The Aftermath of the New York Bar Exam

Brooklyn, New York

There’s two things that I learnt from taking the New York Bar Exam. The first is that it’s a lot harder than I thought to learn the entire legal system of another country in only a month. The second, and much more interesting, is that apparently I have a very special skill of making friends with the Irish.

When I was over in Europe this time last year (actually this time last year I was going through the grueling rehabilitation process of learning to walk with no functioning ribs, so shortly after this time last year) I made good pals with a couple of Irish lads in Budapest. We hung out, got kicked out of a few clubs due to Donal’s ridiculous red pants, our terribly bad karaoke and various other reasons, as well as breaking many a young Hungarian lady’s heart. We then went on Bratislava (worst…city…ever) and Vienna (best…Austrian capital…ever), before arriving in Munich for Oktoberfest. But I’ve gone off track. Back to the point of this blog, my power to befriend the Irish.

Further evidence (admissible under the excited utterance exception to hearsay – sorry, law joke) comes from a visit by Hawkins and myself for a quiet drink at a local pub a couple of weeks before the exam. I had left Hawkins to himself for a minute to see to the undertaking of some very important business. After completing my work, I ran into another couple of Irish lads, and long story short, it was not a quiet night after all.

On the Tuesday, the first day of the bar exam, I arrived at Pier 90, alone, as Hawkins was doing his exam at a different venue. Being friendless, I looked around for the nearest attractive chick who looked like she wanted to be friends with an extremely attractive Aussie guy, and failing that, would be happy to settle for me. Alas, any chick who was even a remote possibility was worryingly flicking through notes in last minute revision and so I walked over to a couple of guys just chatting nearby. It turned out that, surely enough, they were Irish. We immediately got on, and hung out over the next two days while I wasted my time attempting the exam.

The Exam itself was tough, real tough. If I studied as much as I had in this last month at any time in my undergraduate degree, I would have dominated, and probably finished off my degree with a year to spare. At no stage in the exam did I have no idea about how to answer a question, but whether my answers were of the 67% quality needed to pass, I’m not so sure. I guess I’ll find out in four months. Unlike law exams at the Australian National University, the New York Bar Exam is not open book, and they test you on the small finicky things, not just broad concepts. Many of the multiple choice questions were situations where the exception to the exception applies.

Hawkins and myself went out for a few drinks after the exam with my new Irish pals, and a guy Hawkins had picked up where he did his exam. It was a quiet night, but it felt good to have the exam behind us, at least for a couple of weeks before we have another Professional Ethics exam here in New York, and then the re-sit in February next year.

Because I know you all like pictures…

A typical day - pre New York Bar Exam

Brooklyn, New York

It’s another late start in the Hawketc household. The alarm on my phone is going off on the floor beside the bed, beeping incessantly, just out of arms reach. I give up and collapse back into my pillow and close my eyes, attempting to get just one more minute of sleep. I’m still so tired, and my mouth feels furry, unusual as I didn’t have anything to drink last night. I haven’t had a sweet delicious sip of beer for over a month now. I try to swallow, but the feeling doesn’t go away, it gets worse. I open my eyes, the harsh light making me instantly regret the decision, and sit up. The white sheets are covered in fur, my pillow is covered in fur, my tongue is covered in fur. There is cat fur everywhere. Missy must have somehow got into my room during the night. I see her then curled up, peacefully sleeping on the floor near the door, the closed door. I must have accidentally shut her in my room when I went to bed. I guess as she couldn’t get out, she’s probably shat somewhere in here too. I’ll worry about that later.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and turn off my alarm. I look to where the pile of clothes I use to show off my excellent fashion sense usually resides. A damp towel, a little too short to be acceptable to change out of boardies at a beach, is all that I see. It’ll have to do. I wrap it around me, the towel stopping half a foot above the knee, and patter over to the bathroom to splash water on myself to wake up. I look at my reflection in the mirror, and consider shaving. I decide against it after realizing that I won’t meet anyone today whose opinion I care enough about.

I wander downstairs and into the dining room, currently cluttered with New York Law textbooks, empty diet Pepsi cans and discarded Bagel-World wrappers. Hawkins mustn’t be up yet, but it’s not surprising, it is only quarter past noon. In the kitchen I find the coffee pot half full, the remains from last night’s midnight study session. There’s no clean mugs in the cupboard, but there’s plenty of dirty wet mugs in the sink. I grab one and clean it out with a tea towel and pour what’s left of the coffee pot into it. Thirty seconds later the microwave beeps and breakfast is served. The coffee is still a little cold, but it’ll do.

Instinctively sipping my coffee, even though it couldn’t possibly burn me, I go in search of clothes. I’d put some in the washing machine last night and asked Hawkins to put them in the dryer when they were done. Clean clothes. I get a little excited at the thought. There’s nothing in the dryer, and so I open up the washing machine. There are my clothes, clumped together in a soggy mess at the bottom of the machine. I drop the lid with a clang and go back into the dining room. I’m not really surprised, just disappointed.

I sit down at the dining table and pull over one of the text books, opening it up to where’d I gotten last night. “Rules of Usury: New York Exceptions to the Federal Rules”. I take another sip of my coffee and begin reading. I’ve got a long fun-filled day of study ahead of me.

Hot dogs, a chestnut, and the pursuit of happiness

4th of July

To Corey and I, a couple of humble (yet proud) Australians, it was just another day. However, from the moment I woke up, I could tell there was something special about this day. There was a peculiar feeling in the air; a feeling of celebration, a feeling of achievement, but most of all, a feeling of independence. Today was a day to sit back and reflect on a time when a nation had the courage to stand on its own two feet and laugh in the face of its English captors. In searching for a place sacred enough to celebrate a day of this magnitude, a few options came to mind; the Washington Monument, Mt Rushmore or maybe even the Lincoln Memorial. Obviously, we chose Coney Island.

For those unaware, Coney Island, on the 4th of July, is home to the Nathan’s Famous Fourth of July International Hot Dog Eating Contest. This was my first exposure to the sport of competitive eating. Obviously, every sport has its detractors, and competitive eating is no different. Some people claim it glorifies gluttony, whereas others suggest that it promotes excessive and inhumane consumption of animal products. I ignored these protestors, peddling their narrow-minded and ill-informed propaganda, and settled in to appreciate the spectacle that was about to unfold. Not only is competitive eating an exploration into willpower, determination and the human spirit, but it’s a sport for us all. Who hasn’t, in their time, tested their intestinal fortitude, by cramming in that extra morsel when it seemed impossible, gone back for thirds when seconds was more than enough, or laughed in the face of one whose eating skills paled in comparison to their own? I know I have.

So there I was, crammed in amongst 50,000 passionate fans, jostling for position in the desperate hope of catching a glimpse at even one of the world-class athletes that were assembled before us; the best the world had to offer in the only truly universal sport. However, in a field of worthy contenders, only two men had captured the hearts and minds of the crowd. Takeru Kobayashi, hailing from Japan, had won the last 6 titles, and was considered by many to be the best eater of them all. His only recent defeat was at the hands of an Alaskan Kodiak bear; and while a strong competitor, the bear was noticeably shaken when confronted with the icy stare of this Japanese eating machine. Today, however, was the 4th of July; America’s day. If ever the USA needed a patriot, it was now. This man was Joey Chestnut. Chestnut moved across the stage with an air of confidence, and this confidence quickly spread amongst the crowd, and, via ESPN, throughout a nation. The stage was set, and the atmosphere was thick with anticipation, the aroma of hot dogs, and most of all, a sense of destiny.

A hotdog eating competition goes for 12 minutes. For 12 minutes, not a murmur could be heard in a crowd that was 50,000 strong. For 12 minutes, not a breath was taken. Without disrespect to the calibre of athletes present, it was, from the outset, a battle of two men. Within a minute, Chestnut and Kobayashi had each eaten more than 10 hotdogs, with buns. Upon seeing the prowess of these two men; the jaw strength, the finely honed hand-to-mouth coordination and the mental strength to keep eating when it didn’t seem humanly possible, even the staunchest animal-rights protestor was soon converted. Shouts of ‘no more meat’ quickly turned to impassioned cries of ‘eat, Joey, eat!’ For 12 minutes, time seemed to stand still, and a nation dared to hope.

‘5…4…3…2…1!’ The crowd counted down. The scores were tied. The commentator announced that a plate count would be necessary. Both athletes appeared to have eaten 63 hotdogs. On recount, and by virtue of a Kobayashi ‘reversal’ (a competitive eating term used to describe vomiting), the official score of 66 hotdogs for Chestnut and 63 for Kobayashi was announced. The ‘Mustard yellow belt’ was returning home to the shores of Coney Island. One man had carried the hopes and appetites of a nation on his shoulders, and triumphed against the best in the world. Names like Neil Armstrong, Lance Armstrong and Louie Armstrong faded into obscurity, buried in the annals of forgotten history. America had a new hero. Joey Chestnut stood tall and proud, the Stars and Stripes draped across his shoulders. He took the microphone, and yelled words that echoed the sentiments of each and every red-blooded, hot-dog eating American; ‘I feel pretty freaking good.”

The Hawketc Team reunite

22 June to 3rd July: Brooklyn, New York

Without major incident I arrived at a three-story brownstone house in the nicer part of Brooklyn, New York which was to be the home of the Hawketc Team for the next two months. It has been a half hour walk with my pack, an hour and a half subway ride, and a sleepless eight hour flight from Calgary. I always struggle sleeping on planes, especially with such quality movies like ‘Wild Hogs’ and ‘Speed 2’ tempting me to stay awake. But I was finally here. New York, according to the tag line of the David Letterman show, the greatest city in the world.

Hawkins, who had arrived the day before gave me a quick tour of the house and introduced me to our third housemate, who has turned out to be more trouble than you’d think for her small stature, Missi.




I spend the first day sleeping and then checking out a local bar which sells only imported or homebrewed beers that night. Since then, I’m afraid to say, little has happened of note. Hawkins and I joined a gym, discovered a great place for bagels near the gym for a post-workout meal, and studied.

It has been nothing but study since I got here. I suppose with the New York Bar Exam being less than a month away and it being the primary reason for this caper, it makes sense that I should be doing nothing but studying. It is the hardest exam in the world. But I haven’t even seen the Statue of Liberty yet.

A brief break
Last Friday night Hawkins and I decided that a night off from the study was well deserved. We arranged to meet up in SeaPort with a friend of Hawkins and a few of her friends. A few outdoor beers, some music from a local band, the Ra Ra Riots, and the night quickly went down the path of shenanigans.

From SeaPort we went to a pub in the Financial District. The gang had a table reserved, and Ilana, a member of the gang, had a company credit card. Expensive foreign beers and shots followed. I tried to remember the ingredients to the Gladiator shot which I’d had a week earlier at Cowboys in Calgary over three or four rounds. For the record, I didn’t come close – the answer was half a shot of Amaretto, half a shot of Southern Comfort, depth charged into half lemonade half OJ.

From there we hit the karaoke scene. Hawkins and myself dazzled in usual style, putting the Americans to shame with our soulful rendition of Bryan Adam’s Summer of ’69. I made some friends with some locals impressed with my work, and headed home, another successful night on the town.

And then back to the study
Since then, it’s been back to the study. July 4 is coming up, and so Team Hawketc may take the afternoon off to bask in American Patriotism. We’ll have to see.

Corey visits Calgaria

Day 6 to Day 8 (19 June to 21 June 2007): Calgary, Canada

Calgary I found is a town a lot like Texas. Or more appropriately, a town a lot like what I imagine Texas would be like, as I’ve never been to Texas. It’s a big oil town. Most employees are employed by the oil companies, and most oil companies give their employees Friday off work. There’s also a bit of a cowboy, wild west feel to Calgary. Here, it’s not only acceptable to wear cowboy hats, it’s encouraged. There’s clubs with mechanical bulls, a club called Cowboys which, like Prince Harry, I decided to pay a visit, wide open plains, and of course, Stampede. Stampede is the biggest calendar event of the year in Calgary, and the biggest Rodeo-festival in the world. Unfortunately I was in Calgary a fortnight too early, and so missed out.

In Calgary itself, I didn’t do too much. I took the time to do some study which I had been sorely neglecting, and to catch up on some sleep. I also paid a visit to a gym. I may have mentioned this previously, but the people of Canada on average are of a higher attractiveness standard than most other countries I have been to. I think it might be in part because of the hugeness of their gyms. The gym I visited was out in the suburbs, and was massive, but apparently not as big as some of the other gyms in Calgary. It had swimming pool, an ice skating rink, an indoor running track and two floors of weights and cardio machines. I only spent a short time there, because Yvonne said she was going to pick me up by 3pm, and I didn’t want to upset her again. Last time I was late meeting her somewhere, I was physically beaten. I was a little scared she might do it again. And I had tried to fight back…

Corey visits the wild outlands of Alberta (and some of British Columbia)

Tuesday greeted us with clear blue skies and perfect t-shirt weather. We decided to drive out country out towards Banff, a little ski resort town. I took control of the driving, and with only a few minor incidents while I got use to everyone driving on the wrong side of the road, we arrived relatively unharmed in Banff. After a leisurely beer and an Elk Burger (okay but not great), we set off to Radium, another small town about an hour away in search of more wild animals to eat. On the highway we were lucky enough to see a black bear, wild goats and a flock of deer, but was unlucky not to have even clipped one with the car.

Radium is more famous for its hot springs than its wild animal burgers, and I had come prepared with boardies and a towel. Yvonne was not so well prepared, and after borrowed a ridiculous blue body condom, we went for a dive with the fat people. There was not one attractive thin person (apart from ourselves of course) swimming in the springs. Quickly losing interest looking at ugly retired Camper Van folk and German tourists, we decided to head back to Banff for a delicious steak, and then head back home the Calgary.

People from New Zealand aren’t from Down Under

Prince Harry, in his role as a British Army Officer, is stationed in Calgary. The week before I arrived, Harry and a few of his army buddies decided to visit a famous Calgarian nightclub by the name of Cowboys. You can check out the full story here: http://www.ctv.ca/servlet/ArticleNews/story/CTVNews/20070614/cowboys_harry_070614/20070614?hub=Entertainment.

Deciding that what’s good enough for British royalty is good enough for me, I let Yvonne force me out to get drunk on a Wednesday night. Wednesday night at Cowboys is ladies night, and so after paying the $20 cover to get in and buying a surprising not too expensive drink for Yvonne (and for myself), Yvonne leaves to check out the male strippers in the ladies only room. Being a little lonely, I make friends with a couple of ridiculous shots, but they quickly disappear. Yvonne finally returns once the ‘Thunder from Down Under’ boys have finished their show, and we check out upstairs. Getting to the top, I’m a little surprised to be greeted by a huge pair of naked breasts bouncing on a catwalk in the middle of the room. Connected to the naked breasts was a naked woman passing out t-shirts and hats. Clubs here are certainly different to those back home. She’s apparently at the end of her show, and we head back down stairs. I head to the toilet, and am accosted by drunken girls on my way out who try violently to make out with me. I consider it, but then see Yvonne staring furiously at me, and quickly brush past. I’m never this lucky when I’m out with the boys.

A girl walks past with Tequila bottles in holsters at her waist, and offers me a shot for the bargain price of $8. Always looking for a good deal, I fork over the cash, and take a shot. Eight dollars gets you more than the shot I realise, as my face is pushed between her breasts. She giggles around a little, and then moves on, looking to spread more of her love around.

We head up to a bar, and ask the bargirl for some photos. I order another ridiculous drink, a Gladiator, which I think from memory is a Jaeger depth charge into orange juice and redbull. Delicious and healthy.


It turns out the Down Under strippers are drinking at the same bar, and I introduce myself as a fellow Aussie. One of them tells me he’s Kiwi, and I begin to get furious. New Zealanders aren't from Down Under! This is another example of the Kiwis stealing all their famous assets from Aussieland.

Yvonne grabs me by the arm, steering me aside. I grab the Kiwis beer as we go and wander out to the dance floor. I think this makes us even.

We leave after final drinks have been called, and we walk out into a quiet pre-sunrise Calgary street. As I’m ordering a hotdog I’m propositioned for a threesome. But I am very hungry…

Orange Mocha Frappuccino

Day 5 (18 June 2007): Vancouver to Calgary, Canada

The flight from Vancouver to Yvonne’s home town of Calgary was uneventful, except for one huge event. In the airport getting a coffee at Starbucks, I spied an advertisement for Orange Mochas. Now, we’ve all seen Zoolander and we remember the scene just prior to the tragic gasoline flight accident where his brothers (but we don’t mean actual brothers) and Derek go out for Orange Mocha Frappuccinos, to help Derek sort through his important issues. Since that day I have dreamed of an Orange Mocha Frappuccino, and so with trembling hands, I asked the girl behind the counter if they made them.

It was delicious.

Vancouver: The land of no Summer

Including the incredible story of when I fell 40 metres and survived

Day 1 to 4 (14 June to 17 June 2007): Vancouver, Canada

Despite all the odds, I have arrived in Canada. I was grilled by the Customs official, who requested to see proof of my onward flights out of Canada. After I said I’m not sure I had any, he started fishing around his rubber glove drawer for an unused set while I hastily found the crumpled web receipt for Calgary to New York I’d printed out as an afterthought. As I handed the bundle to him, I dropped my Canadian Working Visa, which I didn’t want yet activated as it is only valid for one year. Fortunately his eyes were busy looking over my flight details seeking an excuse to not let me in to the country and so it went unnoticed. A few more questions about my intentions in Canada with the friend I was meeting, and I was through. Once again I’d managed to deceive another Customs official.

I’d left the Taiwan adventure boys behind at baggage claim after a few manly hugs, and wandered into the Arrivals lounge. Yvonne, a friend I’d made last year in Greece, was flying in on an earlier flight from Calgary to meet me when I landed. A moment of panic went through me as I looked around the lounge without seeing her. Has she tricked me and was going to leave me to fend for myself in a strange foreign land? Or had I walked right past her and completely forgotten how she looked? I grabbed out the phone and called her number, with no response. It was official, she wasn’t going to meet me. Cursing her, and all her traitorous country folk I saw Anthony wandering over to the bar. He pissed himself when I told him I’d been betrayed, and then got me my first Canadian beer, a pint of Kokanee. It was 9am in Vancouver, we were surprisingly not the only ones in the bar, but we were on Taiwan time, which was 1am the next day. As I sipped a flattish, but pleasant tasting beer, I saw a girl checking her phone matching the vague description I had in my mind of my friend. I gave Yvonne a call on the mobile, and the girl answered. I waved and she came over. My lift had arrived. I no longer hated Canada.

I spent the day eating, drinking and walking around Vancouver. It’s a real pretty place. Nice green gardens and well kept houses, with snow capped mountains on the horizon, all with an ocean view. I later found out that the reason it’s all so green is that it never stops raining, except for a brief period when planes fly in from Taiwan. I also spent the day looking like a had a small mental problem. People didn’t understand what I was saying, I had trouble ordering food as they kept asking me questions about what dressing I wanted, how I wanted my potatoes, and other food options (this was all translated for me by Yvonne), and I kept tipping all wrong. I’d tip too much, then not enough, tip when I wasn’t suppose to (apparently you don’t tip at Starbucks) and then getting in trouble for tipping with change. I’ve decided I’ll just play up the dumb aussie routine until I work it all out.

When I fell 40 metres and lived to tell the tale

I’m a fearful man. When there is a large change of death (such as flying - I don’t really believe in it) I get scared. As well as being a fearful man, I believe in facing my fears. Because of all this, I never want to go bungee jumping, but have always wanted to do it and tick it off the list of life. There’s many things on this metaphorical list, but bungee jumping has been right at the top for some time.

Yvonne had scouted out a bungee jump on Vancouver Island, only a half hour walk, hour bus ride and then a two hour ferry ride away. From there, the bungee jump was only another half an hour away. It was going to be an all day trip if we were going to do it. Four hours later I was standing in the rain overlooking a raging river 40 metres below.

Yvonne had wanted to go first. I figured that if the rope was going to break, it was going to break for the first person, so I readily agreed. From when she walked out onto the platform, with the bungee cord around her ankles, it was another 15 minutes until she decided she wouldn’t do it. I’m not sure what happened next, she claims she jumped (more accurately let herself fall off) or whether the operator pushed her, but she was falling, eerily silent towards the water. Her eyes were squeezed tight and she was falling like how I imagine a roll of carpet would fall if it was pushed off a bridge. It was strange to watch. But then the cord snapped tight and she bounced back up. It had worked. I guess I was up next.

I had always thought there would be back-up ropes and all kinds of harnesses with bungee jumping. I was wrong. A towel was loosely wrapped around my ankles, and a strap was equally loosely wrapped around. To that was connected the bungee cord. I had waddled my way out to the edge of the platform and looked over the edge. The idea of free falling, with nothing slowing me down until the cord pulled tight scared the shit out of me. The looseness of the strap around my ankles worried me a little. It had loosened up on the walk out, and I felt like my foot could slide out of it. I was about to question the operator about it when he started the countdown.

Three! Two! One! Bungee! Not wanted to look soft I jumped, falling headfirst so I would get the extra length I was told I needed to hit the water before bouncing up. The first 30 metres were fucked. I was the most scared I’d ever been in my life. The cord began to catch. I didn’t hear a snap, and the fear was gone. I splashed down into the water up to my chest before bouncing back up. This was awesome!

After I’d finished my jump, I realized I should have taken off my shirt. I can’t believe I wasted an opportunity! Worse still, I was to be wet and cold for the four hour trip back. But I didn’t care. It was awesome, and it was a BIG tick off my list.

The weather didn’t improve while I was in Vancouver. I did some sight seeing, drunk a few drinks and a good time was had. But now, it was time to travel inland.