I wish I had a story about the wonderful 17 hours I spent in Adelaide between train rides. I mean, plenty happened–Scott and I found a hostel located subtly above a tiny pub; we made friends with four hip and friendly chicks in a colorful tea shop (it was like being in a colorful museum of tea kettles, mugs, and tiny plates) who drew us a map of the city; we discovered the city is laid out like a city should be, on a grid, unlike Sydney, which is laid out like a map threw up; we wandered into Chinatown to eat our first hot meal in days, delicious and tangy and brown; we found a grungy bar, which the tea girls recommended to us because we looked “grungy” (thanks?), and watched one of the best blues bands I’ve ever seen, an acoustic duo called Coops and the Bird. These things happened, but there’s no story.
I wish we could have spent more time in Adelaide, but not to find “a story to tell.” Instead because it was my favourite city of the entire trip–so much so that I added a stupid “u” to favorite like a real Aussie would (and to be fair–I haven’t yet been to Darwin or Melbourne, and I hear they are both pretty killer). Adelaide was like a baby Chicago. Honestly, I didn’t even realize I didn’t have a “story” for Adelaide until I realized it was time to write about the next portion of my adventure. And really, I think it is just fine that I don’t have a real story.
Most of the “stories” I’ve blogged have had to deal with me learning something or overcoming some inconvenience. Both of those things are good, and I never want to fall into a zone of comfort which would discourage me from being taught or being challenged. Even when you’re always trying to write something, sometimes it’s nice for everything to just work out. And Scott and I experienced Adelaide as well as two tourists can in 17 hours, so I think Adelaide just kind of “worked out.”
After another 24 hours on a train, we made it back home to Sydney. I spent most of the train ride sleeping, trying to get over a cold and sore throat, which quickly developed into tonsillitis (after six days of throat pain and a disgusting white pocket of pus on the left side of my throat, I went to a local doctor who diagnosed me with tonsillitis). So no story for the train ride either.
Now, because I feel like I owe you something (you’ve read all this way, right?): here is a list of towns with weird names Scott and I either drove through, drove past, or visited on our trip. It isn’t much, but I thought they were funny.