The Doctor, The Dancer, and Kyle

I was sitting on the balcony of the YHA in Adelaide trying to finish This Side of Paradise, and I was fighting off the thump-thump-thump-thump 4/4 of the club next door, the smokers below on the sidewalk blabbering intoxicated phrases, and a couple of guys playing various hair metal of the 80s. Guns ‘N’ Roses’ “Sweet Child of Mine” came on their playlist, and that song always reminds me of my mom. She has often told me that when I was a small, she would hold me and sing the song to me. Regardless of whatever prostitute the song was written for, I’ve always preferred the meaning behind my mom’s version.

I’ve been in Adelaide for four full days, and I only have one full day left before I leave early Wednesday morning for Melbourne. Adelaide has been my busiest times in Australia, and I owe the excitement to friends I’ve made via the Internet. I’ve experienced some nature: the beach. I’ve experienced some aesthetically pleasing scenery whizzing past me: endless rolling vineyards and low mountains/large hills yellowed with dried vegetation. Some culture: Australians performing Hamlet. Some funny: comedians. Some not so funny: the same comedians. Some music: I don’t remember the band names, but I think I drunkenly shook the hand and complimented a guy who was not in either band for putting on a great show. Some drinking: beer, wine, more beer, some more wine, and even a Red Bull and vodka (they gave me the whole can of Red Bull!). I’ve gone over 12 hours without a drink, and I’m feeling shaky.

To keep this blog from just being The Drunken Adventures of Kyle in Australia, I will attempt to account a mostly sober moment consisting of a doctor, a dancer, and me. I say mostly sober because I started out rather drunk.

I just returned to the YHA. I went straight to the kitchen to get myself hydrated. As I was chugging the water, I was asked by a slim, middle aged man who had just appeared next to me at the sink, “Can’t sleep either?”

“Actually I just got in.”

“Oh. I just can’t sleep in my room. Too warm and too noisy. I never sleep well in these hostels.”
“I was sweating more than I was sleeping last night.”

He made himself some tea, complained about a lack of milk, and moved to a couch. I wasn’t sure if I was invited to join him, but I followed him anyway. There we exchanged some more small talk. He was from Melbourne; I told him Chicago. He soon picked up a newspaper and started reading. I can take a hint, but I was feeling competitive.

“Oh, I should go get my book in my room. I won’t be sleeping for a while.” I tore off to my room and likely made a lot of noise while everyone else in the six-person dorm was trying to sleep.
I bounded back to the couch and started to read competitively. I was going to beat this hotshot at his own game. I was going to read for longer and with better comprehension. I had the degree in English. This was virtually my job.

Within an hour we drifted back into conversation. It was about 3am and we talked until he had to leave at 5:30 for a flight to Melbourne. The conversation lasted many cups of tea and numerous topics. He seemed to warm up to me quickly—I was sobering up—and as a result he tried to drive into my head that any thinking person should try to give meaning to their life. He said that it was good that I was young, traveling, bright, and had a good head on my shoulders, but that I needed to live day to day with an eye to the future. He talked about the decaying environment and the billions of people barely surviving poverty.

“If you get to my age and you haven’t been doing something that betters the world, if you just do a repetitive, mindless job, you’ll kick yourself. With the head on your shoulders, it’d be a waste. You can find something that not only you like to do, but something that helps people and will for years after you’re not here.”

“That’s kinda why I’m here. Not really sure what else I’d do. I have many interests, and I can’t see myself settling down with just one.”

“You can have hobbies and interests, that’s fine, but you also need one thing that you can concentrate on.” I wasn’t too sure that I agreed with this point, but I didn’t argue it. He continued, “It’s why I spend Monday through Thursday five hours west of here helping out people who can’t otherwise find assistance. Then I travel home to Melbourne on the weekends to see my sons. On Thursday nights I often find myself here, waiting for an early flight home.”

About 5am a woman walks in and joins our conversation. She is English, and her name is Bailey, and she is a dancer. She just got back from dancing. The doctor and her start a conversation about her travels around Australia. I’m not really included in the conversation, but I take the chance to make some observations. Bailey looks like a stripper. She has the clothes and the body and the hideously aged face. Her body could have been 25; her face could have been 40. Despite the British accent, she had a pleasant, if not thoughtful voice, soothing and sweet. Her eyes and mouth were too large for her small head, and it looked like she applied her makeup in layers.

In between occasional glances at her chest—they’re probably fake, but at least she didn’t get them supersized; they’re proportional to her body, so I’ll give her some credit there—I heard the doctor say, “You’re heading to Melbourne in a week? If you need a car, a real beater, I can give you one. Here’s my address, just look me up when you get there. The car is shit, but it goes.”

Bailey had a baffled look on her face. I was certainly confused and thought that maybe I should have been paying attention to their conversation as it seemed to have been far more interesting than that speculation on the naturalness of Bailey’s breasts.

The doctor had to leave to catch his flight, and left me alone with Bailey. She turned to me and said, “That was rather kind. Can you believe that?”

I chuckled a bit, “I can not. For as long as I was talking to him, I wish he had offered me a car.”
“It’s weird, you know. I don’t know how I feel about this. He seemed really kind, but I don’t know about going to his house. You know, it’s just odd.”

“That it is.”

We exchanged some more pleasant conversation. She went out of her way to tell me that she had a private room. That made me consider whether or not she was more than just a stripper. Would I pay for it? I don’t think it’d be worth much at all with her. Maybe from behind it’d be pretty good. Did she just want someone to hold for the night? Oh, Kyle, your mind races in all too human ways.

Any sort of companionship, at least with me, did not prove to be evident, and I felt an alarming amount of relief. She seemed hopeful to see me again, but I have not. I’m not exactly heartbroken.

I wandered off to bed and found that the resident bogan was up and ready for the day. A fascinating intersection of personalities, these hostels.