My skin was in the process of turning into crispy, delicious bacon. Oh, and I was in Australia, visiting one of the hottest and sunniest places in the country, because my friend here was inconsiderate enough to choose such a place to live before I got horrifically sunburned. I arrived in Perth in the middle of the night, having spent most of the flight with a napkin or some toilet paper in hand so I can dab away wherever my face had decided to spontaneously start leaking. Again, something I did not know was a thing that happened. I was picked up at the airport by my friend Jessie and taken to my sleeping digs for the night, her boyfriend's couch. Now, my plan had been to stay at Jessie's apartment, but I find out that thanks to her new job as an au pair, her apartment no longer exists. Or, it does exist, but its new residents probably wouldn't take kindly to me passing out on their couch. Either way, it looked like my imposing would have to be transferred to her kindly Australian beau Dan for the time being.
You might be wondering why I couldn't be bothered to find out beforehand the details of my sleeping arrangement, and that's understandable. Basically, plans are like sunscreen. I didn't have any, and by this point I was more pus than man so cut me some slack.
The next morning I shower, Jessie makes me french toast, and I'm told to get the fuck out. But, polite. There's a nearby hostel called Underground Backpackers that I check into, and discover that the price for a dorm bed starts at 30 dollars a night.
Now, that's 30 dollars Australian, so I would've been relieved, except I had also discovered this colorful Monopoly crap they call money was standing almost 1:1 with the the once-reliable-now-shameful US buck. 30 freaking dollars. I'm not entirely sure what "rue the day" actually means, but I'm pretty sure I was doing it, or Underground Backpackers should be doing it.
But O what opulence did 30 dollars buy...
I meet Dan and Jessie later for dinner, but not before stopping at a "Chemist's" (pharmacy) for some "plasters" (bandages) for my "blister" (still-oozing leg hole). Not being one for half-measures, I applied all of them and called it a day.
All fixed.
After eating we wander the city, and Dan gives me a brief rundown on life in Perth.
For one, there are no 24-hour stores. It's a silly government law, and it means that even grocery stores are only allowed to be open till 10pm. And I'm told that even 10pm is considered generous, and it used to be even earlier. Of even more concern is the lack of happy hours in the city. I was never able to find a proper explanation for this, other than the complete and utter breakdown of civilization in Australia. Once you take away affordable drinks, it's just Thunderdome from here on out.
Somewhere, Whitney Houston is strapping on chainmail shoulder pads because of these prices.
Then, there was the Bell Tower:
Home to some bells that were such-and-such centuries old, but mostly notable for representing the cock and balls of the guy in charge of the project. Or, since the tower was cut down in size due to budget controversy, it more accurately represents his shrunken and emasculated package.
Back at the hostel I get to put my own sheets on my top bunk in an effort designed to make me uncomfortable as possible, before falling asleep to the gentle sounds of the couple below me dry-humping.
A good deal of the following morning is spent picking at my sunburn, letting the peelings drift down to the bunk below me where the couple is one of those types that took an extra bedsheet so they could drape a privacy curtain around their bed. Basically, fuck them. A short list of things I notice about my body around this time:
My blisters had not stopped leaking, and were rapidly exceeding the absorption capacity of my bandages (as evidenced by the thick, white patches in the photographs). In some spots, the adhesive would give out and I would find the discharge running down my feet. Also, typing "discharge" nearly made me throw up just now.
And I found these fun orange/yellow lines running down my legs. I thought it was just my skin being wacky, and later doctors told me they were lines of infection. So, in a way we were both right.
Finally, the Australian sunscreen I bought is so thick that it sticks to all the cracks in my face and outlines them, leaving me looking a little something like this:
Now that I look like a bloodless lizard-person, I'm finally ready to face the day. Preferably, in a cool, shaded, and mirror-free environment. Jessie and I go to a bar that has a deal on pizza and a beer for 15 dollars, making a grotesque mockery of the word "deal". Afterwards, we arrange to meet for an outdoor movie later, and I scuttle back to a Chemist's for some spray-on sunscreen and dressings, because those packs of bandages are also 15 goddamn bucks.
By now most of my old bandages have solidified, so I have to cut away the soaked parts and cover up the blister with my new dressings. Unfortunately, I had forgotten to buy any tape. Instead, I fold up some toilet paper and tie it carefully around my ankle in an impressive display of Boy Scout ingenuity.
I didn't think it looked too bad, all things considered.
I hop on the bus for the outdoor theater in Warwick, and no sooner had I sat down than my toilet-paper tourniquette ripped into a pile of carefully-folded pieces. But I was getting used to these trials, and after digging around in my backpack, I finally tie the dressing off with a USB cord. There are no pictures of this, because I had finally descended from Boy Scout improvisation to Hobo levels of desperation and despair. My only hope was Australians would mistake it for some sort of American-chic cyberpunk fashion, which frankly didn't seem too unlikely given the sea of popped collars I found myself in. Sometimes two or three to a single douchebag.
I get lost trying to find the theater, have to ask directions multiple times, and finally stumble to the right place 20 minutes after the movie has already started. And since I hadn't asked Jessie beforehand, what movie should be playing, to reward all my efforts? Burlesque, starring Christina Aguilera and Cher. A movie so foul that it should count itself lucky I used up my quota for the word "discharge". I tell myself that this whole "no plans, no details" bullshit needs to end now, immediately. After the living abortion of a film finishes, I'm able to find Jessie and eat some leftover Domino's. On each Tuesday every Australian in the world orders Domino's, because you can get a whole pizza for 10 dollars and if you happened to miss it amidst all my pus-talk, Australia is fucking expensive.
Back in my hostel that night, I'm treated to the obnoxious howling of drunken Aussie card players while I try to read and nurse a growing national prejudice. I sleep angry.
The next day, however, I awake refreshed and optimistic. My peeling had started to subside, my face had shrunk back down to an acceptable level of thickness, and now I was going to make the best of a beautiful day. Sometimes an angry sleep is all you need (True?).
So I go for a walk. Damn the expense, I was going to have a good breakfast and really see the town.
I wander into the college district, sizing up cafes here and there, noticing the surprising number of internet cafes for a country that only just figured out that the internet is not, in fact, an invisible monster trying to steal their women, when I stumble; a sharp, wet pain runs along the length of one toe. I look down.
And wish I hadn't. The reason for the blood geyser now erupting from my foot was a meter-long open pipe welded into the middle of the sidewalk. Why? My best guesses involve either Mad Max, or the government, or both. Fuck everything holy and beloved. I look around for any open storefront in the immediate vicinity, and leave a literal blood trail as I limp to an Indian restaurant up the block.
I don't know how other people would react in this situation, but I remember the main thought in my head at the time was, "I feel really rude bleeding all over these peoples' doorway." I ask if they have a first aid kit. They don't. Of course. What they do have is a pitcher of water to rinse away some of the blood, and a roll of paper towels to wrap the toe in.
All fixed.
They recommend I go back down a couple blocks to a cafe I had passed earlier, where they would almost certainly have a first aid kit. I hobble back the way I came, amazed all the while that my foot has enough juice left in it to still be cartoonishly pouring out blood. The cafe does turn out to have a first aid kit, and in addition to more water and paper towels I'm given a roll of gauze to wrap the toe in, and they call me a taxi to the hospital. While stitches were certainly looking like a necessity, I was worried about the cost. I didn't have travel insurance. One of the baristas assures me I'll get free health care, "almost definitely". Okay then. To the hospital.
Fact: Americans do not get free health care in Australia. As an American in need of health care, I found this news particularly distressing. After giving my name and information I'm invited to wait for about an hour with my fellow emergency room refugees, then handed off from nurse to nurse, who each ask me "This is about your sunburn, right?" When I tell the final nurse that No, it's actually about my toe that seems to have come undone at the seam, she replies "Well, we'll take care of that too."
And at the same time, I find out. I'm guided to a bed to have one nurse administer stitches to my toe, and another nurse deroof my blisters. It is my special fate to be able to explain that "deroof" means she's going to cut away all of the skin around the blister, leaving nothing behind but a giant damp red patch around my ankle, like I've been playing footsie with a pack of lampreys.
In case you were wondering what my legs were looking like right about now. Disclaimer: Some of the images in this post might upset you. If you have an easily upset stomach, you shouldn't have just looked at that picture. Whoops on you!
I'm given laughing gas, and the two nurses set to work. One of them jokingly suggests they make it a race, so I say "Pew!" and mime a starting pistol going off, which they don't get, and it turns out it's really hard to explain when you're on laughing gas. Anyways, stitches win (there were only two stitches, so if you're the betting type that would've been the smart money). My legs are then dressed and bandaged, and I'm asked to come back the next day to change my dressings at the burn clinic.
You can hardly notice.
Before I leave, one of the nurses asks how I got so badly burned, because she's leaving soon on a trip to Indonesia, and wants to know exactly what I did so she can do the exact opposite. Already, I was helping people. Touching lives. That's what it's all about.
I'm not able to pay just yet because the cashier is only open 3 hours a day, so I eat in the hospital cafeteria and hop a train to meet Jessie. I had been forced to check out of Underground Backpackers that morning, because I was only paying day to day, and it turns out that unless you're extremely lucky (as I had been), all the dorm beds in all the hostels get completely filled every day unless you book ahead. All 30 bucks a night, yet not a single opening anywhere. So instead, I would be spending the night in a tiny room in a garage at the home where Jessie did her au pair...ing.
I was curious what kind of family can afford an au pair, and it's apparently the kind that can also afford a house with this view:
I checked but alas, their toilet paper was not in fact a giant roll of unwanted money.
The following morning I try unsuccessfully to shower without getting my dressings wet, then catch a ride with Jessie as she drops off her employers' daughter at school. At the time I noticed that the girl was extremely polite, getting out of the front seat to offer it to me, asking how I was doing...Later Jessie informed me the girl thought I had a skin disease and was going to get my legs amputated.
I make it to the burn clinic an hour and a half late for my appointment, where I'm given new dressings and a bag of replacements so I can change them myself. There are remarks about how they've never seen a sunburn so bad, blah blah blah. I find the hospital cashier, this time open for business, and discover that no, my normal health insurance does not cover this, and yes, I should've bought travel insurance, and oh that x-ray I said I didn't want or need but they gave me anyway was going to cost a boatload extra.
I also realize that since they never checked my ID, I could've given a fake name and address at the outset of all this and made a clean getaway. Once more, dammit, This Is The Last Time I Get Taken Advantage Of. Or, don't take advantage of an opportunity where I could take advantage of someone else. Something like that.
This little piggy has cost me a fucking fortune.
On the plus side, I'm told to take some paracetamol which leads to me finding out you can get still get codeine over the counter here:
So that's neat. Meanwhile, my legs were now covered up by even larger stockings that were supposed to apply pressure or something, but just itched like the dickens.
How DARE someone assume I have a skin disease.
That night I sleep again in the garage, after another fruitless round of hostel vacancy searching. In the morning it takes a full hour to remove my bandages, shower, put them back on, moisturize, and put on sunscreen. I spend the day looking for open hostels, and find nothing. I notice that I'm getting a rash on my arm where the burn has peeled.
But it was just going to have to wait its goddamn turn in the scheme of things.
In the evening I meet up again Jessie, her boyfriend, and a number of their friends for karaoke, which was actually pretty great. That is, until we're outside and a drunken slutty mess nearby happens to know someone in our group and starts flirting with him in front of her boyfriend. As I observed from a distance, her boyfriend confided in me that he had "too much testosterone and jealousy," and was almost definitely "gonna punch someone tonight."
But he didn't, so far as I saw. Which was probably a good thing, because if it was me he punched I think I would have simply disintegrated at this point. I spent the night once again on Dan's couch, trying to fill my head with images like this:
The happier, crepe-and-bubble-tea-filled side of Australia, as opposed to the fighting-drunk, toe-slicing nightmare I found myself in. Sleep did not come easy. But then, it never did.
