After our narrow escape, we were on a mission to not be eaten by a dinosaur. Our mission brought us to where we had intended to go anyway, Hobart.
With a warm sunset the dino-free capital ushered us straight to the fanciest placed I have ever stayed. This was no five star lodge, this was…The Islington.
After driving past the entrance many many times (fancy places don’t have signs…apparently) we finally arrived and were let in by the doorboy. He told me his name, but when you are fancy there is no need to remember names.
Doorboy calmly collected our baggage, both physical and emotional and placed it at the front door 3 meters away. Standing there was Madame Gestionnaire de la residence, or for those that don’t use Google translate to make themselves sound cultured – Mrs House Manager. Perhaps it was my skinny jeans and skate shoes stained with Oysters Kilpatrick, but I immediately knew that I was not fancy enough to be there. I tried to convince myself that I did belong, and almost felt I did until the house tour began with “On the right is our Red Room.”
Oh god, they have an entire room dedicated to my least favourite primary colour.
“On the left is our morning room.” This was misleading as there were people in it during the the tour, so technically it’s an all-day room.
The library and kitchen were just as stunning as the other rooms and there was a variety of Tasmanian whiskys at the bar. Delighted with the establishment we lugged our bodies up the staircase behind Doorboy who managed all 3 bags as well as a clay model skeleton that +1 had brought with her. I suspected it was some kind of marriage voodoo doll but I ignored it aside from occasionally sticking my own body hair on it to ensure authenticity.
The room was superb, from the world’s most comfortable bed you could see Mt Wellington poking into the ominous clouds that had made their way across the last of the sunset. To round out our welcome there was a nicely stocked bar and a frosted glass bathroom, because there is nothing sexier than seeing a silhouette of your significant other sitting on the toilet watching sports highlights. After sharing that romantic moment we left the Islington to join some friends for dinner and got into all manner of strife. I remember a majestic impression of a tiger snake and then waking up with the worst hangover of the trip.
Chef saved my life with his signature hangover cure breakfast – eggs, bacons, homemade baked beans, relish, spinach, mushrooms and those little yummy sausages. With a mouth full of sausage, we checked out and decided to get cultured, Tasmanian style.
The Museum of Old and New Art is a fun way to become immersed in a provocative and intriguing collection of David Walsh tax breaks. Navigating a dark and confusing underground art bunker with a severe hangover is not fun. I sat down in the TV room and began round two with my hangover and my subsequent decent into insanity. My childlike sense of wonder had all but disappeared, the fat Porsche was kind of cool, the ping pong table had severe design issues and the poo maker ensured that I would swallow my own vomit at least once that day. If you are unsure of what the hell I am talking about, do yourself a favour and check it out – for art’s sake.
I took my fill of culture and my body had rejected it, violently. With a sweaty forehead and vombreath I managed to make my way out of the depths of the MONA and back up to the open air. To my surprise there was a free concert with some eastern European gypsie-fusion band and a plethora of food stalls. I scoured them searching for a treat that would land the coward punch on my hangover.
Fortunately I found the Captain Falcon of street food – the Po’ Boy. I sat in the shade with +1 and we listened to some gypsy-fusion while I ingested the most delicious hangover cure of all time.
After busting one hangover, I instantly developed a thirst for busting. Ghosts seem like the logical thing to bust next. So we drove to Port Arthur, where ghosts live. But that’s a story for another time…