I spent most of yesterday just wandering around Adelaide, wondering if it deserves its reputation as the genteel, slightly weird, church-filled, second tier city that the rest of the country regards with condescension.
Derek falls into the hands of the Angel of Death. I believe this happens a lot in Adelaide.
Meanwhile Leslie hitches a ride on some sort of drunken horse.
I discovered that the City of Churches is indeed full of churches, but I hadn’t realised that this is ongoing rather than historic. Sure, there are plenty of neo-gothic stone piles with stained glass windows and steeples, but there are also mid-century modernist temples made from stainless steel and terrazzo, and post-millennial coffee shop churches full of IKEA furniture and pastors who know their ristretto from their affogatto.
Adelaide! Because God is watching you.
Adelaide also has a deeply seated foodie culture, with most buildings that aren’t churches hosting restaurants. As an added bonus, the food was exceptionally cheap by Perth standards. Two scoops at the high-end gelateria was 10% more expensive than one scoop at home. Dinner with entrees, seafood mains, a bottle of very good wine and coffees at a smart restaurant was around $58 a head… a good 20% less than it would be at an equivalent place in Perth.
Overall, Adelaide seems pitched at the Grandma demographic. There are innumerable churches, a world class Botanic Gardens, cute cottages with frilly lace curtains even in the CBD, and plenty of places to get a nice cup of tea.
Derek and Leslie absorb the atmosphere In the Botanic Gardens.
Having spent the entire day wandering around aimlessly, in the evening I decided to do what I do best, apart from watching Ursula Andress movies. I went bar hopping.
I started in Peel Street, in which is concentrated all of Adelaide’s attempts at hip small bars. I don’t know why they’re all in the one short street –maybe it’s an attempt at quarantine, to keep this trendy new notion of “small bars” from infecting the wider metropolitan area and normal, god-fearing Adelaidians. In any case, I made my way to Clever Little Tailor, where I had an excellent negroni and a snack, and chatted with a man who was either a hairdresser or a drug dealer. I couldn’t quite tell.
Next it was across the street to Chihuahua, for a house cocktail called the Rosita and some tortilla chips and guacamole.
Then to the Griffin Hotel, a horrid corporate establishment reeking of chicken parmigiana and the sort of cologne endorsed by R&B stars, where I made a friend who bought me beer.
Then there was more beer at the Exeter Hotel, a charmingly beat up dive popular with students and other undesirables.
Then it was alcoholic ginger beer at The Little Pub, which was sort of like the Exeter but with the charm replaced by drunk slappers who shrieked, staggered and flailed to 90s disco hits. We fell into conversation with a highly inebriated vegan with a sock hat and dreadlocks, and only got rid of him by speaking wistfully about bacon.
Then we went to Hungry Jacks, because it was 2am, we were drunk, and all of this talk of bacon had made us peckish.