On Sunday, April 15, I headed to Surfers Paradise, at the heart of the Gold Coast, for a couple of nights. The problem with giving a place a name such as Surfers Paradise is that it creates unrealistically high expectations. I had crossed the border from New South Wales to Queensland, which is known as the Sunshine State and apparently has 300 days of sunshine a year. What I’d like to know is whether a day with a few hours of sunshine and several hours of rain counts as a day of sunshine, or whether I was just unlucky.
I was staying at the Surfers Paradise Backpackers Resort. The whole town felt like a resort, and one that was still expanding. It didn’t seem to contain anything besides shops (from Gucci down to Condom Kingdom), cafes, bars, nightclubs and high-rise apartment blocks, including the world’s tallest residential tower, which was just over 322m. There were several tourist attractions and theme parks nearby.
At first it was strange to see skyscrapers just metres from the beach, and I didn’t like the way man’s attempt to artificially create a neon-lit paradise was imposing on the natural beauty of the beach scene. But when I went surfing, it felt pretty special to be catching waves in a place that combined urban and beach lifestyles so effectively.
The previous night, my Dutch roommate Jessica and I hadn’t felt in the mood for sampling the town’s notorious party scene. We chilled out at the hostel, played some games, and stayed up late talking about serious things like relationships and work. But when we went surfing, I forgot about all my worries and there was nowhere else I’d rather have been at that time. And if that isn’t paradise, then I don’t know what is.