Traveling south in search of work, I landed myself plop center of the largest city in Australia. Its the Aussies New York. Full of people and possibilities.
I stumble into my 6 bed female dorm of my hostel, and while most came and left during my stay, Marta was my bunk mate for my whole stay in Sydney.
Marta, hailing from Poland, is what I would consider a ‘fashionista’. She’s cute and stylish (just ask her) and knows exactly what is vogue for the season. You can imagine her surprise then when she invited me clubbing at one of the most exclusive clubs in Sydney, and we open my suitcase.
Now let me remind you, I come from Colorado. Leaving my hiking boots was hard for me. I met a kid whose mother wrote the book series ‘princesses wear cowgirl/hiking boots’. I have short hair and can rebuild a Porsche carburetor. While I like to dress up now and again, style and big name fashion is lost on me.
We argued over the style differences between mountain town and Europe, and with two hours of scrutinized clothes and accessory picking, we finally found an outfit we were both (mostly) happy with. (She didn’t like that I didn’t have a ‘clutch’ bag. And I found my bag with a strap to be more practical.)
The night of the club, which doubled as my last night in Sydney, called for a quick clothing swap, (dresses had to be more ‘clubbish’ than the nice/semiformal attire that we picked earlier,) and we were off.
We got to the club, following the current of people through the back alleys of Sydney. They weren’t your sinister paths that you get in the cities of the states. The ally was lined with fine dining and cafes, where large windows showed into the world of candlelit dinners and black tie dinning.
Were in line, showing our passports (as drivers licenses are sometimes not accepted since security may not be able to tell a fake,) and after showing ours to a security guard, are pulled out of line and asked to stand to the side. My heart starts to race and I wonder if maybe Marta was right about how strict the dress code was. Then he pulls out more of the ladies behind us, and I remember – ladies night. We shuffle into the elevator to bypass the crowd into the club, and make our way to the bar for our happy hour wine. The club took up over two floors and the seating areas were decorated in everything from tropics, to a 1920’s theme, to a Mediterranean-esque.
We danced for only a few hours, as I had just gotten over a cold, so late nights were low in my capabilities. 2am, I start to drag, my body seems heavy, my eyelids can’t stay open, and decide I have to go home.
Not 5 paces out the door, and Marta teaches me the ‘cultural difference between the states and Europe’, and found my inability to stay awake a disgrace to the art of clubbing.  Used to going out until 4 or 5 in the morning, and getting up at 6, Marta had a form of ‘clubbing super power’.

I however will have to join the other day goers now, as my next post will be on my farm work job, which requires early mornings and early nights.