The Inner East suburbs of Sydney are characterized as “leafy.” They are. In fact, Macleay Street in Potts Point is lovely with circa 1900 apartment buildings that have been refurbished, mature trees and lots of young-ish people bustling back and forth. The Hotel Devere, however, where I’m staying, is a bit bleak. In my Frommer’s guide book, “Sydney: Free and Dirt Cheap,” the author mentions this hotel and says that the rooms are “a bit tired.” Online, the rooms look great. In person, they look – well, like a 1970s Holiday Inn. This might explain why the nightly rate is not much higher than a 1970s Holiday Inn rate. Yet, I believed in a great potential for comfort, especially once I got the cleaning staff to remove the mold from the bathroom ceiling.
Additionally, the management of the Hotel Devere have turned out to be masters of manipulating the ambiguity of language. Wi-fi is available. Not free. And not in every room. Only in the lobby because of where the router is positioned. Being connected costs $4 an hour. I have now become aware of how much time I spend online, and have adjusted accordingly. This cost is made doubly troublesome by the fact that using my cell phone is dependent upon access to wi-fi. Great.
Happily, Macleay Street and adjoining Darlinghurst Road are both dotted with Internet cafes with prices much more competitive. And – wonder of wonders – the Kings Cross public library branch has free wi-fi available. Interesting how I had to ask the desk staff several times if there was a library nearby. Perhaps they don’t frequent libraries.
Macleay Street and more particularly Darlinghurst Road are dotted with much more than Internet cafes, however. At least three hostel/hotel facilities for backpackers can be found in a three block stretch, along with a dozen kebab stalls, a couple pizza places, a pub, a couple Pad Thai places, MacDonald’s (yes, they’re everywhere) several strip clubs and adult book stores. In fact, the largest club and store is directly across from the library. From the computer carrels on the second floor, one can gaze into Risque Boutique’s clothing showroom to see the latest in hotpants and studded collars. When I walked out, I strolled by a young girl leaning up against the wall just outside one of the clubs, platform heals, skimpy halter top, tiny cut-offs, texting. And then I realized, hey, look, there’s a young whore! I think the guidebooks call the neighborhood “eclectic.”
The opposite direction from Darlinghurst Road is Elizabeth Bay which, as the name would suggest, is on the water, and is much more flash (as the Aussies would say) than where I’m staying. Elizabeth Bay is where Nicole Kidman’s parents live, where Russell Crow has a place, where all the hip Sydneysiders hangout, being beautiful and floating around, not having to occupy an office anywhere. Potts Point is next up, and then Kings Cross which has historically been the red light type district. Now it’s been cleaned up a little bit, but on my way to the subway on Saturday morning, there were several revelers from the night before still reveling, the street stinking here of beer, there of urine. And I was told that I was lookin’ good, mama. When I got back on Saturday night, different partiers had taken their place, and many more of them. On the train, I sat in a car with about a dozen girls who looked about 12 years old chattering around me, in clouds of perfume, wearing the sort of heels that put orthopedic surgeons’ children through college. Short skirts, skimpy tops, big earrings and tiny purses. Similar but not the same as the other girl I saw earlier who also looked 12 years old, leaning up against a lamppost outside the library.
Yes, the library saved me about $12 that day, but the connection eventually slowed to the point that I could not get on my gmail, nor log on to the blog. So. Off I went, past the little prostitute, and to a place across the street, right next to Risque, a flower shop and internet facility that charges $2 per hour. Happily, the flowers have a deodorizing effect on the place. (I had started walking into a different one and the smell of stale sweat and unwashed backpackers started my gag reflex.) The guy at the counter was very pleasant – a young man with German-Australian accent. Friendly, sympathetic about the library’s inferior connection and happy to take my money.
The final straw with the Hotel Devere came at check- out. The day before, instinct bade me call the front desk before I made a local call to check on what charges would be. I was told $1.Since I was on the phone for about 40 minutes, I thought that was a pretty good deal. Then I was presented with a telephone bill for $47. A dollar a minute. Not a dollar per call. When fate presents me the opportunity to be self-righteous, I have a tough time resisting, so I was able to get half the charges dropped. Turns out yes, the charge is $1 per call, but I called a cell phone number, so it’s $1 per minute. And how do I tell it’s a cell phone number? Oh, there’s an 04 prefix instead of an 02 prefix.
Good to know. It might be time for a cheap Aussie mobile. And it’s certainly time for a cheap Aussie hostel. More to come about the Cambridge Lodge in Stanmore.