The best thing about Brisbane cannot be its coffee. Nor its nachos.
Right. Why would I order nachos 12,000 miles away from Mexico? Because Australia is like America with a better accent, so I got confused for a minute. (Pretty sure I just offended whatever the population of Australia is.)
Anyway, one of my favorite ways to see a city is to run it. Early Tuesday morning, I woke up, slipped on my Vibrams, then headed down the waterfront pathway. I ran along the harbor, through the botanical gardens, across a bridge and to Memorial Park, a gem-like arboretum a couple of miles from the hotel. Brisbane, it seems, is an athletic city. At 6 a.m. the waterside trail was teeming with other runners. I got passed by a girl. I’m not super fast or anything – girls just don’t pass me. I picked up my pace, but then she left the trail so that I eventually just had to swallow defeat to someone who had no idea she was racing.
If nothing else I will remember Brisbane for the moment when I almost died. On Tuesday night, my co-worker and I were heading back from a gnarly dinner at a weaksauce restaurant. (F*ck you I should’ve known better than to order pad thai at an English pub.) We left the place in silence, our meals quarter-eaten, me with a scowl on my face. We decide to pick up some candy from a convenience store across the street. I can’t remember what I was thinking about, but I know I was lost in thought. As I stepped into the street I heard, “Watch out! Watch out! Watch out!” Bret was screaming at me. I looked up and immediately saw two cars speeding past me to my left. I felt their draft on my face.
I didn’t have one of those moments where your life flashes before your face, as they say. Rather, my knees started to shake, I wanted to go home, and I wanted to cry. Feeling like you’re about to die is scary. I went back to my hotel room and ordered french fries.