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Doubtful Sound Cruise

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   The oddly-named Doubtful Sound received its moniker from none other than Capt. James Cook who, while sailing New Zealand’s west coast looking for a harbor, and after watching the breakers on the rocks and tracking the prevailing winds, came to the conclusion that it was doubtful that he could get his ship out easily once he sailed in.
   However doubtful, the sound is inaccurately named since it’s not a sound, but a fjord. A fjord is a valley carved by a glacier and then filled with the water from the glacier melting. A fjord typically has a rise where it meets the sea, a moraine of silt left behind. This moraine is usually under water.  
Stefan the travel agent had mentioned that I would want to take a cruise on either Milford or Doubtful Sound, and after reviewing the materials, I knew I wanted to take an overnight cruise on the Navigator, a schooner ship that accommodates only 70 people and offered an affordable quad-share room. (I didn’t have to come up with the four people, they put four together.) The price was a bit of a splurge, but this is the part of the trip where I really did become a tourist. I had come to understand that if I was going to see the countryside and its scenic areas, the choice was either rent a car or pay for tours. Since I’m not quite sure about driving on the other side of the road and hadn’t done the planning, I was quite pleased to have Stefan handle it for me. Not a bad way to go, as much as I abhor traveling on a coach with hordes of other people. Then again, I learned a lot and met a couple nice folks and achieved my objective which, after all, was to actually see New Zealand.
   The trip to Doubtful Sound is a series of over land and over water excursions that takes the better part of a day. We left Queenstown at 7:30 a.m. under a partly cloudy but mercifully dry sky, stopping a couple places along the way, including the Kingston Flyer, an old steam locomotive-driven train that has been restored, along with the tracks it rides. The train held little fascination, since the twisty-turny road had left my stomach a little green. Instead, I found a ginger beer (a much more potent and tasty version of ginger ale) and settled in with Spy, the resident Border Collie. Spy was great company, and we chatted about the train and all the people he meets. Spy, however, would not sit still for a photograph, saying that he and his buddy, a Jack Russell Terrier cross, needed to get back on patrol.
   Most of the track that used to accommodate the Flyer has been removed, but plans are in motion to convert that piling into a path for push bikes (that’s a bicycle to you and me). Bike traffic out of Q-town will follow a route taking riders through Wye Creek and up to Kingston where the Flyer is, and then riders can take the SS Earnshaw steamer back to its dock in Queenstown. Great way to bring revenue to the surrounding towns. I’m confident that there will be some sort of extreme version of riding that track developed soon.
   The coach arrived at the Lake Manapouri dock around noon, and I had 20 minutes to grab a quick bit at their limited café. (Digression alert! If I never see another toasted sandwich again, it will be too soon. Every café in Australia and New Zealand has a version of a “toastie” that is usually ham and cheese and tomato on a packaged white bread or croissant, spread with margarine and flattened into submission on a toasting iron. Perhaps a few months from now, I’ll be interested in a combination of Honey Baked Ham with a fine brie and thinly sliced Granny Smith apples on a chewy sourdough. Maybe.)
   The voyage across Lake Manpouri was gray and misty, since it was (surprise!) raining again. I guess they call it a rainforest for a reason. Once we crossed the lake, we were met by another coach that took us the rest of the way to Doubtful Sound on another twisty-turny road – gravel this time – which slowed the bus down. Along the way we were allowed opportunities to traipse out into the rain and take photographs of stunning waterfalls gushing down the mountains. 
   At the Navigator we were welcomed by the crew and treated to afternoon tea complete with homemade raspberry muffins. (Second digression! New Zealand – and Australia, to a lesser extent – has a thing for muffins that contain chocolate chips and some sort of fruit. Chocolate chip and apple, chocolate chip and pear, chocolate chip and berry, white chocolate and apricot, chocolate chip and banana, chocolate chip and salmon … What is with that? The only muffin I’ve found that is untouched by this craze is the good ol’ blueberry, which probably could use something to snazz it up. As much as I love chocolate, it has no place in a muffin. Or a pancake. Clearly, these sweets are for those who can’t take their chocolate straight up. Would you put ketchup on fine, aged filet mignon? Amateurs.)
   Anyway. For my money, I got: 1) picked up at the hostel, transported to and from the ship on coaches that were comfortable and driven by people who had terrific commentary on the area; 2) excellent food, including an arrival tea, soup service, a buffet dinner that included prime rib and lamb, and a complete breakfast buffet, 3) a cruise with the nature expert in a smaller boat, plus another interpretive presentation about the areas geological history after dinner and just about constant commentary throughout the cruise about where we were sailing, what we were seeing, who was there first, why it’s cool, and so on. They also had a stock of jackets for those who had none, or hadn’t the type for the cold, rainy weather.( After this cruise, I understand why wool is for sale year round in the southland.) An incredible value and a wonderful experience. Not to be an advertisement, but really, it was an amazing cruise, despite the rain and cold. I’m Norwegian and Swedish. You think the Vikings whined about a little rain and cold? And those guys were wearing skirts.
   As we cruised, the weather broke and we were treated to a little sunshine. The captain made a point of getting close to waterfalls and flora for photo ops, and a nice older gentleman offered to take my picture by one of the water falls.  At the soup service after the boat excursion, he approached me with several photos he had taken of me (without my knowledge) while we were out on the nature cruise, and wanted my email address so that he could send them to me. He even saved me a seat at dinner. I waved from where I was sitting with my quad-share mates.
   The southwestern edge of the South Island is called Fiordland, because there are fjords there, obviously. Most are referred to as sounds, although we went over that already. All were formed by glaciers growing and receding over the millennia, carving out valleys in the granite. Glaciers still exist a bit farther north, pushing right up to the tree ferns and mountain beeches in the temperate rainforest. 
   The ship motored all the way out to the mouth of the fjord where we could feel the swell, past the rocks and breakers that Cook saw, past a seal colony where we think there was a female giving birth, this being the season and all. Our overnight anchorage in the cove was smooth, and the engines started up again at 6:30 a.m.

Queenstown

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   Flying standby from Auckland to Queenstown was a great option, considering that a regular flight cost $200, while standby cost $79.  Gee, that’s brain surgery. So I went to the airport between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. and reported to the standby ticketing counter which was conspicuous around the corner from the baggage claims, behind the carousels, facing the opposite way of the traffic pattern. I was asked to sign a document which appeared to be a huge disclaimer of “if you don’t get on a flight at the time you want, that’s too bad.” I signed. Then the ticket agent asked if I wanted just a seat or a seat and a bag. Since I was going on the standard of the U.S. where you can still carry-on a carry-on size bag, I requested a seat.
   I took my signed piece of paper to another counter where I would hopefully be issued a boarding pass.
   “This says you requested just a seat.”
   “Yes,” I replied.
   “Let’s weigh your bag.”
   Well, okay. The woman looked just a little bit superior. I rolled my bag over and placed it on the scale where it was shown to weigh a mere 16 kg. The limit displayed on the sign above the scale allowed a weight of 23 kg. The agent directed me to yet another counter with another piece of paper.
   “You’ll have to check the bag.”
   “What?”
   “You’ll have to check the bag. It’s over 7 kg.”
   “But the sign says …”
   “Yes. That’s for checked bags. You’ll have to check this.”
   Off I rolled to the third counter, where I assumed I would just check the bag much like is done in the States with a gate-checked bag.
   The woman pursed her lips. Why is it that women are so good at pursing their lips in disapproval?
   “That will be $20.”
   “What?” Quick on the uptake, I tell you.
   “Twenty  dollars.”
   Fuzzy-headed and fever-sweaty, I handed over $20 and tried to explain that I didn’t understand this wasn’t considered a carry-on size.
   “You were given this information, right?” She pushed the form I had signed a few minutes ago across the counter.
   “Yes.”
   “Did you read it?”
   I gaped. “Well…No.”
   “Don’t you read things before you sign them?”
   “No.” Not always. I was just sick enough to where my editor was not employed.
   “You don’t read things before you sign them? You should always read things before you sign them. Here’s your receipt.”
   At the windows by the entrance, there was a ledge-type thing with vent units spaced intermittently which was the closest things to a chair that I could find, so I sat and read the thing. The document stated clearly that there was a charge of $79 or $89, depending upon whether a person wanted a seat or a seat and a bag fare. After reading it thoroughly – twice – I found the same woman, and stated that I shouldn’t have been charged $20; I should have been charged $10. No, she said. Yes, I said. Nowhere does it state that I am charged an additional $20. No, she said, it doesn’t have to because $20 is the charge for any checked bag. And in fact, they didn’t have to take the bag at all, considering that I didn’t claim it when I should have, which the airline might see as a suspicious action.
   Although the policy of restraint of pen and tongue has been impressed upon me for years, and although arguing in public is a crass action that embarrasses the arguer, the arguee and those unfortunate enough to stand within earshot, I argued. About $10. While at the mercy of two women who could put me on a flight or not, take my baggage or not, arrest me or not. Something in my consciousness finally clicked. I stopped.
   “I understand.” I said.
   “We don’t have to take the bag. This is what the airline charges, if you had read –“
   “I will fight no more forever.” I held up my hand in a sign of peace.
   “The airline policy is that – “
   “I. Understand.”
   And walked away and tried not to burst into tears.
   Well, those women were professional enough to get me a boarding pass and check my bag. And I shut my mouth and got on the flight. At least it was a beautiful day, and the view of Auckland as we took off was lovely. And although I got the center seat, the women on either side were quiet, and I dozed until we landed in Q-town.
   Where it was just starting to rain.
   But the shuttle driver was nice, and the same woman who had sat next to me on the plain got into the van and sat next to me again, chatting the entire time about what to do and not and where to eat and not and, oh, don’t know where the hostel is, she wouldn’t know anything about hostels, but have a great time, luv.
   Queenstown was named for Queen Victoria and is situated on the shores of Lake Wakatipu, a natural glacial lake that stretches 80 km (50 miles) and is edged by the Remarkables range of mountains, site of many “Lord of the Rings” film shots (much of the entire country is, Peter Jackson being a Kiwi). The mountains surrounding the lake also played host to the early scenes in “X-Men,” where Hugh Jackman  (yum) as Wolverine found Rogue hitch-hiking.  A vintage steamship, the SS Earnshaw, takes regular cruises across the lake and up the rivers that feed and empty it.
   The town was overrun with young backpackers, probably because it is the jumping off point for just about any extreme activity you might want to endanger your life doing, including bungee jumping and sky diving and the world’s largest swing (a different application of bungee cords) parasailing, speedboats up the river that specialize in full 360-degree spins, a zip line and, for those who prefer something more staid, a gondola ride up the mountain. In the surrounding bush (woods) there are numerous walking tracks (hiking trails) where those who enjoy having no running water or toilet facilities may bury their own poo to their hearts’ content.
   The city is not just attractive to backpackers, though – it’s one of the premier destinations in the world, hosting about 1.2 million people every year. The Maori passed through the area first, collecting jade, what they call green stone. They also hunted a now-extinct bird called the moa (moh-ah), a large ostrich looking thing that couldn’t fly. The Maori simply set fire to the bush and nabbed the creatures as they ran out. No wonder they’re extinct now. After the Maori, William Rees was the first European there, and the pioneering settler. He leased land from the government to graze sheep, and stayed after the lease was up. Before roads were built, the lake played an important role in farming since the quickest way to get livestock to market was taking them across on a steamboat. Thomas Arthur and Harry Redfern found gold in the Shotover River not long after the town was settled, which set off a boom until the early 1900s, when the town went bust again, left with a population of about 200. Now about 8,000 people live there. 
   It is a lovely little town, and I probably would have had a better time there had I not been sick and sleeping with five other people, one of whom was a snorer of truly epic proportions (who would not wake even with poking and prodding – and yes, I got out of bed and tried) the same guy who came in at 2 a.m. and turned on the lights, then went out and slammed the door, in again and slammed the door, and out again, and in again. Not that I noticed.
   After two nights there, I was off to embark on an overnight cruise on lovely Doubtful Sound.

Welcome to New Zealand

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   Maybe I’m getting old and  crotchety or maybe I’m just tired and am ready to go back to the States (I can’t say “go home” because I haven’t got a home right now …) but I sure turned into a cranky pants once I arrived in Auckland. How does one adjust to a new place after the wonderful experiences in Melbourne and the over-the-top New Years in Sydney? Poor Auckland hardly stood a chance.
I’m sure that Auckland is a very nice place. Most of the people were certainly nice. No – all of the people I met who live in Auckland were terrific. Okay, one was a little flaky. And I can’t say those who were visiting from other countries were great.
   In the quest to keep costs down, I’ve mentioned using some different Web sites – WWOOF, HelpExchange, hostelworld, couchsurfing, etc. There’s one more. Crashpadder.com, a site for those individuals who have a room, mother-in-law quarters, guest house, or sofa-bed to rent for a night or week or month to total strangers with ready money. I fell into the total stranger with ready money category, and secured a room with a lady who lives in a western suburb of Auckland. My understanding when I booked was that she was going to either pick me up herself, or arrange for a shuttle/taxi pick up. Since I had trouble getting Internet access at the Sydney airport, I thought I would just check once I landed in Auckland.
   The flight from Sydney to Auckland is not a long one – only three hours. But there’s a two hour time difference, so you really lose five hours. My flight left at 5 p.m., got in at a 10 p.m. But we ran a bit late out of Sydney, and then I had to get a bag and clear New Zealand Customs. By the time I got to a computer terminal, it was getting on close to 11. But yes, there was Internet and yes, there are computers right there but no, they won’t, for some reason, take an American debit/credit card so no, I could not check my email to see what shuttle company she secured or if someone was waiting for me somewhere outside – in the rain.
   So I trot out into the drizzle (not exactly cold, because it’s summer, but still uncomfortable) and chat with the shuttle driver, who speaks broken English with a Chinese accent, but is very kind to me and tells me no, no one has reserved a shuttle for a Kimbel Westerson (I won’t attempt the phonetics on that) but he will call to make sure, and no, they don’t have a reservation, either. Since I don’t know the number of shuttle services in Auckland, I figure I should call to make sure I’m not taking off and getting stuck with two fees, one for the shuttle I didn’t take. But no, I don’t yet have a phone that works in New Zealand, so I find a pay phone but no, I don’t have any New Zealand coins. I remembered to exchange Australian for New Zealand dollars, but didn’t think to get coins. So the shuttle driver, who calls himself Michael because his Chinese name is too difficult for most white people to pronounce, gives me a dollar coin so I can call this nice lady at 11:15 p.m. who tells me, oh, no, she didn’t reserve a shuttle – didn’t I get the email?
   So Michael, bless him, takes me to Henderson, Auckland, New Zealand for the price of $48. A cab would have cost me $80. Along the way, he talks steadily about his job (okay, I was asking him questions) how it’s hard to make a living as a driver, he’s planning to quit at the end of the month but hasn’t told his boss yet, but he’s quitting because sometimes he makes as little as $8 on a run, and the airport charges a fee each time they enter the premises, but his girlfriend works at Subway (Subway?! Gawd, the things that America exports …) and she can get him a job there for minimum wage. Which is about $18 an hour.  Better. Much better.
   He also explains to me that drivers don’t want to go to the western suburbs because it’s more expensive especially for a single fare. There’s better money going east through the city center where there are lots of hotel drops. But he’s okay with taking me. I asked him if he was missing out on a better fare, and he said no, no. It’s okay. He got me to the address (of course he did – he had a nifty navigator on the dashboard of the van) and R. was still awake, with her friend C., who is visiting from Canada. They’ve been friends for 30 years. Both of them used to be flight attendants for Air Canada.
The one nice day when I was in Auckland … by the Ferry Building downtown.
   The house was immaculate and looked just like it did in the photographs online (praise be) and the room was quite comfortable. She had mentioned that only the single room was available because she had a couple other “girls” staying in the double, and she couldn’t kick them out. Of course not. The single was just fine: tiny bit clean, a cozy down comforter on the bed, just fine. R. fretted about her coughing and hoped it didn’t keep me awake. “Oh, this virus is awful – I’ve been sick since before Christmas!” That comment went over my head at the time. The only concern that crossed my mind as I was dropping off to sleep was that there were four women in the house and one bathroom between all of us. I needn’t have worried about the bathroom.
   In the morning, R. was keen to feed me espresso, but I declined due to the caffeine. I like my coffee, but have to have it decaf. (You don’t want to put jet fuel in a Toyota. The results are astonishing, but only for a short period of time.)  R. was going into downtown Henderson, so she offered me a lift and a brief tour. The tour was brief – a mall, a couple blocks of shops and cafes, the train station and bus stop. Ta-da!
   Since I had managed to find another house sitting gig, I did all the necessaries to get a phone, and proceeded to the train station to check on train times. R. had warned me that train service is reduced on the weekend. She didn’t warn me that train service was currently reduced to nothing. Auckland transit system is in the middle of upgrading their trains to be all electric (instead of steam driven?)  and repairing track, so buses are replacing trains until January 19. January 19?! But, no worries, helpful transport personnel were on hand to sell me a ticket and get me to the right bus. Happily, K., half of the couple for whom I was house sitting, was picking me up at the train station closest to her. The three of us met, had a cup of tea, chatted, agreed on when I would arrive, and M. gave me a ride back to Henderson where I found some pretty darn good Indian food.
*
   When I met C. the night before, she was wearing red, black and white plaid pajama pants; when I saw her the next morning, she was wearing the same; when I got home at seven o’clock she was wearing them and whether she changed out of them or not during the day is a matter for speculation. Built like a potato held up by slender toothpicks, with blonde hair skinned back into an untamed bun on top of her head, she shifted on the sofa like a child, shushing us as R. and I talked about the state of U.S. and New Zealand politics. She interrupts occasionally to tell me that I’m wrong about the U.S.’s policies. She calls George Washington “idiot boy.” She tells us that American schools no longer teach history, and she doesn’t say that in a, “Sheesh! Schools nowadays!” sense, she means that literally, U.S. schools have stopped teaching history.
   R. finally says “Stop it!”
   “Well, they don’t.” C. pouts
   “C., stop it. I mean it.”
   Something is happening here that I don’t understand. C. ignores R. completely. Canadian curriculum is counted off a finger at a time in detail: Grades 1, 2, 3: Nova Scotia history. Grades 4 and 5: Canadian History. Grades 6 and 7, U.S. History (she emphasizes “U.S.”, forcing the last letter into sibilance).  She snaps her fingers at me, tells me what Americans don’t know, shakes her index finger at me, “No! No! Nonono. You don’t know.”
   After I tell her that I know, firsthand, for sure, that at least one American school still teaches History because I have seen a student’s grades in the subject, I do my best to bite my tongue, or at least keep it still. Finally, I ignore the running commentary and shushing from the couch while R. glares in that direction.
   C. gets up, goes to her room, comes back to the kitchen, returns to the couch with a glass of water – wait – (sniff)  … vodka? Aaaahhhhh- that explains it. The petulance, the impatience, the bad manners, the insults. Of course. She’s a drunk. I so badly want to give back to her what she’s been dishing out, but I haven’t any real desire to be rude, dismissive, ill-informed and insecure. She can’t help it. She’s a sick pup. I can help it. So off to bed I go.
   The next morning C. is fast asleep when I get up. R. asks me if I’m okay, not to take it personally, that C. just gets like that sometimes. Of course. I understand. And I find that it works to my advantage that R. feels bad about a paying guest being abused in her home, because I have to tell her that K. and M. need me to house sit a couple days earlier than I thought, and I’ll have to leave tomorrow. The problem: I’ve already paid R. for the six days I wanted the room. We agree that I’ll return after the house sitting job and stay the remaining nights.
*
   K. and M.’s place is in the suburb of Blockhouse Bay and yes, close to the water as the name implies.  The house is situated down a steep slope, so the car is parked at the top of 43 – yes, I counted – stairs. At first glance, the place looked a little dodgy, as they say here. Tiny. Oh, sheesh. What have gotten into? Pleasebeokaypleasebeokaypleasebeokay … And it was quite okay. The structure has a tiny footprint, but is three stories of comfort. Hard wood floors, a large deck, great view of the water, natural landscape (what M. called “bush”) hydrangea blossoms big as melons, tree ferns and other lush green things that I can’t identify. The cats were content, as were the fish, although I was told that the fish didn’t like to sit on your lap and purr in the evenings. Ah. Good to know.
   New Zealand’s North Island is considered sub-tropical and has acres upon acres of rain forest. Consequently, it does rain on occasion. In fact, right now, most of the North Island is experiencing record rainfall. Wettest summer on record, matter of fact. And I saw nearly two weeks of it. Happily, I was ensconced in K. and M.’s place with the cats, who managed to bear the wet quite well and the fish, who , it turns out, don’t mind being wet.  I did laundry, hung out, got a lot of work done, was on Facebook more than I ever have been. And K. had generously offered the place if I needed it for another night after she returned. I needed it.
   While house sitting, I took a day trip with the other guest at R.’s, M. We drove off to Helensville one day, in the rain, and cold, to see … not much of anything, really. One main street stretched several blocks and boasted a couple (bad) cafes, and a few antique stores, only one of which was actually an antique store. The other two were more like pop-up garage sale sites. Bored with Helensville, we drove out to Shelley Beach, where the inclement weather had not changed, and had (bad) snacks at the café there. Finally, we gave up and left. During this excursion, I heard the news from R.’s place – both she and C. had caught R.’s contagious crud. I was glad to be gone, and did not want to return. My experience is that the Universe tends to grant wishes, and sure enough, I received a phone call from R. who said that I really shouldn’t come back, everyone was sick, she’d be happy to return my money. We arranged to meet at a halfway point, after which I would trek down to the Ponsonby neighborhood to find accommodations.
   Although K. and M.’s place was quite comfortable, getting anywhere from there was challenging. A good 15 minute walk would get me to the shops where I could catch a bus to the nearest train station to catch another bus or train somewhere. Yet the public transportation was surprisingly expensive and inconvenient – three different bus companies provided service, and not all trains were running yet. After an unfruitful day in Ponsonby (where I bought things I probably shouldn’t have, but some of them were gifts, so I couldn’t feel too bad about it) trying to secure lodging at a hostel (eeewww), I stumbled back to Blockhouse Bay. The standard shops line the main road – bakeries, cafes, pharmacies, a grocery store. And a travel agency.
Shelley Beach.
   Stefan, or Herman the German as his mates call him, was sympathetic and checked into an earlier flight home for me. The price? Yikes. That much? Nope. I’ll tough it out and find somewhere to stay. Stefan asked if he might make a few suggestions. Of course.
   So I walked back to K. and M.’s place delighted to have information about the South Island with me, and some of the destinations there. All I had to do was select and they would take care of the details. Nice. But strange – when I opened my mouth to tell K. about it (because she was back by now), strange croaks issued from my mouth.
   “Are you okay?” K. asked.
   “Uh … (ahem)…(cough, cough) …Yeah. I think I might be getting what everyone else has …” and told her my sad story about staying at the sick house.
   But I looked at the info, and chose, and the next morning with a head that felt like it was wrapped in cotton and legs that made me feel like I was wading through mud, I sloshed down to the agency to book my next two weeks and see if there was a doctor who would be kind enough to prescribe an antibiotic, should I need it in the immediate future. Yes, and yes, and $105.90 later, I had some lovely erythromycin to complement my meals for the next 14 days.
   Stefan booked me a whirlwind expedition to points of interest on the South and North islands, and I sweated my fevered self back to K. and M.’s to finish packing and meet the shuttle at 2:30 so I could stay a night at the airport, store one of my bags, and fly standby to Queenstown.

Not Lost

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   I’m nearing the end of my journey and have been considering a few of the things that I heard before I left. 
You’re going off to find yourself.
   I am not lost. There are times, I suppose, when someone might have said that I had lost my moral compass, or my sanity, and they would have been right. I think the truth is that I am too much with myself and become self-centered, so much so that my navel becomes tired of being contemplated and says, buzz off lady, find something else to focus on. Travel is actually about losing myself, assuaging the restlessness that frustrates me, and stretching my experience. It’s safe to assume that I will find out more about myself. But I know where I am. I have not lost myself, as much as I try. If I’m off to find anything, it is how others live, what others think, why some people “say g’day” and others say “how ya goin’?”.   I don’t find myself somewhere else. Where would I be in the meantime?
Life is a journey, not a destination.
   Oh, fiddlesticks. God save me from inspirational quotes andposters. Those of us who complain about a sound-bite culture have no business quoting aphorisms, or quoting anything out of context, or passing along dross.  I’m here, so this is my destination.  A journey? Well, consider that ‘there’ is much the same as ‘here,’ and when you get ‘there,’ it’s just a new ‘here.’ So you’re always ‘here.’  At the destination. Life is here now. Sorry.
Oh, this is just like Eat, Pray, Love!
   We’ve gone over this before. Stop it.
Alone?
   Yes. Alone. I was married to a man who couldn’t have been less interested in going anywhere other than where he was. I, on the other hand, was always wanting to go somewhere and do something, which could be seen either as having a short attention span or as a healthy curiosity about the world around me and how I might fit into it. It became clear that if I was going to go anywhere, even places that he said he would go with me, I would be going alone. Neither is right or wrong. They just don’t match. Going somewhere alone feels better when I am actually alone wishing someone else wanted to be with me.
 Are you traveling, or are you writing?
   That is not an either/or question. I’m always writing. But don’t always have a publisher lined up before I write something. If having a publisher lined up was a prerequisite for writing, we’d have very little to read. Writers write just because they’re made that way. Canadian author Robertson Davies explores the idea of what is an artist in several of his books. Right now I’m reading “Leaven of Malice,” where the character Humphrey Cobbler, an organist, points out that singers are not necessarily musicians – they just sing. And they sing because they’re made that way. They don’t necessarily sing great material or have musical taste (as Taylor Swift and those who buy her recordings demonstrate). Not all writers have taste or write well (as we can gather from perusing just about any bestseller list).  But writers write. Period.
   Am I looking for material for new writing? Sure. Always. Will I submit writing that originates on this trip? Sure. Will I be inspired with a Big Idea while I’m traveling? I sure hope so. I’m open to Big Ideas any old time.
You’ll get sick at least once, fall in love a couple times and lose at least a key piece of documentation or identification.
   This was offered by my first hostel roommate Scott as he left, wishing me health and happy trails. He’s one for three right now; I am sick. But I haven’t fallen in love even once, unless you count falling in love with Melbourne, but I think he meant a person or two. And so far (knock on wood, light a candle, sacrifice a virgin chicken) I haven’t lost any identification or other key piece of anything. Except that manicure scissors that was confiscated upon my arrival in Brisbane. Happily, when I got sick I was in civilization, or at least Auckland, and a kind doctor made time to see me hours before I flew off to Queenstown.
   Things are good. Life is good. The antibiotics are working, and more than that I cannot ask for right now. I’m a lucky girl.
   More to come on New Zealand. It’s ain’t over yet.

Everyman

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   I visit the dead.
   I do not visit the war dead.
   This is not a political statement or a protest – it is merely a fact. I do not visit shrines or temples or chapels or other stone monoliths or mausoleums built for those who have died in the glory and the carnage of war, those who sometimes have not even left physical remains behind.
   I’ve been in Washington, D.C. more than once, but have not yet paid respects at the Viet Nam Veterans’ Memorial, although I’ve heard it is a potent experience. Arlington Cemetery has not yet made it onto my itinerary. My family has in it a number of good and true who have served their country. However, they served and came home.
   So visiting the Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne was sheer coincidence on an afternoon that was to contain other stops to shops, cafes and notable homes along the Number 8 Tram route. As it happened, I had no patience for premier residences and beautiful people lining sidewalk cafes after seeing the Shrine.
   The monolith stands on a hill, visible from St. Kilda Road, a pyramid that could be a Victorian formal garden monstrosity or some sort of memorial, a big stone something-or-other whose presence is inescapable yet repellent. These places tend to be austere and solemn, providing only the most basic information – this nation did this, that leader did that – they are temples to Mars, not Athena.
   I enter through a low door, a courtyard and a hall full of medals symbolizing in their count the number of Victorian Australians who served – for each medal, 100 served and six died. There is a sign that directs me to the garden courtyard, the crypt, and/or the sanctuary. I haven’t any idea where I am now, but it is a dark place with a concrete floor and red brick columns a meter square that disappear into a black void. Banners hang on each column, they are muslin with paintings simple as a child’s drawing, elegant as calligraphy. Each depicts a scene from World War I, and a poem. By the artist? No, by soldiers who were there, Englishmen, Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon, writing in a trench or between marches.
   The columns are too close together, the room is too dark. I can’t get a photograph that would allow me to walk through with efficient speed on my way to the next tram stop. I must sit now, write it now, feel it now, not distance myself from this place where a child’s trantrum echoes, a cell phone rings, an Asian voice answers, one of the two women who were a pain in the ass on the tram. The child is sitting on the floor, leaning against one of the long banners while his mother cajoles him and takes a flash photograph. Before I can scold them for touching the art and using flash photography, they are gone, as if they felt the wrongness of that and are uncomfortable in this place with no convenient photo ops.
*
   Now I have become a pest; either that or the staff and volunteers here are well above what other volunteers I’ve met. I asked for a catalogue of the exhibit – one does not exist. An older gentlemen with brilliant white hair, mustache, side burns and aged ivory  teeth approaches me as I’m watching the orientation movie that I ignored on the way in, gliding past on my way to  – what? I didn’t know until I got there. He tells me that the curator is coming to speak with me, and I’m amazed and immediately self-conscious. Really? The curator? Sheesh. I really have put a bee in someone’s bonnet.
   Neil Sharkey, curator, walks toward me. I’d love to know the origin of his family name. He is thin as a rake, dressed in long, square-toed shoes, skinny jeans the color of sand, a black (of course) shirt, black mop of hair with bangs that flop over his eyes. He keeps brushing them away, or tossing his head. He tells me that no, there is no catalogue of “Everyman” available, largely because there is not an extra $5,000 or so lying around. (I think to myself that $5,000 sounds like a bargain to produce a quality catalogue.) There must be someone with five grand – maybe five someones with one thousand each to put together an amazing piece of this art. Really? Seriously? After working at an art museum I know that there is a story that goes along with this catalogue drama. I would have purchased one. Fifty dollars. Easy.
   I tell Neil that I keep a blog, that I really want to write about this and use images – that I would have taken photographs, but it’s too dark, my little iPhone won’t do it, I can’t get far enough away to show the whole image because of those wonderful brick pillars. Neil phones Craig Barrett, the artist.
   “Listen Craig, there an American woman here who is really interested in “Everyman” and wants to use some images on a blog … yeah. Yeah. Well, I suppose we could … Yeah. I have images of everything. Mmhmm. I have her right here.”
   He covers the mouthpiece.
   “Kimber …?”
   “Kimbel.”
   “Right.”
   “Kimbel. Here she is.”
   I love speaking to artists about their work. Most of them are approachable, unlike the people who represent artists. Craig Barrett tells me that he returned from Spain to Melbourne in 2002 and looked at the new area just opened at the shrine and immediately wanted to create something specifically for the space that he saw as a cross between catacomb and cathedral. He said he didn’t know how gas worked, so he researched it. He said that the first tanks were used in the first World War, so he researched them. He immersed himself in the details of trench warfare.
   Craig Barrett created this work because he wanted to make artwork specifically for that site. The staff and board of the Shrine loved it, and after the exhibit opened, he gave the entire set of work to the organization. This is the fifth time it’s been displayed. Well over half a million people have seen it. I wonder if I’m the first person who wanted a full catalogue?
   Four men from Barrett’s family served on the Western Front of what was once called the Great War, the War to End all Wars. His great grandfather and three great uncles fought at the Somme and at Ypres. One great uncle remains there. The others lived to return home.
   I, like Barrett, grew up knowing little of what these men had witnessed. My hormonal yearnings during American History distracted me from the relevant information, no matter how earnest Mr. Money was about imparting his knowledge.
*
   I am given permission to use images of “Everyman” on this blog, and thank Craig and Neil profusely. Then I wander through this Hall of Columns, as I have learned this room is called, to the Crypt where the fighting units of World War I are commemorated, where the colors representing 25% of Victoria’s regiments have been retired, where the elegant folds of forty-six Light Horse regiments’ guidons drape. No air current stirs them here.
   I want to reflect, look more closely at “Father and Son,” the bronze sculpture that represents the two generations who fought in the First and Second World Wars, silk poppies mounded at its base.  A clear shot of the sculpture is all I want, but I am surrounded by a horde of Asians with cameras. A toddler fiddles with the poppies, pushing some to the floor. She watches them fall then walks away. The other kids race around the perimeter of the room, touching all the brass plaques that commemorate the ships lost. I step forward involuntarily saying, “oh, nononono…” No one hears me over the chatter and clicking of Nikon shutters. I want to tell them that this place is sacred, now that I understand.
   Finally, they are gone. I place the fallen poppies back on the statue’s base. I take one with me.
   One of my grandfathers fought in The Great War, shipped into France in a boxcar, The 40 and 8 they called them because they had a capacity for either eight horses or forty men. He came back, raised a family and died of a stroke before I became an adult. I hear that he sat with me at Disneyland after Mickey Mouse scared the crap out of me. But I heard no stories of France and the Western Front, and probably would never have been old enough to even think to ask questions.
    What of the glory of war – does war give some sort of meaning to our otherwise small lives? War is at once dehumanizing and humanizing, brutal conflict breeding a love between brothers in arms that defies the understanding of one who has never experienced foxholes and mortars. For most of us, bombs bursting in air is only a 4th of July event. And for most of us, that’s all we want it to be: the melodic romanticism of a mythic battle.
   Barrett says that he created “Everyman,” “as homage to all those who have witnessed such events, to the poets and soldiers Owen and Sassoon, and to (his) Great Uncle George whose name is written along with his brothers in the Books of Remembrance here in the Shrine.”
   I visit the dead. I visit the war dead.
Dulce et decorum est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! — An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime. —
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
-Wilfred Owen

Last Day

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   Rainy today and the blossoms are being dragged off the jacarandas, leaving the sidewalks strewn with purple. My last day here in Sydney is full of a soft rain, (a gentle rain, like an English rain, as the bard Geddy Lee wrote). The outside temperature the same as my skin, heavy gray air, so heavy it falls in drops. A moody day.  
   Here in Sydney, I have explored the neighborhoods of Potts Point, Kings Cross, Darlinghurst, Darling Harbour, Manly, Watson’s Bay, the Central Business District and The Rocks. I’ve strolled through the Royal Botanical Gardens (several times, in circles), toured the Sydney Opera House, and attended three events there. I’ve stayed in a hostel (first time) and had three male roommates, none of which I had sex with (also a first). I’ve eaten great Thai and a horrible fast food MSG-laced steak sandwich sold by a woman who spoke broken English with an Asian Australian accent. My laundry has dried on a clothesline for the first time since I was a child. I’ve eaten outstanding fish and chips, but have not yet found an equal to Ghirardelli 60% cocoa chocolate, or Skippy peanut butter, which, since they are staples of my diet,  suggests that I would have them shipped to me in bulk if I moved here.
   I am sitting here at my morning haunt, The Paper Cup, where Jack and Eloise greet me every day and have my order memorized (large flat white, decaf, one sugar) and always ask if I’d like a (very thick) slice of spelt banana bread, toasted, with butter. I always have the flat white, sometimes the banana bread. From this vantage point, I see all the Mums and assorted children around two tables that have been pushed together under the awning. I am glad that they are outside and that I am inside. The public school across the way looks dignified under the heavy sky.  The jets taking off are especially loud today. And although I feel as though I haven’t scratched the surface of all the things to do in Sydney, I also feel as though I have spent a lot of time just being in Sydney.
   That time being is probably more important than time doing, and more useful for the mission that I’m on right now. I have approached this trip with the intent to see if there is a place I might like to live in Australia, as well as a way to live there. And although I find Sydney dynamic, and beautiful , and full of culture and fabulous beaches – I have not felt for one minute like I want to live here. There is nothing that has spoken, Yessss! Sydney! This is it! I’m here! I’m staying! Sydney is rather two dimensional, like a very pretty picture.
   So I can fly to Melbourne at 6:45 tomorrow morning knowing that I’ve done what I need to and have gotten the information that I required.
   Onward.

Bendigo

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   In our last episode, our heroine was moving on to Auckland from Sydney, after a mighty fine New Year’s Eve celebration. But we’re backtracking a little bit, back to the Melbourne area for some highlights that didn’t get posted in sequence.

   While I was in Gippsland with my hosts in Marlo, the topic of my possible relocation came up. Among the questions was whether I want to be in a metropolitan area or not. The answer was “don’t know.” I enjoy being close to all the things that cities have: art galleries, theaters, shopping, neighborhoods, good public transportation, and so on. At the same time, rents are expensive, it’s difficult to have a car (in Sydney it’s incredibly expensive, but then again, everything in Sydney is incredibly expensive) and harder to have a pet.
   To be fair, there are advantages to living in a small city, as well. In the country, people seem more accessible; you tend to know your neighbors and become friends with them. There’s room to run a dog off the leash, it’s easy to have a car, rents are less expensive, crime rate is lower, easy to get around, etc. Plus, you can be within easy distance of a larger city. And it’s better than living in soulless suburbia.

   During this discussion, my host suggested that I try to check out the cities of Bendigo or Ballarat next. During my house sit with Mylo-the-verbally-gifted-feline, I browsed the HelpEx site for possibilities. I found a promising host with landscaping work to finish off after adding an extension to their home. The photographs showed a fabulous Victorian cottage front, complete with a front porch and gingerbread trim, and a distinctly modern corrugated steel back – the extension. The place was in easy walking distance of the downtown area. I contacted them immediately. The day I finished my sit with Mylo, I was on the 9:30 a.m. train out of Southern Cross to Bendigo.

   I adore train trips into the country.

   When I arrived, M. was there to pick me up, although he said he had approached another woman and asked if she was Kimbel. He also apologized that the car was being serviced and that he would call for a taxi. The other half of the hosting couple, J., would meet us here at the train station. He suggested that since I had arrived half-way through the day, we might explore Bendigo a little bit this afternoon. I thought that was a terrific idea.

   To say that the house is lovely would be an understatement. Neighborhoods in Kansas City boast lovingly restored homes of Victorian and Craftsman vintage. But this house, although modest from the exterior, boasted details that I haven’t seen in similar sized homes. Extravagant plaster medallions on the ceilings around the light fixtures in all the bedrooms, multi-layered crown mouldings, a decorative archway mid-hallway, Baltic pine floors, two fireplaces (non-functioning). And then, the extension – an open floor plan that contained kitchen, living and dining areas under a vaulted ceiling, a contrast of clean opposite to the front half of the house. Our brief tour included the back area, but M. said we’d get into the list of tasks in the morning.

   So after lunch (thank you J.!) we ventured downtown and my hosts were kind enough to take me on a tour of some of Bendigo’s attractions. We stopped for a coffee first (M. has his own cappuccino machine, so my coffee habit was supported) at the Bendigo Art Gallery.  Besides a nice permanent collection of early European and Australian paintings and objet, the current exhibit was “Made in Hollywood: Photographs from the John Kobal Foundation” and was organised by the Santa Barbara Museum of Art.  We all laughed at that. The other exhibit was a Bendigo Art Gallery exhibit of Michael O’Connell’s textiles. O’Connell was designing in the early 1900s – fabulous work. 

   On the way out, M. suggested that we climb a tower behind the gallery that looked to me like a simple observation tower. Since it was placed on the edge of Rosalind Park, I thought that it was just an overlook built as an attraction for park visitors. Turns out it’s what is referred to as a poppet head, the top of a gold mine that operated the drilling mechanism. At the base, we were met by a nice young woman who told us that a film was being shot at the top of the tower, and that we should be aware we might be in a shot as we passed the crew. No problem. As sophisticated poppet-head climbers, we were aware of all the risks. Including being filmed.

   Turned out that the person being filmed was Tony Robinson, a British actor who I remember as Baldrick in a PBS series called “Blackadder,” which also starred Rowan Atkinson (Mr. Bean). We did end up being in a shot, and in fact having to be in the shot several times. Mr. Robinson was a sport (he kept saying “Ballarat” instead of “Bendigo.”) He consented to a photograph after we finished. The film is part of a series, “Tony Robinson Explores Australia” on the History Channel, so you can see me on film next year if in fact the scene doesn’t get deleted.

   One day in Bendigo and a brush with fame already.

   The next morning, we assessed the state of the back.  Much of the landscaping had been completed already. Decomposed granite footpaths, a salvaged brick retaining wall, paved patio. The tasks at hand included tearing out some climbing plants called Happy Wanderer, which, as J. pointed out, were no longer happy or wandering. The next task was placing volcanic rock and additional topsoil in an area to make a rock garden that would be host to J.’s lemon tree. Another bush that had failed to thrive was to be torn out. Green waste hauled to the tip (recycling site), top soil moved, excess soil hauled out the tip – a good list. We worked in the cool morning hours and took hot afternoons off.

   One afternoon, we all rode downtown together – J. had a lunch date with Ladies who Lunch; M. had a luncheon scheduled with the Lads who Lunch; this gave me the chance to examine the exhibits at the Art Gallery more closely and have lunch at the cafe, which was delicious and inexpensive. After we were all done with our various lunching, we met and drove out to a friend of M. and J.’s who just happens to be a famous quilter.

   In conversation early in the week, I had mentioned that I sewed and quilted. M. immediately asked me if I knew the name Margaret McDonald. No, I was ignorant, but had a feeling that it was someone that I should know. I Googled. She’s a big deal.

   Over the past 20-odd years, Margaret has fabricated probably around 300+ quilts. In a dozen years, I have probably made six.  But I inherited a love of textiles from my mother, and the chance to meet a quilting super star was too good to pass up. J. and M. called up Margaret, told her that they had someone visiting who was a quilter, and could we come out and visit? Of course!

   Margaret and her husband reside on 27 acres well outside of Bendigo. They lease out the paddocks (pastures) to sheep ranchers in the area, so all the grass is trimmed neatly by the wooly ones. On the property, she has had a portable classroom unit placed for her workshop. All of her machines are in there, and most of her fabric, although she saw a mouse in there the other day, so the fabrics have started a migration to the house.  While there, we watched a PowerPoint presentation showcasing her quilts on their big screen television. Fabulous. She pieces by hand, and that’s what fascinates her – the piecing. She loves to see the patterns emerge. The quilting part she entrusts to a few select long-arm quilters. I could have visited with her for several more hours about quilting and taken advantage of her hospitality, but it was getting on past dinner time, so off we went and stopped for fish and chips on the way home.
*

   I was not expected to work on the weekend, so we all headed out to the Farmer’s Market on Saturday. Since J. and M. were preparing to travel to Adelaide on Tuesday morning and didn’t want perishables going bad in the ‘fridge, we didn’t purchase any of the fresh things on offer.  We also stopped over at the Pall Mall Art & Craft Market in the Town Hall where M., a jewelry designer, would have a stall the next day.  The interior of which took my breath away. Yes, the gold on the mouldings is real gold leaf. (Excuse the head in the shot … there was a shocking number of people there at the last market before Christmas.)

   I am not necessarily a huge fan of Victorian architecture. Craftsman style is more my taste. But I’m not necessarily not a fan of Victorian architecture, especially when it’s in context and so well maintained as much of the buildings here in Bendigo.  The city was founded during the Australian gold rush of the 1850s, so  this style is that of the time. The fact that so much of it has been maintained astonished me.  Of course, there is a good deal that’s not been maintained, as well, and also a portion of those buildings under refurbishment.  And the way that Australians regard this architecture is interesting, as well.  In Sydney, in Melbourne and now in Bendigo, I saw both contemporary and Victorian co-existing on the same street. And somehow, it worked. There are also those who respect superb craftsmanship and preserve it, yet add a contemporary space (like L. in Bentleigh East and J. and M. here in Bendigo.) Again, it works. If one doesn’t layer more gee-gaws on the gee –gaws already there, one can have a greater appreciation for them.

At the Tip – constructed of electronic pieces/parts.

   I don’t quite know what it was about Bendigo that attracted me. Maybe because it’s a small city, the energy seems manageable.  Perhaps the architecture renders it charming. Or it could be that my hosts made me feel so at home, I didn’t want to leave. (Thank you, J. and M.!) But I have to say that the first time I thought seriously about contacting an immigration agent was while I was in Bendigo.

I will be forever grateful of J. and M.’s wonderful hospitality and welcome.
   But on Friday morning I was off again for Melbourne to meet up with friends I made in Sydney and attend an author event featuring playwright and screen writer Tom Stoppard (“Rosencranz and Guildenstern Are Dead,” “Shakespeare in Love,” etc. and etc.) and science fiction writer Neil Gaiman (the “Sandman” series, “American Gods,” “Neverwhere,” and various “Dr. Who” episodes, etc., etc., etc.)

Happy New Year!

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    I wanted to get this posted earlier (like on America’s New Year’s Eve) but missed the opportunity because of (once again) Internet connection being unavailable. However, I was in Sydney for New Year’s Eve, and I can think of few places better to ring in a new year.
   This whole go-to-Sydney-for-New-Year’s-Eve started while I was staying at Cambridge Lodge in October. As the time to leave for Melbourne approached, I was speaking with a young Scotsman about the change of the year. He asked if I would be there, and I said, no, the timing of my trip was such that I might be in Melburne or Auckland. He was appalled that I wouldn’t be in Sydney to see the extravaganza. With his encouragement, I booked a flight back to Sydney, and another on to Auckland.
   A week or so later, when I was speaking with the American friends I made there, I mentioned that I would be back and that we should all do something. Discussion followed. Viewing vantage points, activities, food – all were discussed. Finally, I mentioned something about the gala that the Sydney Opera House held every year – they had heard about it, also. So after a quick look online, the deed was done. We would be at the opera house for the big hoo-ha.

    Dilemma: I had nothing to wear. Well, of course I did, but geez, the opera on New Year’s? Puh-leez. The weekend that my friends visited me in Melbourne, we went a-shoppin’ and found the perfect thing, half price. Done. Now, shoes. The problem is that merchandise of any sort is quite expensive in Australia. I looked after Christmas at the Boxing Day sales and found great deals: shoes marked down from $300 to $150. More than what my traveler’s budget would bear. I got to Sydney with no shoes, thinking I would go barefoot or perhaps make a statement with my running shoes and the salmon-pink silk beaded number I had purchased for the occasion. My friend Susan and I went on a mission after viewing the touring Picasso exhibit at the Art Gallery of New South Wales. (A brief digression: Those who have been reading along will remember what a challenge finding the gallery was for me. For the record, Susan’s husband John got lost trying to find it, too. Just sayin.)
    Lunch first, then the search. Too expensive, too glitzy, too casual – I felt like a Grimm’s hybrid of Cinderella and Red Riding Hood. I insisted on a heel. Had to be a nude color. Had to be cool. Had to be something that I would wear again. Had to be cheap. On the way, we cruised through the Queen Victoria Building which still was dressed for Christmas. The tree is ornamented with Swarovski crystal, and stands three stories. At the top level, Santa has his palace (cage?) which is also adorned with Swarovski crystal. Shortly after this, we located the perfect shoes at a perfect price and went home to rest. I wasn’t worried about the heals because public transport was running all night, and we were taking a cab to the performance.

Could you walk a mile in these shoes?

   Off we went. The cab got us to … St. James station? OMG. That’s almost to the museum. We could practically have walked from home. Well, everyone else was in the same boat. The police shut down traffic throughout a kilometer all the way around the harbor area. Everybody was on foot, nobody could bring in glass or alcohol. (Right.) We walked what felt like a mile, and another woman (who was wearing shoes even higher than mine with an even skinnier heel) and I decided that the cobblestone surface around the opera house had clearly been designed by a man who didn’t stop to consider that women who attend the opera are most likely wearing heels.

After a rainy morning, a perfect evening in Sydney   

But we got there. First, a performance of the Sydney Opera and Ballet Orchestra with guest singers from the Sydney Opera doing favorites, including “Nessun Dorma” from Turandot.  My friends and I got the cheap seats – or I should say, the cheaper seats – at $220 to sit behind the orchestra. We could still hear because of these nifty acrylic rings, or clouds, which reflect sound back down to the stage and audience. And besides, I had fun following along with the timpani player to see if he got it right. (He did.) By the way, in case you’re interested for the future, the Opera House offers several options to ring in the the new year, including a pre-dinner and an after party with VIP viewing vantage point.  The whole shootin’ match will set you back as much as $1,100, but may be purchased a la carte, as we did. If I ever do it again, I’m upgrading my seat. We heard the symphony just fine, but, from our vantage point, the singing was overwhelmed by the orchestra.

View from the cheap(er) seats – before.
View from the cheap(er) seats – after.

    The show was em cee’d as well, by Jonathan Biggins, actor, director and general entertainment dog’s body with a dry wit and fabulous timing, providing continuity and transition between the pieces. Who wants to sit through a dry recital on New Year’s Eve? The performance started at 8 p.m., with an intermission just before nine o’clock so we could all pile out for the first fireworks display. My friends and I had discussed whether to stay for the midnight show or not, considering that there were crackers at nine. After the first pyrotechnics, though, we all looked at each other and agreed that the first show must be a warm-up. We trundled back in around 9:30 for the second half, which was finished off with confetti canons (twice, once for the first ending, once for the encore) and dancing girls doing the can-can (not kidding).  All in all, the show was great fun. We were out around 11:00, just enough time to get a couple chicken satay skewers and a drink and get settled for the real show.  I have to say that I’ve seen my share of fireworks displays, but absolutely nothing to compare with this. I was dutifully videoing on the iPhone, but after a point, I had to stop filming and just watch because I was so overwhelmed.
   According to the Sydney Herald-Sun, about 1.5 million people were watching from various vantage points around the harbor. About 2,500 of us were in the concert hall – and who knows how many clustered around the Circular Quay area. We stopped to have ice cream (eating it soothes aching feet) and waited for the crowd to thin out a bit, making it home around 2 a.m. I can’t even begin to express how fabulous the evening was. I hope all of you have a great evening tonight, and a safe, prosperous and blessed 2012.

Hans the Greeter and His Tour of Melbourne

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   Across Swanston Street from Flinders Street Station (probably the most photographed building in Melbourne) is Federation Square. It’s sort of the meeting place for the city; cool stuff like one of the National Gallery of Victoria locations and the Australian Center for the Moving Image is located there. It also has a very nice visitors’ center with all the things that a visitors’ center should have, like maps and souvenirs and people to help you book tours and things like that. It also has a fleet of volunteer Greeters that provide three- to four-hour tours, absolutely free of charge.
   I had read about this service in my trusty guidebook, “Melbourne, Free & Dirt Cheap,” and once I settled in with Mylo-the-cat, I checked the web site and sure enough, there was a way to book a spot on the tour. Following the specific instructions, I was there at 9 a.m. sharp (the first one, I would like to note for the record) and met Hans, a German gentleman who moved to Australia I the ’50s, worked, raised a family, retired and decided to volunteer and give tours. This presented yet another accent challenge to me: a German Australian accent. The group grew to a total of six: an Asian girl, a young German couple (that held hands throughout the entire tour) two young German girls, and me. I was the oldest by a number of years, sort of bridging the gap between Hans and the 20-something-year-olds.
   The first stop was Flinders Street Station (shown above at night and on the right) located, appropriately, on Flinders Street and Swanston, two main streets in the Central Business District (CBD). There are photographs of this lovely Victorian lady on just about every piece of tourist literature available. Flinders was the original train station, the first one, the oldest, the Grand Old Lady, as she is called. And yes, this building is female – substantially female. About half a million pass through every day: Melburnians on their way to and from work, tourists exploring the CBD, pensioners out and about at the museums. Although the exterior has been meticulously maintained, the interior is due for a refurbishment. In fact, the building itself (including the Railworker’s Club Ballroom) can’t be used because it’s not up to code. The problem is that the city can’t shut any of the platforms down to accommodate an update without causing all kinds of disruption to the already overloaded system. So, Flinders Street goes on as it is.
   I made mention of how Sydney was difficult to navigate because of how its street evolved from pig trails.  Melbourne, however, is a planned city that its founders built on a grid. Straight streets and a terrific tram system (largest in the world) make it quite easy to get around. Well, if you get the right tram, anyway. I have a tendency to just get on the first tram that pulls up at a stop without looking at the route number. After riding the tram from midnight to after 1 a.m. one day, I learned my lesson. So I should qualify this by saying that it’s easy to get around if a person pays attention.  
   Hans, already acting the instructor, asked us if we noticed anything in particular about the streets. Umm – there are trams? Yes, he said, there are trams. Do you notice anything about that? We all remained silent as a class that didn’t study for the test. Well, he pointed out, they have trams and cars, and wide, green boulevards running down the center. Melbourne was built before the automobile by those of European descent and by all rights, should have been like Sydney with its narrow streets. But the Yarra River was really the center of the city when Melbourne was founded (on gold money) as a financial and manufacturing center. All the beautiful old Victorian buildings downtown are edifices that housed front offices, clothing factories stretching out behind them. Materials were shipped from Port Phillip up the river, unloaded onto carts and then pulled up the streets by ox and horse teams. The streets, therefore, had to be wide enough for the beasts to pull a U-turn.  Now they’re wide enough to accommodate both tram and car traffic.
   We walked beside the Yarra where the landscaping is no longer sleeping quarters for the homeless. In fact, I haven’t seen many homeless people around, most likely because they’re being helped, although Hans did mention that he would show us their newest popular hiding place. We walked onto Southern Cross Bridge, which is decorated for the Holidays. We looked over the river at the National Gallery of Victoria and the Arts Center with its spire. We went to visit an eccentric opal dealer where we saw his collection of lizards and spiders and how an opal is cut. We walked the laneways of downtown Melbourne, strolling Collins Street and Little Collins, Flinders Street and Flinders Lane, Bourke Street and Little Bourke Street. (Just because it’s on a grid doesn’t mean it’s not confusing.)
   Hans was a little bit too interested in the scatological history of Melbourne. He put on the pedant’s hat once again and asked us if we knew why there were so many laneways in Melbourne. Again, we remained silent. So he launched into a general description of how people back then didn’t have indoor plumbing and used chamber pots, and someone had to dispose of the waste, so they’d put the pots out in the lane and at night, a guy with a big tank would come along and take it away. And dump it in the river. Where all of the rest of the waste from manufacturing was dumped. When indoor plumbing was finally installed, Hans told us the toilets were always put at the back of the building. Sure enough, he showed us the tangle of pipes on the back of just about every old building. Of course, once there was indoor plumbing, there was no longer a need to set out the chamber pots ever night and the lanes were used for delivery of materials and such. But now that manufacturing has ceased and the factories have been turned into chic lofted flats or cool offices, the lane have become full of shops, some that you can practically touch both walls at the same time. Every third one is a coffee shop and/or bakery.
   But Hans, for all his interest in the history of Melbourne’s potties, was quite informative, as well. He showed us laneways full of street art, AC/DC Lane (Digression: The rock band started its performing life here.  Melbourne’s Lord Mayor John So launched AC/DC Lane with the words, “As the song says, there is a highway to hell, but this is a laneway to heaven. Let us rock.”  Bagpipers then played “It’s a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock’n’Roll. What’s not to love about this city?)  We also toured the wonderful shopping arcades, the balcony on Town Hall where the Beatles waved to the Melbournian crowds in 1964 (Paul came out with a boomerang).  We walked past the Atheneaum theater, where The Women’s Library was (and still is, it’s just called the Athenaeum Library) named such because when Mum and Dad came to town to do the marketing, Dad would stop and have a few at the pub and where was Mum to go? Well, they started a library for the ladies to gather and improve their minds while the men were taking care of business. I would have thought that allowing women to read while men were off doing something else would be a dangerous business, but these Australians are fairly liberal.
   Hans also pointed out the 975-foot Eureka Tower, with its crown of gold and streak of red symbolic of the 1854 Eureka Stockade in the gold mining community of Ballarat, or “blood under the Southern Cross.” Until 1901, Australia was still a group of colonies under the rule of England, with any and all resources discovered deemed property of the Crown. In order to look for gold, a Miner’s Licence had to be purchased. Licence fees were high, and had to be paid monthly whether gold was discovered or not.  Some miners banded together to protest the practice. One of the groups, the Ballarat Reform League, passed a resolution: “that it is the inalienable right of every citizen to have a voice in making the laws he is called on to obey, that taxation without representation is tyranny“. The meeting also resolved to secede from the United Kingdom if the situation did not improve. Sound familiar? A flag was designed – the Southern Cross – a beautiful flag. Hans said that Australians are ambivalent about symbol now; it enjoys a similar reputation to our Bars & Stars rebel flag. Hard to imagine a nation thinking that one rebellion of mistreated miners is equivalent to our bloody, years-long conflict. Perhaps another Australian misconception of the United States. There are some that insist the conflict had nothing to do with Australian identity whatsoever. Others believe that Australians revere this riot, the only one in its history bearing any resemblance to the French Revolution, the American War for Independence or the Irish Civil War.
   The rebellion was in fact a brutal slaughter. Of the 36 casualties, 22 were fatalities. Troops had to be ordered to stand down and stop bayoneting the miners. Women threw themselves over men to appeal for mercy and stop the killing. Licencing practices were changes after the rebellion.
   Eureka Tower is the highest residential building in the world, the second tallest in Australia, and the 34th tallest in the world.  The building’s gold crown represents the Victorian gold rush of the 1850s, with a red stripe representing the blood spilled during the revolt. The blue glass cladding that covers most of the building represents the blue background of the stockade’s flag, the white lines, the cross and stars. The white horizontal stripes also represent markings on a surveyor’s measuring staff.
    Melbourne (actually pronounced “Mel-bn” or “Mel-brn” but NEVER “Mel-born”) was given its name by Governor Richard Bourke in 1837, in honor of William Lamb, the 2nd Viscount Melbourne, who served as Britain’s Home Secretary and then Prime Minister. He is best remembered for mentoring the young Queen Victoria in the ways of politics, but never presided over any wars or great conflicts, so history often sort of ignores him. The city was also the first capital when Australia was united in 1901. Government stayed in Melbourne until 1927 when it was moved to the planned Australian Capital Territory. (Victoria and New South Wales each believed that they should host the seat of government, so ultimately, a separate area was formed, much like we did with Washington, D.C. )
   As Hans pointed out the Melbourne Cricket Ground, which is really the area dedicated to all athletic endeavors in Melbourne, he informed us that football (that’s rugby) in Australia is a religion. He looked mournful as he told us that his entire family is for such-and-such, but his daughter went off and married a guy who is for so-and-so.  Now that they’ve had a son, it’s difficult to say how the child will be brought up. Right now the parents plan to take the boy to both teams’ matches and then him choose when he gets old enough to decide on his own. I was going to tell Hans that these things are often traced through the maternal side, but I stopped myself. Hans had difficulty with both my sense of humor and my accent.
   After four hours of constant information, Hans left us somewhere downtown – I think it was right across from the Myer department store, where people line up for hours to see the annual Christmas window displays. I wasn’t interested in looking at the windows right then because it was nearly 1 p.m. and I hadn’t had lunch yet. So off I went to get even more thoroughly lost than I was and eat. Melbourne may be set up on a grid, but all these lanes are like rabbit warrens that you wind through until you pop out the other side, blinking in the bright light like a mole. While we were on the tour, I saw a dress I planned to go back and try on. After all, it turns out that I will be at the Opera House on New Year’s Eve. I still have not managed to find that store, and doubt I will, except maybe by accident.
   Next, Bendigo, another gold rush town and a place that I absolutely would be happy to live.

Where the Snowy Meets the Sea

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    My fourth roommate at the Cambridge Lodge in Sydney was man named Nigel from Leeds, England. A couple of days before I left for Melbourne, he took off for a cattle station somewhere in New South Wales where he would be helping with the stock and other duties as assigned in exchange for room and board. When I asked him how he found the gig, he told me about a web site called Help Exchange, or HelpEx.  I had heard of this concept before – in fact, a major reason why I decided I could travel longer was because of ideas like this and house sitting. An exchange? Well, why not? And if one can save the cost of accommodation? So much the better.
    Before I had secured the Mylo-the-Verbal-Cat gig, I had decided that I wanted to make sure that I got out of Melbourne to take a look around. After all, I’m in the area for about six weeks – too long to stay in just one place. So I looked at the HelpEx site and found everything from assistance needed at a Bed & Breakfast, to cleaning up after horses, to milking the house cow, and so on. Most of the things looked like a pretty good deal. (Well, all but the ones that required help with child care.) The fee to join was nominal, so I paid it and formulated my profile. This was on a Tuesday afternoon.
    By Tuesday evening I had a call from a woman on King Island (between Australia and Tasmania) inquiring about my availability. She wanted someone to work in her dairy immediately and stay at least through Christmas. There might even be pay involved if I had the right sort of Visa. (I do not. Unfortunately.) I had to turn her down; my budget doesn’t allow for a plane or boat ticket over to King Island, nor was I interested in working in a dairy.
    Wednesday morning, I had my second call, this one from a man, A., who lives with his partner in the Gippsland region of eastern Victoria, just outside a little town called Marlo. He said that my name was the first he saw when he logged in on Wednesday morning. He clicked on my blog and read a bit, decided I might benefit from work rehabilitation, and thought he’d give a call to see if I’d like to spend some time out in the far eastern part of Victoria, where the Snowy River (yes, as in “The Man From …”) meets the sea. I said I’d get back to him.
    I’m not accustomed to getting calls from foreign men inviting me to come on out and spend some time with them miles from not much. But he did also mention D., his partner. A. also told me that he and D. had been hosting couch surfers for the past year and really enjoyed meeting people from all over the world. The references on the couch surfing site were good, so I decided to go out to Marlo, population 340.
    When I spoke with A. initially, I asked what he needed help with, since the whole idea was to be helping. In exchange. You know, Help Exchange. He said, well, he could use some help catching up with housekeeping. Some things had gotten away from him, and the windows needed washing, and maybe some work out in the yard and garden … Sounded fine to me. Since each host and exchanger determine the routine, A. thought three to four hours of help a day would get me a room and board. I agreed, and arranged to take the train out to Bairnsdale where he would pick me up. I said I’d be the one without a funny accent.
    I have not ever been on a train for more than a few minutes at a time, and I enjoyed the trip thoroughly. I’m a fan of VLine. Someone else driving? I can write, count my arm hairs, play iphone Solitaire, even look at the scenery. When I could tear myself away from other absorbing activities, I saw rolling hills, mountains of a sort off in the distance, small towns with fresh subdivisions, probably for commuters. Cows. Sheep. Horses. Hay bales. More small towns with auto repair shops and farm implement dealers and even one grain elevator close to the tracks. Commuter parking lots. Victorian vintage train stations that never fell into disrepair, their red brick and gingerbread trim a fact, not a feature. For $32 I traveled First Class and watched rural Victoria roll back beside me.
    Turns out that Bairnsdale is a hub of activity and the place that A. and D. get most of their groceries. Aldi is a much loved chain over here, so that’s where A. and I went. He asked me several times if I wanted anything in particular, if I had any dietary restrictions, if there was something that I didn’t like at all. Since six months have passed since I had a real kitchen of my own, those questions baffled me. We got groceries – and a few more groceries – then proceeded toward Marlo, via Lakes Entrance where we got a bite of lunch. Lakes Entrance is actually the name of the town, named thus because it is, oddly enough, the entrance to the Gippsland Lakes. Actually, the town was named Cunningham in the late 1800s, but some master of the obvious changed the name in 1901.The unimaginative name did not affect the spectacular view.
Lakes Entrance, entry point to The Lakes National Park and one end of the 90 Mile Beach.
    We stopped in Orbost on the way back, as well, about 14 kilometers north, population 2,452. It’s the town where there are schools, where there’s a couple grocery stores and a baker or two, where D. teaches school.
   Then, on to Marlo. The town is located at the mouth of the Snowy River. There’s a hotel, pub and a couple caravan parks (campgrounds), a boat ramp, post office, convenience store and, of course, residences. Some of the homes are vacation places that are inhabited weekends and holidays. Since Marlo is an inconvenient distance from Melbourne, it’s not a place where folks come for a long weekend. However, around Christmas, the summer season starts and there will be more traffic through Easter. My host relayed this information with a sigh of resignation as we were driving the coastal road from one beautiful scenic point to yet another breathtaking scenic point: “In a few weeks you won’t even be able to move around here.”
Salmon Rocks, Cape Conran.
    According to my sources, James Stirling was the first person to occupy the Marlo area around 1875.  The name “Marlo” thought to be a derivation of the aboriginal word “marloo” meaning “white clay” which might refer to Marlo Bluff, or “murloo” which means “muddy banks.” Stirling built a two room structure of bark with earthen floors and a shingled roof. It grew to nine rooms, and became the Marlo Hotel, where we ate on Saturday night. The hotel was variously a general store, hotel, unofficial post office. Its deck affords one of the best sunset views in Marlo.
Marlo Hotel in its current incarnation.
    I’m quite sure that A. thought at many times that I was a ditzy blonde – or a dumb American. Or both. During the drive back from Bairnsdale, I saw a yellow road sign bearing the silhouette of a kangaroo, the universal symbol for “this here is a kangaroo crossing area, little missy.”  I said something really smart like, “hey, was that a kangaroo crossing sign?”
    The answer was yes.
    “There are kangaroos out here?”
    The answer was nonverbal, yet perfectly clear.
    “Well, I just didn’t … I mean, they’re here?
    “Yes, Kimbel. There are kangaroos in Australia.”
    “Yeah, I know that, I just thought they were, you know, out in the middle of the outback somewhere. Not, like, right here.”
    Silence. He was probably considering how to tell me we were heading back to the train station.
    “Maybe I’ve been watching too many National Geographic specials.”
     He nodded.  “Maybe.”
Eastern Gray ‘roo – what I would have seen. Photo: interllectual.com
    Back to the whole helping thing.  Windows. Cool. Windows. No problem. Then I saw the house. Lots of windows. Large windows. Two stories of windows. He had remarked that the house was “not the Hilton.” Nope. It was much better. A. and D. built it themselves. Half of it is a two story photo studio with some ancillary furniture if they care to relax. The other half of the second story is an office area and master bedroom. The kitchen is downstairs, as are two other bedrooms and another bathroom. I had complete privacy, my own room (quite comfortable) and my own bathroom. A. is also a terrific cook – lamb chops, steamed veggies, baked potatoes, leg of lamb, pizzas – the list goes on. I contributed Swedish limpa bread and a flourless chocolate cake. A. and D. also had plenty of chocolate on hand, showing that they are indeed civilized individuals.
Plenty of windows.
    Because house cleaning is largely the same the world over, I will not bore you with details about washing windows and screens, vacuuming floors and sills, sweeping cobwebs off of siding. Even though I know you want me to. I won’t do it. Because the real value to the Help Exchange is that the exchange is really a cultural one. A. and D. and I had terrific dinner table conversation – everything from American foreign policy to Australian use of the English language and much, much more. The whole point of going off into the boonies and meeting other people was to meet other people. Live like a local. Learn about the country. Attempt to explain why Americans aren’t doing anything (effective) about Wall Street running our government. And so on.
    A. and D. live on what is referred to  a lifestyle block, which means that they have a larger piece of land and are out of Marlo a few kilometers. The additional land allows them to keep a garden (in the works, probably for the next HelpEx person), build a chicken (or chook) run (already done before the house) and of course, keep a guard cat named Houdini (because he escaped certain death when he was adopted by D.). The chooks contributed to the household good by providing fresh eggs, which were much appreciated as an ingredient in flourless chocolate cake. Houdini provided constant supervision as well as plenty of fuzz to keep me busy with the vacuum cleaner.
   A. and D. were also happy to play tour guides, and one evening we went out in search of kangaroos. Turns out that kangaroos act sort of like deer. They snooze during the day in the shade, and come out at dusk to graze, sometimes by the side of the road where they can get startled by automobiles and dash out in front of them. A. and D. said that sometimes the ’roos come up onto their lawn and graze. Barely down the road, one dashed – hopped – sprung? – across the road. Out at the Marlo Aerodrome (yep, there’s an airport there) they were grazing, but it had gotten dark enough that even with the flashlight (torch) we could barely see them. But, on the way out to the aerodrome, we saw emus. Actually, I had to be told that they were emus, because they looked like large shrubs. Clearly, their heads were somewhere else (under a wing, in a hole, etc.) so in the dusk, they just looked like lumps. I understand that they are not afraid of cattle, and have been known to chase cows. Sorry to have missed that.  Wombats also populate the area, but no luck on a wombat sighting, either.
Joiners Channel, Cape Conran.
    One afternoon, we drove to Cape Conran , stopping at superb lookouts where the Snowy River flows into the Southern Ocean. The Cape Conran Coastal Park has pristine beaches, rocky cliffs, walking tracks and the occasional hysterical site. The West Cape offers scenic views of Salmon Rocks. The East Cape boasts a scenic coastal boardwalk, which we didn’t take. We even stopped at a river that is brown, not because of mud but because of a tree (the ti tree) which colors the water like a tea bag would. Nothing wrong with the water –  it won’t stain skin or bathing suits. It just resembles iced tea. A goanna lizard (lace monitor) zipped across the road and up a tree.
Lace monitor. It’s up there. Really.
    When I mentioned that I would be near the Snowy River, friends and family immediately thought of the movie. In fact, when I called my brother on Thanksgiving evening, they had been watching the film. But although I was near the Snowy, I wasn’t in the area where The Man did his famous ride.
The movie was inspired by The Man who was immortalized in A. B. “Banjo” Paterson’s poem of the same name. Some say that the setting of the poem is in the region of what is now Burrinjuck Dam, northwest of Canberra in New South Wales.  Others say that the ride does not take place in the Snowy River region at all.
    The little town of Corryong on the western side of the Great Dividing Range claims stockman Jack Riley as the inspiration for the character, and uses the image of the character to attract tourists.  Among their claims is that Paterson met Riley on at least two occasions. Another possibility is that The Man was Charlie McKeahnie, who was an exceptional and fearless rider and when he was only 17 years old (in 1885) performed a riding feat (unclear exactly what) in the Snowy River region. Paterson would have been familiar with the story of McKeahnie as well. There’s another poem about McKeahnie by Barcroft Boake.

    The Man from Snowy River is like our John Henry, the Steel Driving Man – larger than life, daring, masculine, and heroic.  Like so many stories about folk heroes, the poem was written during a time when the country was developing an identity, long before the country became a commonwealth in 1901 and was still a bunch of independent colonies under British governance. Like our Wild West heroes, The Man was a character with whom the nation could identify.
    Next, Bendigo.