Kings Cross - Where the Wild Things Are

This weekend produced some seriously bizarre moments. Friday was our friend Amy’s 30th birthday, and we ventured into the Cross to celebrate. Ryan had heard plenty of stories regarding Kings Cross, but the events of the night superseded all the tales. Long story short, a little after midnight we walked across the street, descended some stairs, and entered a subterranean club called Candy’s to dance. Sydneysiders are equal to the English in their love of bad techno, and the group enjoyed dancing to the pulsating beats. Not being a giant fan of ‘doomf doomf’ music, I opted to take a seat and enjoy people watching with a bottle of beer with Ryan. Let me assure you, there is no better city for people watching than Sydney. The horrible, nay hideous, fashion statements parade around in unabashed and unbridled pride, and is quote simply astounding. Imagine the worst 80’s fashion that you can possibly conjure up in your mind, and mentally vomit the thoughts onto a person. Voila, you instantly have a Sydney fashionista. A rampant example would be Boy George’s flock of seagulls haircut, which many a young Sydney bloke (lemming) sport happily along with their ‘flouro’ t-shirt (neon, hideous neon). The girls are even more adventurous (train wrecks), rocking their unflattering shirt dresses which look like rejects from Cyndi Lauper’s closet. Quite simply, I was in heaven getting to see Ryan’s face rapidly change from disbelief to sheer pity and back again. Candy’s played one good song, Wham’s ‘Wake Me Up’, and I danced and profoundly imagined gasoline being poured all over myself. But the techno returned, and I reclaimed my seat to continue watching all the pathetic victims walk and dance by. Ryan returned from the bathroom with some crazy news, someone had been stabbed right outside the club. 5 minutes later, the lights turned on and the music was turned off, and police officers were talking to the DJ’s asking them if they could make an announcement asking for any witnesses. The lights went down and music began to play again, yet Ryan leaned close and said somewhat distractedly, ‘I can’t believe guys here wear white Keds!’ Nothing about the stabbing mind you, but rather what a wacked out and terrible idea it is for grown men to wear white Keds. My sentiments exactly! After 2 more songs, the lights again came on and we were informed the club was being closed for the night. Everyone was ushered out the back door and into a dirty alley. Our group walked around to the front of the club on the way back to Amy and Brett’s place. The entire front area was taped off, cops were everywhere, and police lights filled the darkness. The sidewalk was covered in a pool of blood, something straight out of CSI, and photographers took pictures of the scene. Yet it felt surreal, and the huge crowds lent to it an almost spectacle like fiasco rather than the gruesome crime scene that it was. Back at the apartment we talked about what a crazy night it had been. The night ended late, and a group of 5 walked from the Cross back into the CBD along Williams Street. This particular street is famous for 2 reasons, super car dealerships (Ferrari, Lamborghini, Maseratti) and hookers. Frankly, I was giddy coming up to one of the little parks that dot the street. I had a preternatural sense that there would be something completely bizarre to witness. Our friend Jeremy quietly noted that the area was renowned for Transvestite hookers, and 3 seconds later we cruise by, what else, a tranny hooker. Perfect way to end the night.

On Saturday we took Ryan to the Paddington Market after a flat white from Barefoot. I am always amazed at how much better Paddington Market is compared to pretty much any other market in Sydney. While most of the markets sell trinkets from Asia, Paddington has local artisan’s who make quality, unique products. It is by far the best place to get a gift in Sydney, in my humble opinion of course. We headed back into the Cross, or rather Darlinghurst that night to go eat dinner at Kika, a tapas bar. The bus from Circular Quay to Kings Cross dropped us off practically right outside of Candy’s, yet there was even more drama on the street again as we walked down the road. Instead of a stab victim, we were greeted with an unconscious man lying in the middle of the sidewalk who was being given mouth to mouth by a prostitute (not a tranny). The man reeked of booze, but Ryan was concerned and asked the woman if she needed help. She declined and Ryan was worried that the man needed chest compressions. An ambulance sped to the scene and we decided to head to the restaurant. After a scrumptious dinner, we walked up the road to go see a movie at Govindas, a Hare Krishna run restaurant and cinema. The cinema is so cool, because your seats are actually huge futons with pillows. Very comfortable, perhaps too comfortable because Veronica snoozed the entire way through ‘Be Kind Rewind’. The movie was decent, nothing to get extremely excited about, but still entertaining nonetheless.

Sunday was a bit of a lay day. Made some food, did some laundry, watched the news. The World News reported on the Bush wedding, which ended up being a hilarious report. The reporter interviewed some hillbilly’s who had driven to Crawford to buy souvenirs. One old man interviewed was perhaps the biggest hick I have ever seen. Think of the biggest stereotype you can think of and this man fit it to a T. His slow drawl seemed straight out of a movie, and he eloquently stated that ‘Thems our royal family’ while he cackled like an insane person. It was a fitting end to the weekend.

Veronica wasn’t happy that I wanted to write about the events of this weekend. Her concern was that our families would be worried, and I can definitely see her point. However, Sydney is statistically a far safer city to live in than Dallas. The murder per capita rates don’t even compare, and let’s be honest, this weekend was a one off for us, as we never go out anymore.