Luna Puke

Tonight we are going to Sydney's Luna Park for my going away party.




Why?

Because I am tall enough.

Finally.




Luna Park is an old amusement park in downtown Sydney that sits just under the Harbour Bridge opposite the Sydney Opera House, which makes for a beautiful backdrop from the ferris wheel at night.



They offer a special deal on Fridays at Luna Park: all the rides you can ride and a free beverage (alcohol, if you're over 18) for only $20.

Rides? Alcohol? What sort of sense of twisted humour is that?

This is why Crash & I call it "Luna Puke."

It's raining right now, though (after a whole week of sun!), so I'm not sure if we'll still go. It's one thing to be cold — but cold, wet, and spinning like a pile of socks in a dryer?

Maybe it's not such a good idea.

So, just in case it doesn't happen, just in case we end up in a pub instead, here are some photos from when Crash and I went to Luna Park back in April. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

. . . . .

The Marvelous Entrance:






Oooooh... I think I'm going to HURLLLLLL

There is such a thing as TOO much centrifugal force. Luna Park LOVES centrifugal force — and lots of it. Even the rollercoaster, small and quick, makes me scream as it hurtles towards corners, turning at the last minute, my body crushed against one side of the car and the safety bar janning into my gut as the car tips ever so slightly, just enough for me to think, "My god, this ride is NOT safe. What happened to safety checks?" We ride it 3 times before Crash lets me in on the secret: the car is supposed to tip. His engineer eye figured out the system the 2nd time we were in line. I scowl in mock hurt.




More spinny-spin-spin rides. We rode ALL of them.













In this "simple" ride, the cylinder spins: the first half in one direction, the second in the opposite. Your assignment? Walk through it without falling down.

It helps to be tall. Well, taller than a 10-year old, that is.



The Innocent Ferris Wheel. Centrifugal force at its most gentlest.





Fun in the Funhouse:




















The Giant Slide in the funhouse is soooo simple. A staff worker gives you a potato sack, and you climb the stairs. There's a friendly sign telling us how to ride the potato sack.



It's all simple enough — until you get to the top of the stairs and look down.




Bumper cars: they've got nothing to do with centrifugal force. But they are all about sparks. And Crash and I like things that just might catch on fire. It was, surprisingly enough, the ride with the longest line in the park. But we have to do it, just like every other kid.

I suppose it's the feeling of control; there wasn't one single kid that wasn't in the driver's seat, and not one single parent riding next to them that didn't have one hand on the wheel in a futile effort to gain control of the uncontrollable. It was payback time for each and every one of us, guilty or not.




On the House

At sometime that night — after Crash stopped feeling ill but before I started — we took a break and went to the mini-disco lounge bar in the middle of the park.



Our tickets that night included one free drink. Crash wisely chose the tummy-calming Sprite. I could not resist temptation and went for the glass of wine. We sat calmy in the bar, psyching ourselves up for the next batch of rides. It was a weird juxtaposition. Where was the cotton candy?




Grand Finale

This was the ride that as a kid, I loved: the Rotor. You get into a cylinder, your back flat against the wall and feet firmly planted on the floor. The room starts to spin, faster and faster, until the floor drops out. You are stuck to the wall. Brave people turn sideways, defying gravity. It is the ultimate centrifugal force ride, and I'd ride it again and again and again at Hershey Park when I was a kid.

I get in, excited. But all of 10 seconds into the spinning, I want out. Now. "Make it stop...make it STO-O-O-O-O-O-P!" I scream to Crash. He laughs. I can't seem to move my head; my neck is stuck sideways. The person beside me is upside down and in my peripheral vision I can see the dirty amusement park soles of sneakers. I close my eyes.

Bad idea.

I open them, stare at the center pole. It's the only thing NOT moving. I focus on it. It will be over soon. Very soon. Hang on, hang on.

It's the last ride I ride that night. I have to sit down afterwards. It's late, almost closing time, so we head back to the train station and make our way home. I close my eyes the entire way back, certain that if I open them, the floor of the train will drop out and I'll go hurtling off into a spinning abyss.

Wine & Pringles, $7

As I prepare to leave for the States and say goodbye to friends, I am chided by them about returning to the "The Land of the Free" — and then they all laugh like they know some deep, dark secret.

And so I respond that yes, I am returning to the planet that I came from, but if it's truly the Land of the Free, then why don't US movie theatres offer the wonderful "Wine & Pringles Special" like our local theatre here in Sydney?

Yes, it's true, Wine & Pringles. Are you doing the happy dance too?

Dale & Danni came over Monday night and the 4 of us wandered through our lovely little punk-rock neighborhood to go see the movie HIDDEN, starring Juliet Binoche. It's French, so it's really called CACHÉ, and it had bona fide subtitles (although they kept randomly switching the typeface... oooooh, how that drove me NUTS!) No offense to my French Friends, but it was so boring that the most exciting part was the wine & pringles.

Which was why we were there to begin with, so who cares about the movie?

So here's the scenario: Monday night is cheap ticket night, and when you mosey up to the bar (yep, bar), you are not inundated with dancing popcorn buckets and sparkly boxes of candy, but dignified bottles of wine, taps of beer, and chocolate covered ice cream cones. I honestly don't know if you can even get popcorn there, but when my eyes saw the sign advertising "Wine & Pringles, $7", I forgot all about the popcorn.

We all did.

Each of us got the special: a glass (real glass!) of red wine, and a cute little can of Pringles — and we all went for sour cream and onion. Not the best of combos, perhaps even a bit gross, but it's wine & Pringles. There's nothing high class about it. So why worry?



We waited in the lobby until they opened the theatres, and then we went in with our glasses of wine. That was a shock, as was the fact that no one checked our tickets — and here we are in the city! So we go sit in the theater, in the most cushiony chairs ever (better than the Sydney Opera House, even!), which had cup holders for the wine glasses.



I heart this culture.

Ice, Ice, Baby

Crash is a wanted man.

There's not a day that goes by that a recruiter doesn't call; they all want to know if he's available and if he'll consider this offer and that offer and can he meet with so-and-so tomorrow morning at 7am and what's his asking price?

He finally accepted a sweet job (corner cubicle with a window and the word "senior" in his title) the other day, and so after he signed on the dotted line, we met up downtown at Circular Quay (pronounced "key") for celebratory drinks.

Where do you go when you're so hot that employers won't stop calling?

An ice bar, of course.

It's a bit touristy, but aside from Burningman or the North Pole, when else will you have a chance to go to a bar where everything is made of ice (even the glasses) and it's so cold that the bartenders are only allowed to work 1 hr shifts and guests are only allowed to stay 30 minutes at a time?

The bar requires that you wear their standard issue hooded parka, 2 layers of gloves, and if you happen to have arrived in open-toes shoes, their furry booties as well. Crash was really disappointed that he didn't get the booties.



Once you are fully dressed, you have to watch a video about safety in the slightly chilly ante-room. This gives you a chance to acclimate to the freezing temps and reminds the less-wise residents of perpetual tropical paradise that it is NOT wise to stick your tongue on the bar, ice sculptures, or wall, as it will stick. Nor is it wise to drink from the fountain of water that somehow is running in spite of the sub-zero temperatures.

As if I'd stick my face in a fountain. Hmmph. (But really, the fact that they even mentioned that makes me think that some idiot actually did exactly that.)

We entered in and the world turned freezing blue and distortingly transparent.








The entry fee was steep ($24 with a coupon), but at least it included the arctic garb we had to wear plus one vodka drink — of the bartender's choice. On Tuesday it happened to be vodka with orange juice and mango juice, and when I reached for mine in my dual-lined gloves, I was quickly admonished by the bartender.

"Two hands, please."

I blushed in spite of the cold, put my purse in Crash's backpack and took the drink in my mitts with both hands.










Crash and I are harsh critics. We were thoroughly amused but disappointed that the floor was not also made of ice. Crash speculated it was a liability. The fixtures were VERY cool (pun intended), ranging from sculptures of Sydney's Harbour bridge and various animals to, of course, a maple leaf (the ice, I read on their website, came from Canada):












And the furniture was amazing as well: ice chandeliers, ice tables, ice sofas & chairs (which were covered in fur so that you didn't freeze to them)...:












We would have had another drink, but at $15 a pop (and a limit of 3), we thought better of it. We wandered about the bar some more, snapping photos and touching EVEYRYTHING. It is against the rules to take your gloves off, and I really would have liked to in order to better handle the camera. I've skied (and camped) in far worse conditions than this; surely I can survive 5 second without the gloves? I mean, isn't that what the vodka is for?

The atmosphere, once the amazement of ice-environs wore off, was a bit dead. No one was really interested in socializing as they were all there in their own groups — and it was COLD. There was some dance music playing, lights changing to all different colors. It all looked very cool, reflecting and refracting through the ice, but Crash and I were a bit relieved when the brick-sized timers around our necks marked the 5 minute warning for our time limit.

Yes, you wear a timer around your neck. Yes, it blinks and beeps and vibrates and in general would make you feel like an utter moron if it weren't for the fact that EVERYONE was wearing them.

And because we are totally at home being utter morons around each other, Crash and I had a good time. I think the furry hoods had something to do with it.