Last Day

   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

   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!

    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

   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

    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.

A Dog Named Otis and a Cat Named Mylo

    When I arrived in Melbourne, I thought I had rarely seen such an ugly city. The drive in from the airport yielded views of architecturally uninspiring tall buildings, tagged underpasses, ugly apartment buildings in primary color blocks. Of course, everything looks ugly after not enough sleep and negotiating unfamiliar trains and airports. Breakfast on the 6:45 a.m. flight was especially ugly – pre-mixed muesli (granola) and yogurt with some sort of gelatinous berry goo and sour coffee. And when I disembarked at Southern Cross Station (at least the name was cool), I was overwhelmed with diesel fumes. The train system in Melbourne is still petroleum fueled – at least trams are electric. Thank heavens I was able to get a cup of coffee and a ham and cheese croissant which both tasted like Cordon Bleu.
    I had heard quite a lot about how wonderful the public transportation system was in Melbourne, but when I got on the train, I was not impressed. Diesel. Slow. Ugly stations. Tagged walls. Weedy tracks. A freight train on the next track over.  Nontheless, I arrived at Bentleigh East, the location of my house sitting gig at the appointed time, found a seat by a bus stop, called the home owner, and settled in to wait.
    In July, I had learned of a web site called Housecarers.com which offers services to those looking for house sitters and those looking to house sit. I registered immediately, and realized that this was the perfect way to make my travel dollar go farther. On the site, I posted a profile and references as well as a sort of ad for my services that includes how I am the perfect person to watch over some stranger in a foreign country’s property while they’re on holiday.  The site sends updates to my email address daily listing house sitting opportunities in areas that I’ve set in my preferences. From there, I can respond to any house sitting requests. Joining the service cost me $50. I figured that if I got even one house sitting job through the site, I would have made my money back. I’ve made my money back a hundred-fold.
    In late August, I finally confirmed two house sitting jobs in the Melbourne area and was ecstatic – virtually the entire month of November was covered. Knowing that lodging expenses would be low for at least part of the time and certain that I’d find more, I bought my ticket. A week later, both gigs cancelled. Two months later, while I was in Sydney, one of the people sent me an email asking if I still might be available. Of course!
An example of a Bentleigh East home.
    The homeowner and her 4-year-old son collected me from the bus station after a swimming lesson.  I don’t want to share her name… and think it would be awkward to call her “home owner” or h.o., so I’ll call her … Linda. Ok. Linda and I and her son zipped down to her lovely home. The suburb, Bentleigh East, is in the band of farthest south inner suburbs. Post-World War II homes of sand-colored brick line the streets.  The front yards, or gardens, are lovely, planted with roses and kangaroo paw and hosta and other plants that I recognized but can’t name. Most have fences (many of them picket) and pretty little front gates. Streets are quiet once the parade of uniformed kids heading off to school passes.
    Once Linda opened the front gate, I was greeted by a ball of Otis, who is a Shitzu/Maltese cross of nearly 14 years. (That’s 91 for you and me!) I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a small dog fan. Yes, I had a Pembroke Welsh Corgi, but he wasn’t a small dog. And no, he didn’t think he was a big dog. He was a big dog, in a small package. Anyway. Little dogs don’t seem like dogs to me. They seem more like … ummm…toys. But Otis was something else. The first day that we were there alone, he snapped at me repeatedly. At that point, neither of us was impressed by the other.  But his desire for walks every morning belied his age, even while his unreliable ability to hold his bladder overnight reminded me of his dog years. On day two I heard a shuffling and snuffling in the little boy’s room. Otis had the bean bag chair by a corner and had dragged it out into the hall. For fun? His bed wasn’t comfortable enough? He looked terribly disappointed yet unrepentant when I closed the bedroom door and he had to content himself with pushing his bed and blanket around. I didn’t find it as cute when, on day three, he smelled the vitamins in my bag and went after the ones in the Ziplock bags. I disposed of the ones dark with dog spit, and called him a little shit. He took it in stride. We worked through it. By day four he had figured out that he was stuck with me, and started following me from room to room, happy to get pets. We parted good friends.
    Since I was out in the ‘burbs, I didn’t go in to the city once. But I did explore the shopping areas around Bentleigh, walking the 30-40 minutes down Centre Road in the morning to get a decaf flat white (latte, no foam) and walking back in time for lunch. Days passed with getting breakfast, going for our walk, showering up, walking downtown for a coffee, walking back for lunch, starting the car, getting the mail, checking email and writing, getting dinner. I watched a movie every night I was there – saw all three of the Godfather movies. (Okay, I only watched half of Godfather III. Puh-leez. Coppola was right – it was over after the second one.)Saw Mama Mia (finally). Marly and Me. (I cried.)  A much needed change from the communal living of a hostel in an inner suburb in Sydney. So grateful. Thank you, Otis’ mom and dad. 
*
Row houses in Richmond.
    While Otis and I were hanging out, I found another house sit closer to the city in Richmond. It’s one of the inner suburbs right by the Melbourne Cricket Grounds, which include much more than the cricket grounds – like the stadium where the Olympics were held in 1956 – that’s right, they had ‘em before Sydney did, the first in the Southern Hemisphere.  It’s where football (rugby to you and me) and soccer are played, where concerts are held (Foo Fighters the other night).  I walked past the grounds in a downpour (digression alert!) to meet Mylo’s mom and dad and get the cat’s stamp of approval.
    Speaking of downpour:  Everyone I talked to in Sydney sang the praises of Melbourne’s culture and less frenzied pace. And every time I asked one of them why they didn’t live there, they shuddered and said, “The weather.” As the saying goes in Melbourne, if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes, it’ll change. They also say that in Melbourne, you can experience all four seasons in one day. Sort of a bonus plan. My acquaintances in Palm Springs told me that when they were here for the Australian Open tennis tournament, the temperature dropped 30 degrees in one hour.  If the Spring weather in Sydney was like a woman trying to decide between the red strappy sandals and the Ugg boots, Melbourne’s weather has been like a woman switching between her bikini and parka –then wearing both, just in case. The other day, I found myself wearing sunglasses and carrying an umbrella. I needed both. At the same time.
    So I showed up on Mylo’s doorstep looking rather like a semi-drowned two –legged something or other, was invited in by his dad (cute guy … then I met his girlfriend, who was also really cute, and skinny, and has great hair), and then I met Mylo, who was cute, too, and also has great hair. I heard him before I saw him. He came trotting in from the other room, meowing, walked up to me, flopped over on his side, then rolled onto his back.
    “Uh – does he want his belly rubbed?” I’m sure I sounded more than surprised.
    “Yeah. He’s really friendly.”
    And so he is.
    Yet another advantage to being The Lone Traveler with No Set Itinerary: I got the job, partially because I happened to be have a flexible enough schedule to get there first. I stayed for about 45 minutes, got the tour of the two-story 19th century townhome and left with a key. They were even okay with me coming in a day late; their neighbor would take care of Mylo for one day.
    On days one and two, I considered Mylo the most friendly, affectionate, outgoing cat I have ever met, an anomaly among felines who is more remarkable for his resemblance to a canine. I mean, what sort of self-respecting cat rolls over and allows his tummy to be rubbed without latching on to your hand and lacerating it with those back, evil, bunny-like feet?  We meowed to each other (hopefully I wasn’t saying “I want to use your sister as a litter box” in cat) and I did my best to figure out what he was trying to communicate.
    Days three and four, after being awakened by pitiful and LOUD meows at 3:30 a.m., I decided that Mylo, for all his seeming charm, is needy, possessive and a little demanding.
    He has a full and versatile vocabulary, although I am not fluent in conversational cat, and haven’t figured out what each plaintive wail means.  The only inflections I’ve figured out are, “Where have you been?” and, “Let me sit on your computer keyboard and that way I’ll be close enough for you to pet me.”  He has the fullest complement of intonation and pronunciation I’ve encountered from any animal:  meow, meeeow,  mee-ow-ow-ow , mahoww, mrrow, owwwww, roww, rrrrrrreh (rolled ‘r’),  reh, meee, mew, mmm, and on and on. Each is delivered with a different tone, from querulous to pitiful to a tone of deep and abiding sorrow for the plight of cats everywhere. If any cat could meow “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen,” it would be Mylo.
    I’ve tried to get him to relax, even suggested inner kitten work, but he’s quite set in his ways and likes the way things are. And a cat’s really got to want to change.  Today I left, and will miss the guy and his big voice, but not at 3:30 tomorrow morning.
    Thanks to house sitting, as it stands I have paid for exactly two nights of lodging since I got to Melbourne on November 11, a whopping $74. Between house sitting and a thing called Help Exchange, my lodging expenses are minimal. More on Help Exchange and a town called Marlo next.

Sculpture by the Sea

    Sydney beaches are some of the most beautiful in the world, and the most famous of them is Bondi Beach.  Get on a train at Town Hall heading to Kings Cross and you’ll most likely end up in a car full of yunguns wearing board shorts and bikinis. Some drag surfboards. Others drag children, prams and fraying patience. They all ride to the end of the line, Bondi Junction, then catch the 380 bus to Bondi Beach.
    Before departing for Sydney, I was in touch with an acquaintance who owns a flat here. He mentioned an art event called Sculpture by the Sea. It is just what it sounds like – sculptures installed close to the beach along the cliff trail that stretches between Bondi and Bronte beaches and beyond. I decided to take this in on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, but chose to begin the walk at Coogee Beach, which is much farther out, because someone had told me that the works stretched that far. Either I misunderstood or the event changed, because I walked 2.5 kilometers to Bronte Beach before I saw any art. I have noticed a pattern developing here that I tend to believe what people tell me and act accordingly. It’s often problematic. Whatever. I got to see the art and that’s what I wanted, and since there were lots of benches along the way, as well as water fountains where I could refill my bottle, all was right.
    I wish I could tell you specific information about each work and the artist that created it, but sadly, I can’t. The event opened officially over the weekend, and I was there on Wednesday. That meant that not all the work was installed, or not completely installed, or not tagged accordingly. But I got a couple tan lines, anyway, and got to Bondi where I found a spot to lie in the sun out of the wind before I caught the bus and train back to the city.

    Besides the well-known beaches like Bondi and Bronte, there are smaller inlets, many of them sheltered from prevailing winds. Of course, they aren’t surfing beaches, but the water is still wet and cold and the sand is still warm. Just about all of these inlets has its own Surf Life Saving Club, complete with ocean pools and stuff like that. Which brings us to another form of sculpture by the sea, The Australian Lifeguard.  Just how does one become a lifeguard in Australia?

Photo from Google Images

    First of all, you have to be gorgeous. At least, that’s the conclusion I came to after watching one of the most popular Australian reality series, “Bondi Rescue.”  “Bay Watch” got nothing on these guys, primarily because the “cast,” if you will, aren’t actors. They’re cool and nice to look at and quite good at keeping swimmers between the flags and rescuing stupid or careless people from certain death. Maybe this curiosity of “Mommy, where do really studly lifeguards come from?” should have occurred to me before, because of the show “Bay Watch,” and I live in California and all of that. But until I saw all of these surf clubs, I never considered that life guarding is a career and the effort that goes into it. Plus, the profession is a way of life. There is a lifeguard exchange, sort of like exchange students, life guarding in different parts of the world. There’s even a lifeguard exchange visa. There’s a Life Guard magazine. I might be stating the obvious here, but lifeguards are, in fact, professional athletes.

    Sexy Bondi is the beach that gets a lot of attention (including a visit from David Hasselhoff himself), but Bronte is where surf lifesaving actually began. Surfing was actually against the law in Australia in the 1800s, but the law was freely flaunted (as stupid laws are) and surfers sometimes found themselves in trouble, courtesy of a rip tide called the Bronte Express. After a drowning in 1895, a handbook was assembled, drills and training commenced and before the end of the 19th century, lifeguards were giving demonstrations on technique at local pools.  The first groups of life savers was formed at Bronte in 1903. 

  Most surf and life saving clubs have ocean pools where lifeguards train and swim lessons are taught and so forth. To me, even the ocean pools look terrifying, even with their sturdy concrete walls and iron railings.

   
    Next, off to Melbourne.

The Occupation

As those of you playing along at home know, I am currently in Australia. I have been here since October 12. The Occupy Wall Street group had been hanging out in Zucotti Park since September 17. While I had heard about the movement, I was so caught up in my own preparations for a long trip that I thought “hallelujah!” and left it at that.

Since I’ve been here, I’m constantly explaining my presence to friendly Australian. Yes, I say, I guess it’s sort of a working holiday, actually thinking about moving here , etc.  They nod. No one seems surprised. Probably because of the influx of Americans. (statistics?)  They ask me questions. What’s going on over there?(Not much that’s good. That’s the problem.)  Is it as bad as people say? (Yes.) Is unemployment terribly bad? (10 per cent last I heard.)  How did all those people lose their homes? (Well, once upon a time, Congress voted for a thing called “deregulation.”) Doesn’t your government help? (Oh, yes. They gave the banks billions.)

what happened while we were mindlessly consuming reality television and Apples? Noam Chomsky related the decline in American culture started after WWII with the invention of Public Relations and Advertising. Eisenhower saw what was coming with the military industrial complex. Although Reagan left the California Governorship in 1975, refusing to run for a third term because he was getting read to become president, conservative philosophies and policies fucked California higher education with Proposition 13. Fucked more than that – the current real estate debacle has roots in Prop 13.

One of the instructors

I love my country, but there’s never been a better time to get out. Unemployment, the California economy, the current state of publishing – the list goes on. I don’t know that I will be able to relocate here, or even want to. I’m not finished exploring.

A Night at the Opera

   Sydney is a showy city – a harbor, a fabulous bridge, world-class beaches and surfing. Opportunity to spend a whole lot of money abounds at all of these places. The Harbour Bridge Climb costs more than $200 for a single adult. I turned that down, especially since I do not like heights, and a pedestrian walkway goes all the way across, anyway. Surfing holds a mild fascination for me, but I understand that once I step into the ocean, I become part of a food chain of which I am not on top, and how can I count the cost of the loss of a limb?  Having grown up land-locked, I do not sail.
   But.
   The Sydney Opera House is an entirely different matter. Not only is the building a fascinating work of art, it plays host to about 1,500 events annually, everything from Don Giovanni to Janet Jackson. The campaign for a proper opera house was started by Eugene Goossens, who was director of the New South Wales Conservatorium of Music in the 1940s. At that time, the symphony performed at Sydney Town Hall. It took until the mid-50s, though, when the right NSW Premier came along who would actually budget funds for it, to launch an architectural competition for a building. Funny thing – the design by Danish architect Jorn Utzon (pictured above right) that the entire world identifies with Australia was overlooked initially. Those sails were a radical design. An interesting bit of trivia: the design was pulled out of the pile of rejected entries.  But, it was declared the winner, and planning commenced. Timeline and budget: Four years, $7 million. Actual timeline and budget: 16 years (1957-1973), $120 million (a cost overrun of 1,400 per cent). Utzon resigned in 1963 over arguments about budget (new political administration), was not acknowledged as the architect when Queen Elizabeth II opened the house in 1973, and died in 2008 without ever seeing his completed masterpiece in person.
   Delays and cost overruns were due to the challenge of building the roof, a design that was literally ahead of its time. No one knew how to build it. Architects and engineers considered it a series of parabolic shapes, but no amount of ciphering could yield a formula that would allow structurally sound fabrication. By the way, the design of the SOH was the first time a computer was used to assist in the construction of a building.  Utzon finally solved the problem by discovering that the “sails” could be built based on a spherical (actually, hemispherical) design, like slices taken out of ½ an orange.  And the roof is not really a shell – it is, rather, a series of concrete sections that were poured and assembled on site. Also, the roof really isn’t white, it’s cream and yellow, and it’s made up of 1,056,000 special triple fired, triple glazed, Swedish-made tiles. (If it was white, the roof would be blinding on a sunny day.) The tiles are in a chevron pattern, which I didn’t realize until I saw it up close. Utzon said he was inspired by a bathing suit he saw a woman wearing at the beach. He liked the way the pattern looked on curves.
   The construction materials are pink granite, poured concrete, four times more steel cable than what is in the Sydney Harbour Bridge, ceramic tile, white birch, and brush box wood.
It is the only symphony hall in the world where you can sit behind the orchestra and still hear it. Oh, and Vladimir Ashkenazy happens to by the Principal Conductor and Artistic Director.
I could go on and on, because I find these things fascinating, but I’ll stop before everybody clicks back to Facebook.
   I promised myself that I would see an event at the opera house while in Sydney, and I actually ended up at three, none of which were in the Concert Hall, much to my disappointment.  Somewhere along the line I got the idea that the Sydney Opera actually performs at the opera house, and it does, but in the Opera Theatre.  Likewise, the production of Julius Caesar that I saw was staged in the Drama Theatre.  The fourth venue is the Playhouse which is a flexible black box theater where smaller or more experimental works are produced.
   The very first day I was conscious in Sydney (the day I got lost in the Botanical Gardens for the first time) I headed straight to Circular Quay to find out what was on. Turns out quite a lot. Noam Chomsky, Professor of Linguistics at MIT, author, thinker, dissenter and general voice of reason, was to be awarded the Sydney Peace Prize, and was on the schedule for a Q & A. The only opera that was on during my time here was Mozart’s morality tale, Don Giovanni, which is not a favorite. Julius Caesar was being staged by Bell Shakespeare, with a woman cast as Cassius. Interesting.
   So I finally go back to buy my tickets on the day that Noam Chomsky is scheduled. I approach the lobby understanding that the lecture is most likely sold out, which is confirmed by a sign posted in the lobby, but surely they still have tickets to other performances. Close to the ticket line stands a woman, off to the side. I walk up, she approaches me.
   “Do you have a ticket for the program today?”
   “No. I don’t.  I was going to check for cancellations.”
   “Would you like one?”
    (Would I? Would I?) “Uh, yes.  I would.”
   “Here. Have this one. My friend couldn’t come today.”
   Good golly. A free ticket to Noam Chomsky.
   To summarize what Prof. Chomsky (pictured left) said: The nut of it is that we are rushing like lemmings into the sea, led by the bankers, CEOs and politicians who don’t understand that they, too, will drown as we all take the leap together. He believes that Obama’s record is even worse than G.W. Bush’s in that he hasn’t dismantled enough of W’s policies, including the prison at Guantanamo Bay. Plus, Obama gets a failing grade on environmental issues. A brilliant man. I took notes. And my companion was charming – a former drama teacher with a daughter who is getting her PhD in Hip-Hop Studies. (wtf? academia. sheesh.) She also happens to be a marriage celebrant, and gave me her card. Just for her personal contact info. Not that I need a celebrant. Unless she knows something that I don’t.
   After Chomsky, I stood in line again to get tickets to either the opera or the Shakespeare production. As it turned out, if I took a tour of the opera house that day, I could get an opera ticket for $50 (which is typically $150). I took the bait and bought the tour, which is where all the little gems of knowledge above came from.  I also bought a ticket for Julius Caesar. That put me at the opera house three days in a row.
   But still didn’t put me in the Concert Hall for a performance.
   Well, I’ll be back in Sydney on for New Year’s. There’s always the New Year’s Eve Gala. (Riiiiight.)

North Head / South Head

      There is a wonderful thing here in Sydney called a Multi-pass.  Most cities have a version of the multi-pass – a week- or day- or month-long ticket to use public transportation. Here, the pass allowed me to use trains, buses and ferries with impunity for seven days. I actually ended up purchasing more than one of these little miracle tickets because I was bound and determined to explore every neighborhood in Sydney. While I fell short of that goal, I still used the hell out of them.

       The very coolest part about the pass was the whole ferry part. Really? I can ride the ferry for free? (ok, not free, but …) All I want? Honest? The ticket agent was a little taken aback by my enthusiasm. The first place I decided to go was Manly.
       Manly cove was named by Capt. Arthur Phillip, governor of New South Wales from 1786 – 1791, and chose the name based on the indigenous peoples’ “confident and manly behavior.” Capt. Phillip was a pretty progressive guy for an 18th century Brit. He was speared through the shoulder by an aboriginal man at Manly (just a misunderstanding) but held his men back from retaliating. He also nursed the colony along – forbade slavery, endured famine to the point that his health was endangered, decreed stealing food a capital offense, and persevered even though Britain had all but forgotten about their continent-sized jail on the other side of the world.
      Taking the ferry to Manly takes about a half hour and originates from Circular Quay right between the Sydney Opera House and the Harbour Bridge. The views are tremendous, of course, but you want to be a few minutes early to get the best seats outside. I happened to skid in just at the last minute, but elbowed my way out there, anyway. Another advantage to being The Lone Traveler. There’s usually room for just one more.  

     At the Manly information kiosk, a nice woman explained the way out to the North Head and gave me a map (I didn’t have the heart to tell her it was going to be largely useless) and actually walked me outside to point out the correct bus stop. These Aussies seem to be highly attuned to my challenge. In the meantime, I sat down at a picnic table by Manly Beach and ate my tuna sandwich and chocolate covered caramels. On the way to the bus stop, I was distracted by a sign about protecting the Manly penguins. Penguins? Here? I thought they hung out on another continent called Antarctica. Turns out there are penguins here, specifically Little Blue Penguins, and their numbers are endangered. The penguins are the smallest species of penguin and they live on the southern coasts of New Zealand and Australia. In Manly, they make their home under the wharf, returning from their hunting at dusk, at which time people decide to snag them as pets – or people’s pets decide to snag them as food. A gregarious woman sitting on a nearby bench, not quite finished with her own sandwich, mentioned that just the other day a dog who was on a sailboat moored in the cove jumped off the boat and nabbed a little guy. The penguin was killed, of course, no word if it was eaten. (I didn’t want to ask – she seemed upset.) Since it wasn’t yet dusk, I didn’t get to see any of the flightless water fowl.

Manly is the farthest north point of Sydney Harbour, half of what makes up the entrance. (The South Head is the other part of the natural gateway … imagine that.)  From the North Head, there’s nothing but open sea and sky (see large photograph above.) But since it is the outermost reach of land, a quarantine station was built there in the 19th century. Too bad they waited that long. Most of the aboriginal folks in the harbor area were dead by then from small pox and other diseases of European import. Now, the quarantine station is a boutique hotel called Q Station. The former First Class passenger accommodations are now suites with balconies overlooking the cove, and views to Sydney. Nice. Not cheap – about $350 a night for the good ones.  The quarantine station is where the bus route ends and where I started my walk out to North Head.

       As detailed in my last entry, I have a tendency to get lost – even when there’s only one road and I’ve been instructed to go straight down said road until I reach a destination that is the only one on the map. I made it down to the North Head trail, which was really a road, which made me wonder if I was on the right path because it was described as a trail, and there was no trail, it was a bona fide two-lane road, so I started doubting if I was in the right place, because I’m a writer and editor and I damn well know what words mean, and this was not a trail, it was, in fact, a road. I was pretty sure that I was on the right path because the nice lady at the information kiosk had mentioned a car park area with a great view of Sydney, and I found that. I kept walking anyway, and reached the end loop where I did finally find a trail – a beautiful bush walk that led out to the cliffs that offered fabulous views of the Tasman Sea.

       Then there was the question of making my way back and finding the trail (but was it really a trail because there wasn’t a trail here until I reached the end of a road …) to Shelly Beach, on the ocean side of the north peninsula. I wandered back and forth, stopped in at Q Station lobby a couple times to check my map; they gave me another map, and I still couldn’t find my way to Shelly Beach. So I took the bus back and walked The Corso to the beach, getting there just in time for lifeguard training. Not bad timing, and just the scenery I needed to see. I bought an (expensive) ice cream cone (funny how ice cream always makes sore feet feel better) and sat on the wall watching bronzed young men go through their paces. At the blast of a whistle, a whole line of them took off with some sort of hybrid surfboard, plunged into the waves, paddling furiously until they were just about out of site. I should point out that there were bronzed young women, as well, but I wasn’t interested in their tan lines.

      My timing was better for the return voyage, and I secured a seat on the second level up front. The sun was s setting behind a light cloud cover, lighting up the sky behind the opera house and bridge. I sat to Susan and her companion Harry (a cousin from England, whom she referred to as “haitch”) and quizzed me on what I had seen so far. She pointed out the sunset sailing races, and asked me if I had heard of the Bridge to Beach Swim which starts at at Harbour Bridge and ends at Manly Beach. Her boyfriend (an “action man” as she identified him) does the 11 kilometer race every year.

     Which brings us to the matter of sharks. With some amount of pride, Susan declared that the harbour is full of sharks. She actually used the term “infested.” In fact, in 2009 race officials cancelled the swim due to the number of recent shark attacks in the area. As the Brisbane Times wrote, they feared the water could be too “bitey.”  Although there are several shark attacks every year at Sydney beaches, most are not fatal. In fact, it’s more likely that a person will drown than get eaten by a shark. But. There is shark netting at many of the swimming beaches, including Manly Beach, maybe because the last death caused by a shark attack occurred there in 1963 while a young woman and her fiance played in about one metre of water. Most attacks are by bull sharks, who thrive in both fresh and salt water, and whose behavior is unpredictable and aggressive. (geez, do they drink and gamble, too?)

Manly Beach, site of the last fatal shark attack in Syndey Harbour

     After talk of sharks, Susan pointed out Kiribilli House, the official Sydney residence of Prime Minister Julia Gillard. It sits nearly straight across the harbor from the opera house and is easily seen from the ferry. The woman was especially pleased that the PM’s boyfriend is a former hairdresser, which is her profession.

       (A digression: The Aussies don’t hesitate to push satire as far as it can go. In September, the third episode of the television series, “At Home with Julia” depicted the PM and her guy in a position – ahem – under the Australian flag. While it is illegal to sit on the Australian flag, it is not a crime to use it as a sheet.) 

      The next ferry excursion was to Watson’s Bay, which is on the South Head.  Named for a guy named Watson, of course, specifically Robert Watson, former quartermaster of HMS Sirius, flagship of the First Fleet. Watson was variously harbourmaster of the port of Sydney and first superintendent of Macquarie Lighthouse in 1816.
View from The Gap toward North Head.

      Of course, there’s another gorgeous cliff walk out to lighthouses, past beaches and above the pounding surf. The first stop was at The Gap, though, a famous scenic point where in one direction there are gorgeous views of Sydney’s Central Business District and from the other, the sea. The Gap is also one of the top spots in Sydney for suicides (about 50 per year) and also for marriage proposals (no stats available) which cynics might say amount to the same thing. Seriously, there are signs all around The Gap with toll free numbers to call for help – before a person jumps. 
     What with all the cliffs and pounding surf, there are also lighthouses. Although the Macquarie Lighthouse has the distinction of being the first in Australia, the Hornby Lighthouse (lower head) with it’s slimming vertical red and white stripes is the one that’s more photogenic. A tragedy motivated the creation of the Hornby – actually two tragedies – the wreck of the Dunbar at South Head on August 20, 1857 and then the wreck of the Catherine Adamson on October 23, 1857 at North Head.  Only one out of 122 people survived the Dunbar wreck, an Irishman named James Johnson who later became a lighthouse keeper at Newcastle. The Catherine Adamson passengers and crew fared little better; five survived (including the captain) along with two bulls and a horse. An enquiry blamed insufficient navigational aids and ordered the construction of the Hornby on the lower Southern Head.

       Once again, I asked for directions before setting out, partly because I expected to be able to see the lighthouse from the cove where the ferry landed. But no. So I popped into a hotel, and asked the nice woman at the desk how to get to the lighthouse.

       “Which one?” she asked.
       “Ummm, well, the lighthouse.” I pointed vaguely.
        She stared. “There’s a map just there.”
        She pointed vaguely.
        I took a map and started peering at it.
        “It’s just down this road. Go out, take a left, walk until you see the foot path.”
        “Foot path?” I had gone down this road before. Literally.
        “Yes. A footpath.”
        “Where’s that?”
        “Just down there.”
        When in doubt, smile and say thank you.
         So I walked down the street, and came to Cove Camp Beach and immediately assumed that I had missed the footpath, but lo, there it was, as promised. However, there had not been mention of a beach, too, so I was momentarily disconcerted, yet pleased that I didn’t panic.

        I walked across, let the ocean chase my feet, and took the footpath. A short walk brought me to yet another fabulous view of Sydney, and a little bit further on, I found the Hornby lighthouse. After retracing my steps, I was back at The Gap and debating whether or not to keep going to the Macquarie. Sure – I decided. I’ve got time. I can catch the ferry at 5 or 6.

        Well, I kept going, even though my feet hurt and I was tired, because I don’t know when to stop. I am learning the valuable lesson that much of sight-seeing is best done from a sitting position. By the time I got back from the Macquarie and Signal Hill, my feet were burning. After limping down to the wharf, I learned that the last ferry left at 3:05 p.m. Since the Manly ferry ran on the half-hour, I had just assumed that this was the same. The bus worked, though, and stopped back at Circular Quay from where trains run back out to Stanmore.

Next, a night at the opera.