One of the trees that points a person in the wrong direction. RBG.

I grew up in a world of grids: fields, sections, and town lines and you always knew what direction you were going because there was no escaping the sky, and consequently, the sun – and even if you didn’t know your compass point heading, you knew that the Johnsons lived there, or oops, was that the Langen’s place?
    But when the First Fleet arrived in Sydney, they set about the business of basic survival; roads led to Tank Creek (the fresh water supply) or to the quarry where all the sandstone was extracted for structures. I don’t think the military or the convicts worried about a grid that would be easy for 21st Century travelers to follow. The travel agent I worked with is native to Sydney, and warned me that I would find Melbourne’s mass transit much easier to navigate. But the mass transit is not an issue; I’m not driving the bus. Her apt comment was that Sydney streets evolved “higgledy-piggledy.” Apt description.
Each suburb (inner suburb, anyway) has streets running at odd angles to each other, some curve around one way, then another, snaking through one city and then into the next, and then back again into the same town where it started. Streets end, interrupted by developed blocks or train tracks. Dead-ends don’t always show up on maps. One night in Newtown, it took 45 minutes to find an address. (After a point, these things become a matter of principle.) I stopped in various cafes and shops, asking locals where are Station and Bedford Streets? “Oh, I think I’ve heard of Bedford … Mike – d’ya know Bedford Street? No?  Sorry luv. Good luck.” Finally, I found the address with the assistance of a very nice Irish girl who has been in Sydney only a couple months and snorted in derision at the locals not knowing other streets or addresses  – “They just know their own little grid and fuck-all about the rest.” That can probably be said about most of us.
   Which brings me to the case of the Royal Botanical Gardens. My second day here – after 11 hours of much needed sleep that one would think would have rendered my brain functional – I asked about directions down to The Rocks, the oldest part of the city. I asked at the nice young man at the desk how I could get to 83 George Street, near The Rocks. His face was blank.
   “The Rocks?” He asked.
   “Yes, The Rocks. I think it’s down by the Opera House? Down near the harbor?”
   “Ooooh – yeah, The Rocks. Well, the train is the quickest, but you have to switch at Town Hall to another line to get there.”
   He looked at me with – what? – regret? Sympathy? He could read my disability.
   “Or you could take the bus. You can catch it right over there, across the street. Goes straight down there. Take you awhile, though.” More sympathy.
   “Oh. Well … what about walking? Is it far?”
   “Walk? You want to walk? It’s about half an hour. All you do is …”
   And I didn’t even hear the rest. Pure gibberish.
   The solution: Googlemaps. Looked simple enough. I printed it out. I walked to the door of the hotel, stepped out onto the curb and hailed a cab.
   Sigh.
   So, like most days I’ve spent here, once I was dropped off at the Rocks, I walked nearly all day. And decided instead of trying to catch a bus, or figure out the train, I would walk back to the hotel through the Royal Botanical Gardens. I had my map. And there was another one right there by the entrance gate.  Go kitty-corner across the park, and out through the Woolloomooloo Gate on Cowper Wharf Roadway, and up those steps, and down those, and a quick left then a quick right, then onto Macleay, and I’m back.
   Right.
   I still haven’t figured out that the harbor really is north of the city. Until I conquer that bit of information, maps will probably continue to be nothing more than mysterious drawings. The directory through the Royal Botanical Gardens was never clear to me, and although I thought I was going in the direction (does anyone really ever think they’re going in the wrong direction?) I was not. There is the Palm House and Tropical Center. Then around the bend to the … Palm House and Tropical Center. Finally, I was close to the Macquarie Street gate, and, by that time, knew it was the wrong way for sure, and asked someone for directions.
   “I need to get the hell out of this park.”
   She stared. “Well, you are. Macquarie is right there.”
   “No, no. I need to get out of here … at the … Wooomooomooo…. That gate.” I pointed to my pitiful map.
   “Oh. Well, that’s where I’m going if you’d like to follow me.”
   Sydneysiders walk fast. But I got out at the right gate, down the steps, across the street, down two blocks, up the steps, etc., etc. and all that.

St. Mary’s Cathedral.

   The thing about the Royal Botanical Gardens is that a whole lot of interesting things are in or around them, notably the Government House, the State Library, Parliament House, the Mint Building, St. Mary’s Cathedral, and the Art Gallery of New South Wales. Hyde Park is adjacent, as well, yet another expanse of green to navigate.
   The Royal Botanical Gardens actually started out as the Governor’s land. The RBG portion was farmed originally, but poor soil, rats and planting at the wrong season messed up those yields, so the servant who was farming them found land farther west, and Governor Macquarie decided he and his wife would have traditional English gardens. They built all kinds of high walls, and used land (The Domain, or “Desmesne”) as a buffer between their home and the penal colony. But they weren’t above using inmate labor; in 1816, convicts declared Mrs. Macquarie’s Road complete. Gov. Macquarie liked rules and regulations, though, so no one was allowed in the park. As time passed, he allowed people of good standing to use the green space. And now it is a public reserve, Macquarie’s residence now a museum, The Government House. It’s situated just south of Bennelong Point, where the Sydney Opera House stands.

Sydney Opera House and Sydney Harbor from the Royal Botanical Gardens.

   The next time I wandered into the RBG, I was with my hostel roommate Scott. This time I kept to the outer perimeter of the park, on the sea walk which borders Farm Cove, the inlet between the Opera House and the terminus of Mrs. Macquarie’s Road. We walked by the carved wall that was carved after Queen Elizabeth II arrived Australia via Farm Cove, the first reigning monarch to stand on Australian soil. We walked all the way up and around and go to … Mrs. Macquarie’s Road. And a little further down the way, to the Palm House and Tropical Center. Haven’t I been here before? This time, though, I found my way back and saved face as a tour guide. Along the way, Scott pointed out the bats, which are really flying foxes. Think Corgis with wings. Cute, yet somehow sinister with those leathery things, and the little claw on the tip.  They make an inordinate amount of noise. I was a bit disappointed that the call wasn’t from some exotic bird native to Aussie-land. And then we were accosted by cockatoos. Which was Scott’s fault because he saw a woman feeding them and wanted to do it, too, and before you know it, I had one on my head.  Not long after that, I was done with the Royal Botanical Gardens.

Bats. The red furry things are bat. Ok, flying foxes. Whatever.

   The Art Gallery of New South Wales stands in the part of the RBG that is still referred to as The Domain. Before attempting another excursion that went anywhere near the gardens, I consulted my guide to Sydney, ascertained the correct train station, looked at the maps again and yet again, and set off. To make sure I knew where I was going, I asked the nice ticket agent at the St. James train station which direction I should go on the way out. He pointed out the way.
   “Up the steps here onto Macquarie (Macquarie again!) then right, and you can cut across the park if you like, it’s shorter.”
   “Oh, no, I get lost when I cut across parks.”
   He looked baffled. Probably my American accent.
   Up the steps … uh … left on Macquarie? Or right? Well, there are all those museums … left. It’s a left. 

   I should have known something was up when I went by Martin Place, which is a stop in the Central Business District, which is south of The Domain, but I thought nothing of it, possibly because I was distracted by a large group camping out in the mall area that is synonymous with corporate Australia: Commonwealth Bank of Australia, Reserve Bank of Australia, Macquarie Bank, and other powerful corporations are headquartered there.
   A 99% demonstration had been assembled in solidarity with their American friends on Wall Street, protesting the same sorts of things that aren’t nearly as prevalent in Australia – yet. And that’s the way these people want to keep it. They resent how their country has started to emulate the U.S., particularly how company CEO’s pay keeps increasing. The demonstrators I spoke with really weren’t fans of former PM John Howard or his buddy George W. Bush, either. Interesting that these folks are protesting, even though their country has been relatively unscathed by the current economic conditions and has about five percent unemployment, as opposed to our nearly 10 percent. They didn’t have the real estate debacle that we enjoyed, either. Yet they’re quite sensitive to going along with what they consider bad examples, most notably those on Wall Street.

More shouting needed – like those Americans.

 “Yeah, we’re goin’ good but we need more shouting and chants, I think. I saw the Americans on the news the other night and they shout and chant a lot.”
   I hung around probably too long, and kept walking to the left, finally coming across the Australia Museum, which houses the natural history type of stuff. I knew that this was not necessarily close to the art gallery. So once again, I ask for directions.
   “Not that I don’t want to visit this museum as well … but I’m looking for the Art Gallery of New South Wales.”
   Blank stare.
   “The art gallery, you say?”
   “Yes.”
   “Well, it’s out the door, go left, and you’ll find it just down Art Gallery Way. In The Domain, you know.”
   Yes, I know. But left? I had been going left. Ooooh … left. Which is really right. Oh.
I head into The Domain, even though I know as soon as I walk into a green space I’m done for. And I find the signs for … the fucking Palm House and Tropical Center. This can’t be right. I go the opposite way.

Sydney Conservatorium of Music. Not where I wanted to go.

  And end up at the Conservatorium of Music. Which is quite close to the Government House. Down by the Opera House, almost. Not anywhere near the gallery. How the hell did I do that?
I am beaten down by green space. I accept defeat once more.

   Morning often brings optimism with it, so I set off again in search of the art gallery. This time I went right instead of left on Macquarie, and saw St. Mary’s cathedral (where I stopped for a rest the day before, just before I got lost in the RBG once again.) With only one wrong turn, I found the Art Gallery of New South Wales, where admission is free and one can view classic European and Australian art, as well as contemporary Australian art. There was also an exhibit of post-World War I German art, but I decided to stick to the free stuff, of which there was plenty.

Art Gallery of New South Wales.

    It’s tough to visit an art museum in one day, and I decided to cruise through the galleries. Like the maps I’ve used, the galleries had quite a lot of missing information on their paintings, especially the contemporary Australian galleries. Little interpretation or history was given for many of them, and I got frustrated looking at work that might have been even more pleasing or disturbing with the right info. I took a minute to chat with one of the docents about the upcoming Picasso exhibition (opening November 12), and she urged me to be sure to visit the Aboriginal Gallery as well. “Just down the escalators all the way, and on the left.”
    Easy. I went down the first escalator, stopped for lunch (an average Caesar salad) and then down the next escalator. And the next. And yet one more. And down there on the left appeared to be a theater … but if I took a hard left, I saw a gallery. With art that blew my socks off.
    I do not know a lot about Aboriginal art. What I do know is that the original inhabitants of Australia are thought to be the most ancient race of humans and that they speak of the time of creation as “dream time.” My perception, from what little I’ve read, is that these people have a true understanding of the “all is one” concept, and act according to those principals. The tribes were nomadic, and some still are. Their story is similar to the American Indians, in that many tribes were made extinct by murderous attacks and diseases against which they had no immunity. No photographs were allowed in the gallery, not even those taken without a flash. I can’t even begin to explain the impact all the work had on me, both contemporary and traditional pieces. But I can share the text of the last piece I viewed, a piece created in 2009 by Vernon AhKee, born 1967. It is a large canvas (5’ x 5’, I’m guessing) that is painted completely white, with large letters stenciled on it – a poem in which all the letters run together as though it’s one entire word per line … here’s the text of the poem:

In the desert I saw a creature
naked bestial who
squatting upon the ground
held his heart in his hands
and ate of it.
I said is it good friend
it is bitter bitter he answered
but I like it because it is bitter
and because it is my heart.

  The Cambridge Lodge in Stanmore bills itself as a budget hostel, which, to me, immediately begs the question of what a luxury hostel would be. Nevertheless, on the hostelworld.com website, the Lodge rates 86%, a score derived from guest feedback that evaluates cleanliness, value for the dollar, fun, etc. I was a little concerned about the nearly average rating, but was assured by the pair of American women I met who gave me the info about the place that it was clean and well-run.
    When I looked at the price of a single room, it wasn’t much different than the Devere Hotel – and even in a single room, I would be sharing a bathroom. So. I went for the new experience and made it a double. (I couldn’t bring myself to do a four- or six-bed dorm.) First time in a hostel, first time rooming with a random stranger.
    I packed my bags and, in another effort at thrift, rolled down toward the Kings Cross train station. The closer I got, the more I dreaded dragging my things down the escalator, on the train, wondering where to get off the train and, once I disembarked, finding the address of the lodge. I stopped, weighing the options.  While weighing, a cab pulled up and the driver got out and started to load my bags in the trunk. Fate would have me take a cab. But I stopped him before he got both bags in and asked how much he would charge me (the nice boy at the desk, after I berated him and his hotel, told me it was a $30 cab fare). The driver promised a fare of $22 because it wasn’t busy right then. Done and done.

The neighborhood reminds me of where I lived in Kansas City.

    The driver, like all taxi drivers, appeared to have a death wish and proved constantly that the brakes did indeed work. While he was endangering both our lives, he managed to provide a run-down of all the Sydney neighborhoods: stay away from Redfern (it’s full of drunks and drug addicts); Newtown has any ethnicity of food you could want plus a cool theater with live music acts; Stanmore is nice, full of cute houses and flats and rents are about $500 – $600 a week; Double Bay is expensive, that’s why people call it “Double Pay”; Elizabeth Bay is where Nicole Kidman and her parents and Russell Crow and just about anybody who is anybody live; Kings Cross is rough, don’t live there. By the time we arrived at the Lodge, I had a comprehensive overview of the Inner West and Inner East suburbs.

Dining area on enclosed patio.

     When I had booked the room, I requested to be paired with a female if possible. The manager, Zorica, brought me ’round to room 4, opened the door and introduced me to … Scott. A very attractive male. American. From Boulder, Colorado. (Everybody sing along: It’s a small world after all …) Scott and I chatted for the better part of an hour. He is a huge fan of hostels (great way to meet people, save money, see the landscape in a different way – and he rated this one about an 8 out of 10.) He had been in Australia for only a couple days, working his way down the east coast from  north of Brisbane, and planned to fly back to Colorado the next day to see his ailing grandmother and check in with his family. He had been on the road for about four months, and I would tell you where he was before he got to Australia, but I lost track. Maybe South America? Antarctica? (Not kidding. He went both places, I’m just not sure when.) Once I settled in and he showered up, we went in search of food. (Sultan’s Table on Enmore Road, the kebab roll for $8. Real food – good food. I highly recommend.) Then we took off for Circular Quay, the Opera House and the Royal Botanical Gardens, where a white cockatoo landed on my head. Once I removed him from what I found an  inconvenient perch, I offered him parts of the yoghurt and strawberry granola bar that Scott had with him. We sat for a good 20 minutes letting the birds use us. Then we found a restroom and washed our hands thoroughly.

After being accosted.

Well, I got through my first night with a male roommate just fine, was informed that I snore (which I still refuse to believe) and Scott and I wished each other luck, safety and success on our travels.*
    Then I had the room to myself for about a week. It’s a simple space, no frills, just bunk beds (my god, bunk beds), a wardrobe with warped doors, a little refrigerator, a sink and a shelf. There’s a little table/desk-type thing, too, two chairs, and an ether net cable for direct online access.
    Once again, I realized that I have a different standard of clean than other people do. The baseboards, windowsill and shades were dirty; the carpet full of lint and stuff; the door smeary with fingerprints; and it smelled like a dorm. For a while, I sat and stewed about some people. Then I noticed a bucket of cleaning supplies across the hall by the bathrooms, flung open the door and the window, and cleaned the room myself. If it’s that important? Do it. The upside of hostel living: Paying $40 a night for a double room, free breakfast and free wi-fi. The bathrooms and kitchens are kept clean, most people tidy up after themselves, and it’s fun to hear Scottish, German, Australian and New Zealand accents and get to know the people who speak them. The downside: I don’t like fluorescent lighting, sharing a bathroom is inconvenient, having random strangers in and out of intimate quarters is a bit disconcerting, and I yearn for my own bed. I like my privacy, and here I have precious little. I’m on my third roommate now – an Asian girl named Tiffany. She’s adorable. Kind of like a toy. (Nothing like a delicate Asian girl to make me get in touch with my inner heifer.)

My god, bunk beds!

Cambridge Road runs in front of the Lodge, all the way down to the train station (only a couple blocks) and up to Enmore Road, the main drag in Newtown. The walk up Cambridge to Enmore is lined with brick houses of a late 19th and early 20th century vintage. In fact, the neighborhood reminds me very much of where I lived in the Brookside/Waldo area of Kansas City, Missouri.  Enmore Road is full of small businesses and restaurants. During lunch at the Blue Fig the other day, while wolfing down a mango chicken salad that was ab fab, I saw from my vantage point Chinese, Thai, Mexican, Mediterranean, Chinese, Indian, organic and seafood cuisines, as well as a Vodaphone store, a convenience store, Traditional Thai Massage, the Cat Protection Society of New South Wales office and thrift store, Happy Idea Boutique, another Thai Massage place, and Do It Yourself Invitations. Each retail space is narrow and deep, and each has a sign out front hanging over the sidewalk. The effect is just about overwhelming. I get to the point where I can’t see anything because I see everything, and walk right by places. But that’s also because I’m directionless, which I will address in the next entry.

Montague Place park.

    Right across the street is a pretty little park with playground equipment and picnic tables. The other direction down Cambridge, toward the Stanmore train station, there are a couple schools –public and college preparatory. Right across the street from the station is a chemist (pharmacy), quick take-away food, an IGA grocery, a liquor store, and a coffee place called The Paper Cup. Since arriving here, I have developed a coffee habit, maybe because these people make really good coffee. Forget Starbucks. Baristas there have started to recognize me and remember my order (decaf flat white, one sugar), and continue to tease me with the spelt banana bread, which is particularly good toasted with butter. Then again, most things are good toasted and soaked with butter. At any rate, it’s a cool little place that the Mums (mothers) like to go after they’ve dropped the older kiddies off at school. The babes, of course, come to the coffee clache with them. While it’s amusing to watch the varmints, it’s not as entertaining to hear them, and the Mums, god bless ‘em, appear oblivious to all but the most shrill cries.  Why is it that mothers are oblivious to kids’ rambunctiousness, but can hear the sound of a cookie jar lid being removed at 50 feet?  I asked one of the employees, who lives here at the Lodge, what the pre- or post-Mum window is. She shook her head. There isn’t one.

Miss Darcy, the hostel cat.

    I keep thinking that I will eventually upgrade my accommodations to a short-term rental where I have my own bathroom and a double bed, but now I feel like part of a little family. I even gave the Lodge’s address to Commonwealth Bank so they can mail my debit card. While it’s not what I envisioned, it’s not half bad.

*Scott and I discussed at length the difference between travelers and tourists, including discussion of Paul Bowles’ 1949 novel, “The Sheltering Sky,” which I will do my best to recreate or summarize for a future entry.

A year ago June, just before I graduated with my MFA in creative writing from UC, Riverside, I had a chat with my friend Michelle. Since she was the person who could make sure I graduated, I had stopped by to make sure of just that. After we cleared up the details, I told her I wasn’t sure what to do next – that there was no fabulous job yet, and staying in the desert did not fill me with unbridled joy. The truth? I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do, and, whatever, it was, I didn’t want to do it here.

Now, if you’re a person who is discontent about your situation in life and yearn to change it, do not talk with my friend Michelle. She’ll just ask you questions like, “Well, if you could do anything, what would you do?” And she asks so disingenuously and openly that a person can’t help but tell the truth. She pulled that on me.

“Well, travel. I would travel.”

“So go to work up in Santa Cruz again, make some money, and travel.”

Well, that was easy. So I did go back up to Santa Cruz and work with an academic summer camp program, after which I embarked on my Western States Tour 2010 – 7,000 miles in six weeks. This blog is a product of those weeks on the road.

After I returned, Michelle and I met for dinner. Her daughter had just returned from world travels to points Asian and Pacific, and I listen with envy as she listed the countries and the cool things she had done (including being evacuated from the path of a cyclone in Australia). I, however, had still not secured a job, had not moved to either Santa Cruz or Missoula, Montana. Here I sat, once again, ambivalent about what I wanted to do, where I wanted to go.

I wondered aloud if I could possibly take off for a few weeks. Six weeks, maybe, or a couple months. How could I do that?

“Well, why not?” Michelle says. Or something to that effect.

Months passed. It was nearly a year past graduation and still I had no job and no plan.

In May, I started getting serious about going to New Zealand. A friend of mine told me to make a pro/con list. She looked at it.

“That’s not a con. Neither is that. Those are fears.”

Ok. So I’m fearful of taking off to the other side of the world. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to.

“Do the thing you’re afraid of.”

This woman has hiked the Pacific Crest Trail, and large parts of other major cross continent trails. She knows of what she speaks.

So I decided. I have another friend who says that we are deciders, not doers, and once we decide, the doing becomes easy. (Why the hell do I listen to these people?)

Before this gets to sound like a Marianne Williamson retreat, let me just say that it finally occurs to me that if I’m serious about doing this, and not just wishing that I could, I had probably do a little research about travelling, how much it would cost, how much hostels cost (could I really room with three 20-something backpackers and share a bathroom?) Turns out a person can travel with little money and impose upon the kindness of strangers. Housesitting. WWOOF-ing (more about that once I get to New Zealand). The bottom line is that you don’t have to do guided tours and stay in really nice hotels in order to travel. That is perhaps the difference between being a tourist or being a traveler. (More about that idea and Paul Bowles’ book later.)

In June I put all my things in storage and left for Santa Cruz once again to work with academically gifted kids. In August, I came back and imposed upon the hospitality of a friend until my departure from Los Angeles on October 10.

Various friends in the know advised me to pack light. One of them who worked in the diamond trade and carried a little pistol in a thigh holster (just in case) said, “One black bra, one nude bra, a few pair of panties, you can rinse things out in the hotel sink. Black clothes, and pick a color to accessorize.”

Okay, well, I packed more than that (a couple more bras and panties, for sure) but I didn’t pack a lot. Note the flatness of the suitcase – expander panel reserved for the way back. Also note all the room in the duffle, allowing me to bring my Dr. Martin boots, a stylin’ choice. All in all, my luggage consists of the duffle, the rolling suitcase and a messenger bag that holds my laptop and some books. If need be, this messenger bag can be packed into the duffle.

Off I go.

McHenry Library Terrace – complete with smoker.

Teeny, tiny sign which directed me back from whence I came.

More to come about Santa Cruz and its numerous attractions. Maybe even some classroom drama.

McHenry Library camouflage.