Monday, June 15, 2009

When the weekend is perfect

This year, I made a decision. It would be different. It would be fun. It would be adventurous. Something to write home about.

And it has been. I am happy.

Friday night my high school friend Chez and I took the hour and 15 minute flight to Byron Bay to see Kylie, the missing piece in our 4, (Rachel jetted to the UK for 2 years). Chezy and I decided, being ladies of leisure, we really should drink a glass of red...however, empty stomachs, a flight deadline, and sculling wine is not conducive to sophistication or ladies of leisure. I needed a medium fries from McD's to soak up the alcohol that was impairing my vision, while Chez followed a man into the bathroom, noticed a pilot, whom she considered asking if he was flying us to Byron. Thankfully she noticed that urinals are not meant to be in the same place we go to the bathroom. Normally shy and awkward Chez spun on her feet and retreated, tapping a strange man on the shoulder on her way out; "Wrong bathroom" she claimed as she found her way back to the females.

We barely made it on the flight, sitting momentarily in our giggles, before realising the FINAL CALL was flashing for our sake.

Byron Bay was perfect. Friday night was spent sipping cocktails and devouring tappas in a Cambodian inspired terrace overlooking the dark beach. It was good to have the 3 of us back together again. Even if we were freezing in our dresses and barely there gloves.

We managed to pull our heads from the pillow Saturday morning, and slide into the spa by the pool, wishing soy latte's would appear in our hands. Later we enjoy a brunch of gourmet organic Byron style on the deck, once again gazing at the beach. This time it is crystal clear and perfect.

The Lighthouse, destination of tourist and locals alike, proudly and prominently over looks Cape Byron, protecting the residents from the foes of pirate ships and liners. We park our car, don our Haviana's and shorts (it's a lot warmer then freezing Sydney) and apply the suncream. A policeman pulls up in his car beside us.

Me: "Are we allowed to park here?"
Police man: "No, that will be $400 each." We pause. "I just wanted to warn you, there's a man along the walk flashing he's dick at people." A little taken back we giggle. "Nothing to worry about, just ask for a closer look than knee him. I'd love to be a chick for a day and inflict some pain. Unfortunately I carry a gun for a living. Have a good walk girls".

We embark. Half laughing at our macho policeman, half searching the bushes for WatchDickMan.

20 minutes in, gossip over old school friends and scandals is flowing, as we climb the hundreds of stairs. Down trod a pair of shoes, then some knees, blue shorts, and OMG, the tiniest little pin dick I've ever seen (not that I've seen my share), flopping disgracefully out his shorts. We stop talking, mid sentence and pass in silence, our eyes diverted anywhere but the sad little man, with a poor excuse for a member. If your going to be flinging it everywhere, at least make sure it's a descent size. Seriously!

The light house and view was breath taking. A rescue helicopter was hovering close and low, while boats searched the rocky grave bellow us. Someone was lost. We said a silent but pleading prayer.

Our walk took us along the heavenly beach, which saw me strip off and dive between the waves and white sand. Mid winter ocean swims that aren't cold. Is it better in Heaven?

We ambled through the hippy shops, snacked on sushi and edemame on the beach and drove towards the country with the sun setting over the mountains. We fed horses, and played with dogs. Watched chick flicks, drank copious amounts of red wine. Video-ed a hello for Rach in far away London and snuggled into bed, relaxed and tired from a perfect day of 4km walking and love advice between fitting rooms and red wine.

Sunday we visited the hippy markets in the hills, where pot and tarot were as common as chemists and camera shops at the local mall in Sydney. I wished for the morning I had been born into a hippy commune, and had dreads and sang folk songs on a colourful pillow while sipping chai.

It was sad to leave, but the sun was setting over the mountains, natures way of reminding us gently, the perfect weekend was over. The plane to reality was waiting. As we were boarding, the captain, who was welcoming us on the 'helicopter' of a plane, expressed a keen like for my bonnet hat with pink bow. I in return made mention of how I liked his captain hat, and would he like to swap. I spent the majority of the flight with the captains hat on my head, while holding Chez's hand through the turbulence.

When we were safely and landed in Sydney, I ducked to the bathroom at the back before we got off. Suddenly, mid wee (squat wee - cause no one sits on plane seats), the lights went out. Not only that, but it was up there with the longest wee of my life. There I was, in pitch blackness, wee-ing my heart out with no light. I heard voices coming from outside, and commotion. It took a split second to realise, the male voices were inches away from where my bum was held high above the seat, naked. I wee-ed faster, convinced they were about to open the door, and reveal my humiliation to the crew. Thank goodness my body obeyed and I escaped the black hole and found my hat again.

There really is nothing like a weekend with girlfriends to relax you, give you a tan, and make you happy for friendships that span school days, boyfriends, heartbreaks, new jobs, a parent's death, moving away and the fear of the future.

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