Brisbane is..well…Brisbane. It’s no Sydney or Melbourne, but a city that creates its own fake beach because it doesn’t have one is kind of endearing. What I liked about visiting Brisbane was its café culture and outdoor eating. The main attactions centre around the river; alongside it they’ve built a lagoon and a man-made beach where all the families play and eat ice-cream on a sunny afternoon. There’s also an outdoor market selling jewellery and clothes for you to stroll around.
I stayed in both BASE hostels- the first was Palace, known as the ‘Party Palace’ and I loved it. It’s in an old building (well as old is a building can be in Australia) and in my room there was an antique fire place which gave it a Victorian boarding school feeling. The lift (or elevator to you Americans) was a tiny rickety wooden thing with a brass shutter that you had to slide closed by hand- it had a very slightly sinister horror hotel feeling about it. But this hostel is huge and great for partying. Beneath is the Down Under bar which is a typical backpacker ‘lets-get-wasted’ bar. I then moved to Base Central because Palace was full, and this hostel is on the other end of the scale; much quieter and smaller but it still has an outdoor terrace where all the Jagerbomb drinking happens.
My main reason for visiting Brisbane was to meet distant relatives of mine Trevor, Elaine and their daughter. It’s a long story but the Brewood family is the only one of its kind. You will not find another in this world and in fact, that makes my name a completely unique name in the world. We’re a crazy bunch of oddballs, and if it weren’t for a relative of mine doing some digging and some ancestry research, and the beauty of facebook, I would never have had to meet any of them 
Just kidding! It turns out there are Brewoods scattered in Britain, Kansas, Oz and New Zealand and I was the first Brewood to bridge the divide and meet our Ozzie relatives.
No related posts.
No comments yet.