Okay, since I last posted anything a lot of things have been going on. Firstly, the total inventory of our house was literally shoved into a corner; punched, pinched and prodded, stood on and shoved until it fit into 2.5m³. Okay, the bed and big bulky things stayed, but the rest – including 15 paintings, a bunch of clothes, millions of CDs, bric-a-brac aka miscellaneous goods from Nepal, Myanmar, Borneo, Thailand, Cambodia, South Africa, Oz and of course Vietnam, including all my maps (yes, I love maps and I have a huge bunch of them) all got abused into the corner like so:
The kind folks over at JVK movers came around and in about an hour everything was bubble-wrapped, boxed, taped and wheeled away. Like so:
I must say these guys did an impressive job, Chris Honour, who is the manager, was pretty good and relaxed about it all – and that’s hard for me to say because he’s also the manager of the heathen enemy – the Saigon Saints. Grrr. The name evokes fist-clenching, bowel shaking memories of blue-clad, pasty Englishmen running around trying to kick the opposition instead of the ball. They are no saints. You’ll need to be a Saigon Raider to understand the feeling towards these beastly characters. I hope I get one last chance to get at ‘em before I leave. Breathe…
Oh, we also had a kickass party at Le Fenetre Soleil, which was a farewell for us (more for Sarah because I’m still around until August) as well as an au revoir to everyone’s main man MJ. We got some Wacko tunes on the iPod and the night was spent grabbing our crotches whilst shouting “Hee Hee, Shamone!” It was a fitting tribute, I just wish we had a monkey.
What else? Oh, lots of eating. Yes. The Park Hyatt’s Prosecco Brunch on Sundays. An experience not for the faint of heart – literally – you’ll die from cholesterol poisoning if you have a cardiac condition. It’s also not for the narrow of tum. From shaved parma ham with rock melon, to seared tuna and a mountain of fresh oysters and smoked salmon.To racks of lamb, roasts and pork loin. To Caesar’s, pasta salads, shrimp cocktails, a bevy of imported cheeses with fig jam, nuts and freshly baked bread. All washed down with an endless waterfall of Prosecco bubbly until you’re distended and keel over sidewards and slither across the floor to the nearest taxi, leaving thundering burps and crumbs in your wake. Yes, it’s that good.
This was all followed by a number of nights where we ended up at he outrageously themed and façaded “Crazy Buffalo” over numerous bottles of tequila to such a degree that the staff felt like they needed to thank us for single-handedly launching their new bar/chillout/sanitorium’s profits into the stratosphere by giving us each…wait for it…a Crazy Buffalo t-thirt. Erm…grand.
Now I’m here on my own as my heart has flown to Brisbane and I have 5 weeks of soulless meandering and thoughtless wondering to do until we’re reunited in Brissy as the locals like to refer to it. I’m catching up on my Aussie slang too and reckon I’m doing a fine job of it. It’s not hard, all you have to do is add a –zza or –o suffix to nearly everything.
As in – “My mate Wazza and I were feeling a bit crook one arvo so we decided to pick up a goon bag at the bottle-o to wash away our sorrow’s and had a bloody’ rippa!” Sorted. Oh and you have to be able to smoke buckets, a Brisvegaz specialty. I’m still working on that little nuanced skill so if you haven’t heard from me in a few weeks you’ll know I’ve succeeded and mastered the fine Queensland art of bucketeering.
The kind folks over at JVK movers came around and in about an hour everything was bubble-wrapped, boxed, taped and wheeled away. Like so:
I must say these guys did an impressive job, Chris Honour, who is the manager, was pretty good and relaxed about it all – and that’s hard for me to say because he’s also the manager of the heathen enemy – the Saigon Saints. Grrr. The name evokes fist-clenching, bowel shaking memories of blue-clad, pasty Englishmen running around trying to kick the opposition instead of the ball. They are no saints. You’ll need to be a Saigon Raider to understand the feeling towards these beastly characters. I hope I get one last chance to get at ‘em before I leave. Breathe…
Oh, we also had a kickass party at Le Fenetre Soleil, which was a farewell for us (more for Sarah because I’m still around until August) as well as an au revoir to everyone’s main man MJ. We got some Wacko tunes on the iPod and the night was spent grabbing our crotches whilst shouting “Hee Hee, Shamone!” It was a fitting tribute, I just wish we had a monkey.
What else? Oh, lots of eating. Yes. The Park Hyatt’s Prosecco Brunch on Sundays. An experience not for the faint of heart – literally – you’ll die from cholesterol poisoning if you have a cardiac condition. It’s also not for the narrow of tum. From shaved parma ham with rock melon, to seared tuna and a mountain of fresh oysters and smoked salmon.To racks of lamb, roasts and pork loin. To Caesar’s, pasta salads, shrimp cocktails, a bevy of imported cheeses with fig jam, nuts and freshly baked bread. All washed down with an endless waterfall of Prosecco bubbly until you’re distended and keel over sidewards and slither across the floor to the nearest taxi, leaving thundering burps and crumbs in your wake. Yes, it’s that good.
This was all followed by a number of nights where we ended up at he outrageously themed and façaded “Crazy Buffalo” over numerous bottles of tequila to such a degree that the staff felt like they needed to thank us for single-handedly launching their new bar/chillout/sanitorium’s profits into the stratosphere by giving us each…wait for it…a Crazy Buffalo t-thirt. Erm…grand.
Now I’m here on my own as my heart has flown to Brisbane and I have 5 weeks of soulless meandering and thoughtless wondering to do until we’re reunited in Brissy as the locals like to refer to it. I’m catching up on my Aussie slang too and reckon I’m doing a fine job of it. It’s not hard, all you have to do is add a –zza or –o suffix to nearly everything.
As in – “My mate Wazza and I were feeling a bit crook one arvo so we decided to pick up a goon bag at the bottle-o to wash away our sorrow’s and had a bloody’ rippa!” Sorted. Oh and you have to be able to smoke buckets, a Brisvegaz specialty. I’m still working on that little nuanced skill so if you haven’t heard from me in a few weeks you’ll know I’ve succeeded and mastered the fine Queensland art of bucketeering.
8 comments:
Wow, you're almost ready to go! Wow, it must be really hard to leave such a beautiful coutry, I loved your random photos in the previus post!
You're moving! Sorry... I've been out of the loop...
I'm interested to read your adventures in Brisbane. It is one of the places I want to move myself. Mostly, I just want to move somewhere that has no winter. Ever.
Last week I made a research in Brisbane.It's so beautiful city. Do you work as a teacher or a journalist there? I hope you will be a teacher because you're a funny teacher. I'm waiting for your pics in Brisbane. Let's enjoy your new life.
That breakfast sounds stupendous. It must be sad to pack everything up like that, and say goodbye to such a cool place.
Ha, I love how the slang sounds like. I cannot wait to hear about your move to Brisbane ^^
Yeah, it's a real dichotomy, the excitement of moving to Brisbane and the sadness of leaving this wonderful place after three and a half years. Sigh.
Pham Ha - I know, it looks like a beautiful city. Hopefully I can do a bit of both - teaching and journalism :)
Emm - it's freezing cold in Brissy at the moment! Hehe
Buckateering with bourbon swilling bogans in Brissy - are you sure this is the right move?
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