently jolted around in Sydney airspace as kids shreiked, women went silent and grown men sobbed. (Ok I was the only one sobbing)
"There's no place like home, there's no place like home," I repeated to the bemused stewardess. It had been a shocking 10 mins and ranks in my top 5 worst flights ever. On disembarking I noticed the pilot had white hair and looked very similar to Frank Drebin. Not a coincidence.
In Cairns I had undertaken a telephone trawl using my Lonley planet to find accommodation. Most central places were full. No-one had told me that 7000 US sailers were due to land on the USS Kittyhawk. Apparently the brothels were in for a bumper weekend.
I managed to book a room in the Kings Cross area called "Sydney Central" (backpackers) Now, anyone familiar with Kings Cross, London will appreciate what its like to arrive at night in a "hive of scum and villany."
There was NO way that Kings Cross,Sydney could be anywhere near as hostile, intimidating and forboding...................................... WRONG!
How ironic. In a scene straight from "Lock stock," we were ripped off by an agressive cabbie who claimed an extra 12 dollars on top of the advertised fare for "toll charges"?!? yeah ok mate.
He dropped us somewhere in the vicinity of our hostel but didn't know the road or the hostel itself. To be fair, the local prostitutes were helful with directions and the drug addicts on the coirner pointed us towards the place. THEY seemed to know the hostel.
The winds we had encountered in the sky made it very cold when we finally found the place. A handwritten note on the door read "back at 10pm." It was 10.20.
Luckily there was a mobile bnumber at the bottom and another chap who had been waiting to check in rang.
A blantantly drunk evening shift manager arrived apologising as he struggled to control his eyes. Scruffy, spaced-out individuals pottered around chatting to themselves as we made our way down a coridoor to the last double in the place.
For 60 dollars it came with cheesey smells, walls the thickness of a Riveta and a matress I could crush peppercorns on.
There were no washing facilities although there was a communal toilet right next door. It surely had the worlds noisiest extractor fan as I've heard military jets at takeoff with less noise.
Ironically, this did little to quell the overwhelming stench of stale p*ss present in the tiny room. The cubicle was SO small that even a Gnome would have struggled to get his feet under the bog.
Crusty, green snots clung to the once white walls and there was no soap. All manner of filth and dirt encircled the door knob. Maria refused to use the toilet all night.
Having slept in our clothes for fear of contaminating our clean stuff we were foirced to listen to inconsiderately noisy people ALL night as a thick fog of spliff fumes crept under the door.
At 8am we checked out and searched for another place. We didn't care how much money it cost. It was time for a "Splurge," to coin a Lonley Planet term.
Kings Cross in the Daylight looked just as menacing as in the twiligbt hours although once away from Orwell street things became far better.
After checking out some extortionately priced Boutique hotels, we chanced upon a place called, Hotel Altamont. Its describes itself as Luxury backpacking.
It fitted the bill perfectly. For 119 dollars per night our ensuite room was palatial in contrast and came with no odour of Stilton. ( it even came with breakfast) The reception area had a bar and pool table and lots of FHM magazines. The hotel itself has one dorm but retains a cool, minimalist feel with young, extremely helpful staff who appreciate your needs. They advised some great local bars whilst the friendly chefs shared their favourite restaurant haunts with us.
I think "luxury" backpacking is a growing sector as people in their 30s don't necessarily want to spend everynight caning it.
What's more, I never seem able to find medical help in a city and this hotel is right next door to Sydney medical centre. How ironic is that?
