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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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
Where the Snowy Meets the Sea
Lakes Entrance, entry point to The Lakes National Park and one end of the 90 Mile Beach. |
Salmon Rocks, Cape Conran. |
Marlo Hotel in its current incarnation. |
Eastern Gray ‘roo – what I would have seen. Photo: interllectual.com |
Plenty of windows. |
Joiners Channel, Cape Conran. |
Lace monitor. It’s up there. Really. |
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
An example of a Bentleigh East home. |
Row houses in Richmond. |
Sculpture by the Sea
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.
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.
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
(Would I? Would I?) “Uh, yes. I would.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.