Stranger in a Half-Familiar Land

Brisbane reminds me strongly of home... even more so than Melbourne. It's a relatively small, liberal, bike-friendly city full of green spaces, bisected by a large river. Bridges cross the water in a dizzying spiderweb and downtown– or the CBD, as they call it here– edges straight up on the water. Like home, half the city's draw is easy access to beaches and mountains within a few hours' drive. Unlike home, the city proves downright impossible to navigate. There's no grid, no numbers, no alphabets. The river meanders in dizzying loops, negating any sense of direction as I follow the shore. Instead I find twisting roads, neighborhoods scattered without apparent organization and road systems named after the first person to arrive. Said road systems were apparently established following old cattle tracks, and it is in fact still legal to walk your cows down the middle of the highway.

That being said, Brisbane's mass transit is somewhat ingenius. Throughout downtown and neighboring central districts a network of tunnels provides traffic-free causeways for busses and emergency vehicles (one or two of these allow civilian traffic to bypass large portions of the city underground, as well). Trains reach outward from the city, passing through stations shared with bus routes. Ferries cross the river in the absence of bridges' span. I carry a single card that gets me anywhere I want to go: I load it with money and a universal network deducts credit when I board and disembark busses and trains and ferries throughout the region depending how far I've traveled. For all the weird and frankly obnoxious first-world issues I've encountered since arriving, this goes pretty far to make up for it. P-town, take notes!!

Speaking of weird and obnoxious first-world issues. I have yet to encounter a place where I can fill a bag of bulk coffee beans, chuck them into a grinder and take the finished product to a counter to check out. Coffee literally comes in two forms here: whole beans (rare) and superfine power (ubiquitous). My french press is on the strugglebus. And, drugs are more regulated here than I've ever experienced in my life. I knew I had it easy in Vietnam, walking into a pharmacy and leaving two minutes later, two dollars down with necessary drugs to treat whatever gross infection accompanied the monsoon's heat and humidity. But seriously, Australia makes the United States look easy. Benedryl cream doesn't exist here... even ibuprofen is regulated in packages of more than 24 tablets.

Other things that've changed: Voting is compulsory. I literally signed a friend's ballot, with street address and everything, as a witness to verify he had voted before he could send it in. My entire identity also seems to have changed since arriving in Oz, as it's affectionately known. Whereas at home in a country of immigrants we tend to inquire about each others' heritage, here, I'm simply American. My accent screams it to the world.

The states have turned into a running joke. Everywhere I go conversation turns to a certain redhead with the world's worst combover. Unfortunately (and understandably) people find the whole thing a vastly entertaining comedy show more than anything else; the very real, very menacing impact of what Donald Trump has said and spread into peoples' lives in schools and at home doesn't extend across the sea...

In any case, I chase work north to Brisbane in mid-March, landing for a couple weeks mid-city with a couch surfing host named Stefan, your quintessential brilliantly scatterbrained German physicist. My first night we take a walk along the Kangaroo Point cliffs above which he lives, walking past bolted wall upon chossy bolted wall literally smack across the river from downtown's nightime glow. We find a perch to watch the sun's light fade over the city as flying foxes the size of ravens emerge, flocking over the river on slow wingbeats before descending in droves into trees to cling amongst fruit-filled branches next to roosting brush turkeys. Bats' chatter accents the city night like an army of droids as they squabble amongst themselves.

My first weekend in Queensland, we drive south to Tamborine Mountain in the late afternoon with Stefan's brother. As night falls and wind rattles palms we hike down through the rainforest, finding bioluminescent mushrooms rooted in decomposing logs, glistening brown tree frogs and (introduced, invasive) toxic cane toads larger than my fist. Another trail leads to a short waterfall tumbling into a small pool surrounded by cliffs from which trees grow and ferns cling in thick bundles. Glow worms' tiny, turquoise lights shine by the thousands from the foliage, reflecting in the pool to create a full constellation surrounding us as the crescent moon and stars overhead complete the 360-degree illusion.

Later in the week I head north to explore the seaside cliffs and beaches of Noosa Heads with another friend from the area. Gary and I walk broad golden beaches filled with sunbathers on neon towels and watch surfers play in classic gray-green waves before making our way into the headlands' thick scrub. As storms darken the sea offshore we skirt rocky shores and pass tangled roots the same deep ocher hue as western red cedar. We find waves crashing into sheer, vaulting walls beneath wind-twisted trees and look down on broad, sweeping coves embraced in green... for all the nature documentaries and publicity, no one ever mentions you can find places on this continent so verdant.

Toward the end of the day we hike a couple of short Aussie-style mountains, looking east to the Sunshine Coast in its classic Australian sunbathed, beach-swept splendor. Then we turn to gaze south over the Glasshouse Mountains, broadly clustered ancient volcanic plugs jutting from the land toward Brisbane, and the sun sets on my first week in Queensland.