may 1

I guess the first, most important question, is: What do I want to do on this trip? What am I going to accomplish?

I guess what I care about the most is a change of scenery. I just want to be immersed for a few weeks in a place that's different from Austin. I want to be around different attitudes, mainly, but also just seeing the sights, getting out of the suburbs for a while. It'll be something new.

Right now, I'm listening to Eminem, remixed into a hilariously flamboyant disco song by some helpful internet enthusiast. I'm listening on my big, comfy Sony headphones in the middle of gate 15. Two mothers with screaming children wait for prams to get delivered. I'm patiently writing, drawing, and reading, trying to make good use of a 23-hour transit time.

God, that's a lot of hours.

I don't speak Australian.

I have trouble with accents. Put me twenty miles outside of my hometown, and I'm hard-pressed to understand the countrified patter of quick words with elided consonants that passes for a proper 'Kentucky accent.' So what will I make of the Australian accent, with its Cockney-derived collection of triphthongs, funhouse-mirror vowel sounds, and inscrutable local jargon?

I hope I'll be able to understand people after a few days of exposure. Repeatedly asking Laurence to translate would just be pathetically lame.

We're flying over the American West. I've never been there before. Yes, my family tells me I went along with them on some trip to see some relative in California, when I was all of two years old or something; and yes, I have vague, wispy memories of visiting Wall Drug and asking why that region was called "The Badlands" ("Because they're bad, Peter."), but the West is something unreal to me. I look down on El Paso and the White Sands, New Mexico area, and it all seems alien, like images of Mars given a light brown Photoshop tint.

Perhaps I'll travel there someday, but it seems so bleak and desolate. Frankly, if it just existed in the movies, I could live with that.

And now I'm on the plane to New Zealand; a connecting flight will take me the rest of the way to Sydney.

In a way, things are sort of blending from one to the other -- at the gate at LAX, the crowd was mostly returning from springtime visits to American relatives.

For the moment I feel spooked by the accent. It makes me feel a sharp pang of not belonging. I already feel a bit ill at ease in any group of people, but the accent makes me an outsider. C'est la vie.

I can already tell that the people are a bit more socially reasonable than most Americans -- people who don't know each other strike up conversations without any fuss -- so maybe that will be a bit eye-opening for me.

Frankly, I don't know how I'll keep myself occupied for the seven hours I need to stay awake before I can try going to sleep on the plane. I could only take on one bag (bastards!) so I only have one book left, and my drawings, and this Palm Pilot.

Ah well. I will keep reading and writing and drawing.

We get into Auckland in about two hours. So far, I think I'm doing ok. I slept for about six hours -- the first time I've managed any sleep at all on a plane, IIRC. Unfortunately, I managed to sleep between what would be 5pm and 11pm, local time.

So, basically, if I can stay up for twenty-four hours straight, on six hours of sleep, then I'll be right back on schedule. Right?

It's kind of ominous to think of it like that. Really, on the other hand, I'll have daylight keeping me awake, and there will be (I presume) interesting things to do.

As for the trip itself? The flight has been ok. There are many things I wish I had known ahead of time. Wish I'd known I could only have one bag on this flight. Wish I'd known that I would have to declare prescription medication with a written prescription from my doctor. Wish I'd known the rechargeable batteries were so weak that they would die after about five hours in the CD player. Wish I'd known that I would lose my Palm stylus within about half an hour of getting on the first plane. (I had extras at home.) Wish, wish, wish.

So, yeah: I feel pretty under prepared.

I think I'm about half an hour out of Sydney now. It's turned into something of an endurance test -- my music died, my batteries were in the suitcase they made me check, and it's not entirely certain that the suitcase will get to Sydney when I do (the lady at the desk checked it through to Auckland). I alternate between reading my Terry Pratchett novel (which is funny, and light, but I never find his work thoroughly engrossing) and watching whatever movie they have showing on the video screen.

They showed Along Came Polly, which showed Ben Stiller, forced to choose between Jennifer Aniston and Debra Messing. I vowed to myself that, if I ever found myself in such a situation, I'd remember to count my blessings.

Now they're showing a Wallace & Gromit flick that I've seen dozens of times. I try to watch it again, but I keep noticing that my back hurts, or my butt hurts (how is that even possible?), or I feel a steady strain from having to compress into a small window seat.

So I'll just endure the last bit, I guess.

may 3

Made it! I'm now sitting on Laurence's balcony just off of downtown Sydney. My luggage is still in transit.

Towards the end it was a bit of an endurance test, with a four-hour trip from Auckland to Sydney, crammed into a windowless window seat next to a burly rugby enthusiast. Then there was the long, long, long line at customs. Then there was the lost luggage.

Everything will, of course, be all right. But at the moment I'm nauseous from the dehydration. I'm dehydrated because the connections were fucked and I couldn't stop and fill my water bottle, and the attendants, if they came by, came by with tiny sip-cups of water. So I sit in the warm sun and I wait for the nasty headache to go away. And for my clothes to arrive.

Another hitch -- Laurence's car is not legally registered. In an act of bewildering incompetence from the leasing company, they sent him a 2004 registration sticker without actually registering the vehicle. He found out today that he was driving illegally.

So for the moment, things could be happier. But that's just temporary. I just drank a liter of water, and Laurence is giving the leasing company hell. :)

One point five out of three problems have been solved. I drank three liters of water and the pain worming through my head has faded to a faint tension. One of my two lost bags arrived via courier.

So now I'm wearing my own clothes and in relatively good spirits. Laurence just bought his new Fender, which he likes very much, but he's having to navigate round and round the mulberry bush with his employer, the leasing company, and the local department of motor vehicles. :(

The day continues -- if I can just stay awake a couple more hours, then I'll be good for falling asleep for the night. We picked up camping supplies, stopped by the internet cafe, and got pizza for dinner. I stagger through the rest of the day feeling rather hazy, but focusing on staying awake.

may 4

So last night we finished up dinner and sightseeing and shopping, and watched a DVD -- we figured that was an ok way to finish the night, since we wouldn't have access to even a TV for the next few weeks.

Not sure what's on tap for today. I suppose Laurence is busy getting his car squared away, which leaves me to my own devices for a couple of hours. Maybe I'll shop a little bit, or try and do some drawing and photography. Might stop by the art museum, if it's reachable by foot.

The rest of the day, I'm not sure. If Laurence gets his car squared away, we have a few more options. Most likely dinner with his friends tonight.

Still no sign of my second Luggage. My duffel bag was lost somewhere between Austin and Sydney, and with it is most of my clothing, a bunch of CDs, and my hiking boots.

The day's gone really well. Laurence was stuck with getting his car re-registered for about five hours -- but he got it all sorted, and with much less expense than he thought it would take. Left to my own devices, I went to the art museum, which was really cool (and free!). They had an extensive collection of Aboriginal art -- which is all heavily symbolic and (to me) not very comprehensible. I just look at the pretty shapes and colors. They had a few surprising Impressionist works. They had a couple of very cool modern works, including a boat with a rotating projection-tv-and-screen, which showed footage taken from a camera rotating around and around on a boat. they had a series of incubators with household objects encased in faux-flesh plastic, with veins. The incubators beeped. The objects twitched in their sleep. Very creepy.

I went through the botanical gardens to the opera house and sketched a picture. Then I went to the Centrepoint tower and looked out over the city -- very impressive, and I didn't have too many acrophobia problems.

Anyway, I came back to Laurence's apartment, and he came back. We sat around. I showed him some basic chords on guitar. He busily started playing chords, and then making weird experimental noises. I guess that's what everyone does when they first pick up the instrument.

So right now everything is right with the world.

We ate in Leichhardt (the equivalent of 'little Italy' in Sydney). My ears found it odd to hear Italian spoken with an Australian accent, or the Australian and Italian accents convoluted together into something I hadn't heard before. Then we watched The Sopranos (which is on a major/free network here).

may 5

Starting another day. This time, I'm either going to the aquarium on my own or going to Manly Beach with Laurence.

Mainly I need to get to a store at some point today -- the list of things I have to buy gets longer and longer, and now includes things like 'shaving cream.'

Vague promises of good Lebanese food today. I eagerly await it.

The aquarium was ok. After a while, staring at fish after fish just got dull, especially when troops of rambunctious schoolchildren started coming through.

Still, I liked seeing the platypus, and there was a glassed-in-tube-under-the-sea section that was entertaining -- got to see huge rays and sharks swim past.

The rest of the day afforded a good chance to go to the beach. I can't swim, I look god-awful in a swimsuit, and I never talk to strangers, but all the same I always like the beach. The simple pleasures of sunlight, the calming sound of the waves, and bikini-clad girls I can creepily ogle, are all things I appreciate.

So we went to Manly Beach. I put some SPF-incredibly-high-number on my manly cavefish complexion, opened up my manly Terry Pratchett paperback, and cued up a manly tune on the CD layer (the Foundations' "Build Me Up Buttercup"). Damn, I'm cool.

Sadly the rest of the day got eaten up by Laurence's preparations for leaving town. He is getting his truck set up for 4wd rumbling around Australia, and the adjustments he wants to make are requiring time and money. He's also got to sell all his stuff, and pack the truck, and get his immigration papers sorted, and meet with various friends who want to bid him farewell.

may 6

Laurence has more trip preparations -- selling more of his stuff, I think, and getting his visa taken care of -- so I am again happily left to my own devices.

I think today I am going to head off to the Taronga Zoo (I'll catch a ferry from Circular Quay) and maybe have another, more thorough look at the Botanical Gardens. Ideally I'll stop by a few shops and pick up some necessities (shaving cream, stamps, a new Palm-Pilot stylus).

What a long day. Now it's about five thirty. I took the ferry to the Taronga Zoo, and spent a while wandering around looking at animals. I got a bit bored, in spite of the fact that they had an extensive selection of rare animals. Again, the place was overrun with schoolkids.

After that I went to the Botanical Gardens again, dropped by the Opera House, and then went home through the city. The hustle & bustle of the city was exhausting. On the way back, I bought some shaving cream, and spent about half an hour updating the wiki and emailing friends.

So, what now? I'll shave, I'll sort out how much I spent today. I'll play guitar for a bit. Then, out to dinner somewhere with Laurence. The Opera House sometime tomorrow.

I played guitar for an hour or so, and then off to Chinatown for Chinese food. Then back home. Laurence redid the schedule, providing a buttload of time for Melbourne, and accounting for the extra time they were spending in Sydney, sorting out loose ends.

We got back and spent the night clearing up the apartment; the carpet cleaners were coming early the next morning.

Things are costing more than I expected. It's ok; I've got money set aside. The camping time won't be terribly costly. The hostel in Melbourne won't be so costly. We'll see how tomorrow goes.

may 7

I've finally run out of stuff to do in Sydney. Laurence assures me that this gives me the opportunity for tourism that's "off the beaten track." I read this as "rather dull things that I'll probably get lost on the way to."

I did enjoy spending the morning walking to and from a guided tour of the Opera House. I was chastised by the guide once when I appeared to be getting ready to take a photograph of something I wasn't supposed to get a photograph of (the concert hall) -- but really I was just holding it so that the strap would stop chaffing my neck.

But it was nice to see the interiors. The Opera stage was being used by the state young-person's ballet troupe, so: a crowd of talented sixteen-year-olds practiced a dance routine that conveyed a piece of Australian history. Props included fake scythes, fake sheaves of grain, and presumably-fake bottles of beer.

I went back through the Botanical Gardens (third time), this time checking out the Tropical greenhouse. My legs are pretty much dead now.

I hope I don't get hungry. The irritating thing about being in the center of a bustling metropolis is that it's pretty damned hard to find, say, a grocery. Something that sells food in a form that does not artfully arrange small, expensive bits of it on a plate with a sprig of decorative parsley. I need to get myself a box of balance bars. (I would have packed such a thing, but food is strictly quarantined.)

Again, no idea what's on tap for tonight.

Ah, one dinner of incredibly good Lebanese food later, and everything is looking up a bit. Only one day to invent things to do in Sydney -- and most of tomorrow, I imagine I'll be helping to pack the car.

So things will be ok.

We got back from dinner, and I spent the whole evening reading.

may 8

Delightful weather today, but absolutely no idea what I'm going to do. Hopefully there will be a chance to do a load of laundry before going out camping; I would consider it a small victory to be able to wear clean underwear through the entire trip. In the same way, I'm hoping that on Sunday morning I can wash my hair one last time and have one last shave before the week in the wilderness.

Odds are, a good chunk of today will be spent packing Laurence's truck.

It's now about 4pm; it's been a long day of walking. I walked across the Harbour Bridge to north Sydney, and back. I walked around the Rocks neighborhood for a while. I walked up Observatory Hill, checked out the view, the museum, and the gardens. I walked through the Museum of Contemporary Art. I walked to a music store that Hartwell has been dealing with. Then I walked home.

Fortunately, I had a brunch where I ordered too much food (how was I to know the pumpkin soup would come in a bowl the size of my head?), so I'm not hungry yet. However, I was walking for over four hours, so now I'm tired.

The Harbour Bridge was pleasant enough, although on the way across, I was busy looking at my feet instead of the view most of the time. The sheer scope of the construction gave me that floaty feeling that one gets when staring up at the stars at night. The feeling of floating away, coupled with being on a bridge high above the water, gave me sudden pangs of acrophobia.

I made it up to the northern part of town; it looked like plain, light urban zoning, so I turned around and headed back. I passed middle-aged Asians, security officers, trekking parents of babies in prams, and backpacker couples who were all, as a rule, sickeningly happy.

I went to the Museum of Contemporary Arts -- surprisingly there was no entry fee. Two Aussie women in their late thirties took in the Ed Ruscha (?) exhibit.
W1: It's acrylic paint -- says so on the [gestures at title tag]
W2: Oh! Really?
[W2 reaches out and dabs her fingers on the canvas; W1 slaps W2's hand, then looks back at me, nervously. I smile the bland, affable smile that is my birthright as a vaguely English-derived American.]

Some of the works were quite amusing -- it surprises me that, in my late 20s, I've started liking contemporary art. I see it less as an expensive joke played by penniless artists wearing ugly berets on rich, clueless collectors wearing equally ugly berets, and more as something playful. Messing around with conventions a bit. Some stuff works, most of it doesn't, but it's all generally worth a try.

I walked through the Rocks neighborhood. A street performer juggled by the waterside near the MCA. Two guitarists sang "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right," but they prettied up the song a bit much. I looped through expensive apartment buildings and slightly-froufrou shops, and made it to Observatory Hill.

A family had picnicked there. Some children running around. Young couples on blankets. A beautiful, panoramic view of the city. I moseyed through the Observatory museum, which made a casual, doing-my-best-with-a-limited-budget attempt at making cosmology interesting. I was getting tired.

I circled back down to the neighborhood, and walked over to Ashwood Music, where Hartwell was trying to order some jazz 16 2/3 rpm records. I browsed around in a desultory way, wondering how a used record shop could stay in business. There were used books as well, old hardback novels by writers that were once popular enough to justify hardback editions, but were now unknown to anyone.

I finally trekked back to the apartment, showered, and sat back and played guitar until Laurence made it back. We took a load of laundry to Pete & Monica's. I helped out with loading the roof rack in my usual, low-impact, minimal-competence way.

By the way, the locals have pointed out that I bear a striking resemblance to one of the actors on the local beloved children's show, "The Wiggles." Funny, I don't even have a colorful anorak. Guess it's just one of those things.

may 9

Now it's Sunday morning. The apartment is emptier, but still a long way from empty. I'm guessing we'll be on the road by midafternoon.

Laurence has said most of his goodbyes to his friends here, and that's been pretty tough on him. He had his 'farewell breakfast.'

There's still a large refrigerator that needs to be dollied out to the alley, and the car needs to be packed.

I stand corrected; it's quarter past one, and Laurence is picking up his camping stove. After that, we whip around Sydney and start heading south.

may 10

First day out of the city. I found it to be a bit of a doozie.

Cold-weather fact #1: if you have spent all your time in Austin while it gears itself up for another brutal, 100-degree summer, you will be in no way acclimated to cold weather.

I should have known this. I was a bit chilly on the beach at Dee Why, but it was easily put up with. I think it got down to the forties here last night, and that was just sucky.

Cold-weather fact #2: Almost any cold weather can be borne with adequate clothing.

I was wearing an undershirt, a T-shirt, a long-sleeved shirt, and a fleece pullover. Still cold. I paced around, hands in pockets, and as much of my face buried in the collar of the pullover as possible.

Cold-weather fact #3: No matter how cold it is, there will always be somebody from further north (further south, in the Southern Hemisphere) to dismiss the current cold weather as not very cold.

"It's not cold," said a Tasmanian fellow at a picnic table, apropos of nothing but how I was pacing around.

In any case, things were a bit better at night, once I got myself completely encapsulated in a sleeping-bag liner and a sleeping bag. Fortunately, Laurence had an extra sheet kicking around in the truck, and that's been slipped into the bag for next time.

We drive further down the coast today. We were aiming for Mimosa Rocks, but fell about 200km short of that. (Like pretty much all the schedules so far, the timetable for Sunday was overly optimistic.) Presumably we'll hit the road, have a bite to eat on the way, and finally end up in our day 2 itinerary destination.

Then: hiking. We'll see how I do.

I found myself dreaming that I was at a birthday party for one of the swing dancers. There was pizza, and music, and a good number of my friends, who were all happy to see me. Then I woke up and it was cold and I was lying on the ground.

For the record: last night/this morning we were in Bateman's Bay, just south of Nowra. Not sure where we're heading this afternoon. Somewhere south of here.

"What's the difference between a Holden and a sheep?"

"You wouldn't want to be seen getting out of a Holden."

Car trouble this morning. We got the car all packed up, and got in the car, and Laurence put the key in the ignition, turned it, and....

click-click-click.

Dead battery. Or as they say here, "batt'ry." So we're at the shop, listening to Run DMC and waiting to see what the hell's gone wrong.

Apparently we left the doors open, that drains the batt'ry, and thus the car ran out of go-go juice.

Nothing too exciting on the ride down. We stopped at "Bob's Cafe of Bega" and had lunch. The proprietor (Bob) was an American, from Philadelphia, who first happened on the Eastern coast while in the navy, and had stayed ever since. Laurence complimented him on his taste in music, and they chatted affably.

Then on the road, along the coast for a while, past big landscapes, dotted with somnolent cows and occasionally glimpses of blue-line ocean horizon beyond it. A bit of a bumpy ride from Mimosa Rocks back to the Prince's Highway; Laurence assures me this is nothing compared to *real* four-wheel driving. I, and my kidneys, wonder what all that jouncing will be like.

For now, we've reserved a room in Cann River. Long long ride to Cann River, but there's a couple beds and a bathroom at the end of it, so all is well.

We made it to the hostel. The room is very cold, so I'm in the YHA common room, along with some 70s-looking furniture, a TV blaring an Aussie travel show, Laurence (checking his email), and two perfectly charming teenage girls from London whom I haven't said word one to.

may 11

The day has turned around somewhat. The day started out gray and spattering rain, but the sun came out around noon. By now it's about 1pm, and the storm has drifted south, returning us to the cold and gray.

We drove all the way from Lakes Entrance to Yarram, and stopped at the "Bush Nook Cafe" for lunch. I had spaghetti pie and soup.

I've got to learn that soup is bigger in Australia. Instead of the little cup to go with your sandwich, they serve it in a bowl as big as your head, and soup with a meal becomes something of a gastronomic endurance test.

But all in all, lunch went well.

So: tomorrow is the official hiking day, where we hike for a few hours off to the middle of nowhere, 'bush camp' there for the night, and enjoy all the thrills that solitude and homelessness have to offer. Then, we hike two or three hours back.

I assume that tonight Laurence will tell me all sorts of edifying things about what to do if somebody breaks a leg, what to do if a snake appears, what to do if a snake appears and bites us, what to do if a snake appears, bites us, and then refuses to let go, and so on.

The views have been spectacular -- we stopped several times to photograph the hills on the way to Wilson's Promontory, and then stopped at several beaches -- Whisky Beach, Squeaky Beach (the round granules of quartz in the sand squeak when stepped on), and so on.

I stood on the sand, looked out to the waves, felt the cold wind rushing inland, and felt utterly alone in the world. Except for the guy fishing off to the left. And the small family whose children were running around near the water.

Now we've got camp properly set up, and food cooking on Laurence's $250 stove. It's getting cold; it's on its way to getting really cold -- near freezing -- tonight.

Coming up on 8:30pm, and things seem to have settled down nicely. We've had an inquisitive possum checking out my Backpack That Once Had Food In It, and the car is now on packing arrangement 3.0, but still, any night where I'm not shivering with cold has at least one thing to highly recommend it.

I should get a good night's sleep tonight. Not sure about our arrangements tomorrow night. We may be able to hike a few hours to other accommodations in the woods.

may 12

[This is very depressing -- I just managed to lose an entire section of this diary entry while transferring it to my computer. Still, at least everything else came through.]

Woken by parrots. It's very cold.

Actually they weren't parrots, but some other brightly colored birds....

[I forget how the rest of that entry went. Some stuff about going on hikes during the day, and planning the trip to Phillip Island.]

[ ... ] I broached the subject with Laurence, and we're now spending one less day in Melbourne, and one more day out here in the wilderness, this time up in the mountains. Probably for the best. I feel bad, because living in the city will be very hard on Laurence's pocketbook.

So: cleaning up the dishes tonight, followed by setting up the bedding, followed by a lot of sleep with (I hope) very few inquisitive-opossum-related interruptions. Then up to the mountains.

Where it's colder.

Holy shit, I just discovered (accidentally, of course) that his Palm has a backlighting feature! Life is full of pleasant little surprises.

may 13

It dipped below freezing last night; we had some wombats casually circling around the camp, checking things out.

Once it warmed up a bit, we ventured out of the cocoons and had another day hike. This one was up to an overlook on "Tidal River," a very shallow river in the national park, with a side trip to "Pillar Point," which affords a lovely 360-degree view of the area.

We're currently stopped at the Flying Cow Cafe, in Fish Creek, Victoria. They have a lovely patio, and the little speaker next to me is playing Roy Orbison. All in all, a good thing.

Today we're aimed for Phillip Island, and its thousands (I'll be on 'millions' by the time we get there) of tiny penguins. I'll have to send Lyndsay a postcard.

On the road to Phillip Island now -- about 25 km out. Lunch at the Flying Cow Cafe was pretty good -- wish I'd gotten a photo or a piece of memorabilia. Maybe they have a web site. Still, the steak was kind of fatty, and I'm not really used to that.

We're driving to a town called "San Remo," just short of the island proper, and we're setting up camp there. then it's on to the penguins, which are said to emerge around 6pm.

Right now I'm sitting on the coast of Phillip Island, waiting for the millions of little penguins to appear. There is absolutely no photography permitted, so I sat down and drew a couple of quick sketches of the environs.

Laurence is, I think, not really down for the whole 'penguins' thing, but is being good about humoring me. The 'no photography' surprise seems to have been quite a blow. I may have a go at drawing a penguin, but I doubt it will come out well.

I volunteered to spring for a real room ($50 Australian) instead of another night out in the subfreezing. I just want a day of normalcy to get to feeling a bit ungrody, before striking out to the mountains and then settling peacefully in Melbourne.

Still no word from Shel -- no doubt busy with wedding stuff.

I've obtained postcards to send to Lyndsay and to Katherine. Hooray!

This should rank as one of life's more surreal little experiences.

NB: We listened to Parliament on the way over. *No* music can retain its funk when you are mentally imaging penguins as you listen.

Back from the penguins. We saw several penguin groups come in from the ocean, and then saw a couple of groups close up, from the boardwalk. We're now staying in a rather flash hostel -- we have a tiny cabin with two bedrooms and a bathroom. I've sprung for the $50A tab.

That said, the hostel really is quite swank. I just spent $2A on 30 minutes of internet time, and Laurence is using the tail end of it. Nothing new, email-wise.

I'll say one thing for camping -- the extreme cold snaps you out of REM sleep in a nanosecond. I find myself remembering lots of dreams. First was the birthday party. Then I had some dream that I was in Louisville, and my grandmother (Mamaw) was still alive. (I thought about these two facts, realized I must be dreaming, and then *bam* , cold, lying on the ground. I think too damn much.) Last night I dreamt that Peter Jackson was directing a theatrical production at Rice, and I, pursuing some sort of grad work, had sneaked into a small part. It was interesting to see how they'd built up the place over the last seven years in my subconscious mind. Nice new buildings everywhere. I'll have to check out the real thing sometime.

may 14

It's about four degrees centigrade, and it's raining... outside. Inside, I'm lying on a comfortable bed, with a tasteful lamp providing light, and a little nearby space heater providing heat. I finally had a proper wash in a proper bathroom, and feel more or less myself. I try to imagine being out encamped in this muck, and my brain (thankfully) rebels.

Anyway, we'll have one more go at camping today, as we head to the mountains. Before that, we're going to check out some seals on the island.

Laurence seems in good spirits. He spent most of the night in the bar, chatting with the bartender who is originally from Calgary and most recently from Melbourne, and who had plenty of advice for things to see and do in town. I think he feels okay about spending six days there.

I spent that time in the comfy bed with the lamp and the space heater, up to my usual reading and writing. Screw 'befriending the locals' -- it's *warm* in here.

Note -- the name 'Phillip Island' is close enough to the name 'Fibber Island' that I have the TMBG song running through my head off and on all day. There are worse songs, but still: Arg!

It's about 10am, and the rain has stopped, the sun has come out, and it's making its mind up to be a pretty nice day. That just seems to be how the daily weather goes in this part of the world. So maybe going to the mountains will be all right.

It's a beautiful, sunny day, and Laurence has checked with the hostelier, who recommended a lot of sights to see around the Yarra ranges. Unfortunately, we've gotten ourselves a bit lost in the vicinity of Packenham. Laurence is filling up the car and is about to have a word with the gas station attendant to get some directions.

It's been a pleasant drive. Things are quiet, as usual. Laurence had a package of Palmolive detergent leak all over the contents of a plastic bag, and so now he's a bit mad at the world. We listened to the Gypsy Kings on the way out of Phillip Island, and now we're listening to a Bill Cosby comedy CD, which is good for both of our spirits.

Now we're up in Eildon, in the mountains. So: cold again -- even colder in the mountains.

We went to an overlook at Mount Pinnington, but I didn't have my camera with me. Going along with that Winston Churchill idea of "never, never, never, never give up," I started drawing tiny pictures on my business cards. Later, I found my sketchpad in the car and added a drawing of the sunset.

The ride in afforded many pretty views, and I got some photos. The village near the campsite is friendly and photogenic -- the gentleman at the post office drove across Route 66 & back in '62.

We're nearing the end of another evening out of the city. It seems like every such evening is the same thing -- it gets dark, and the cold gradually forces you back into a smaller and smaller cocoon. Tonight is a bit of an exception, as we are cocooned in a cabin; going outside the cabin into the unthinkable cold is about as attractive as opening an air hatch in deep space.

But, it's the last night doing ersatz camping, and we'll see if things are different in the Big 'Bourne. (No, nobody calls it that. But obviously, they should.)

may 15

I have survived the Big Cold! I strongly suspect the worst of things is over. Of course, it got fiendishly cold in the mountain cabin overnight, but from here on out, it's comfort -- bed -- heating in the Big 'Bourne. (Just finished the P. G. Wodehouse book -- gimme a few days to get it out of my system.)

When I get there, I will do huge amounts of laundry, have a proper shower, and maybe stop by a grocery and lay in an independent supply of food. Oh, and I'll get back to the internet and let everybody know where I am. And I'll send a couple more postcards. It'll be great.

On the road now, across the countryside, and Laurence is trying to sell his extra spare tire for $50.

I remain in good spirits, looking forward to a wash and a laundry and an email and all that.

Note to self: the peanut-butter-and-nutella sandwich is an evil, evil thing, and should not, under any circumstances, be eaten.

So: fighting back a headache and some disturbing nausea as we meander down to Melbourne. Currently stopped for gas. We're listening to Bill Hicks, which is putting us in an all right mood as the rather plain, hilly countryside passes us by.

Laurence and I arrived in Melbourne. We have another hostel guest in our shared room. He is named Dominic, he is 22 years old, he plays guitar in a rock band, he is from Germany, and he's here doing his university apprenticeship (think: co-op) in 'logistics,' a business term meaning 'making sure that everything gets shipped where it needs to go.'

He showed up to our room, met me, and Laurence came in, and we all chatted.

We moseyed out for food, going to one location, then another, following whatever the locals most recently recommended. Laurence lectured me on what a "Chicken Curry Hotpot" was exactly. We ran into a group of twentysomething Melburnian girls there -- I answered the questions "Where are you from?", and "How long have you been in Australia?', and "How long will you be in Melbourne?", and "How do you like it here, many, many, many times over. We went to "Transport," a nightclub.

I was at a nightclub. This is where I pause for the audience chuckle. I stood there, my backpack on my back, looking around the room, showing the profound boredom only seen in zoo animals.

Thump thump thump. Four-four time. 120bpm. Loud.

Crowd of people -- not Beautiful People, but a sort of Gaussian Distribution about a rather attractive point. Shorter than me. I got jostled to and fro; the backpack was particularly unwieldy. At one point I apologized hurriedly to a guy behind me who started cussing loudly as I passed by; I assumed I had hit him with it.

The conversations continued, Dominic doing very well for himself. The words all faded into the general cacophony and thumpthumpthump.

After about thirty minutes of this nonstop funscapade, I decided to go back to the hostel, where there was peace and quiet and the chance to write a neat little article.

PETER: Bye guys!
DOMINIC: I'll see you back at the hostel. [Shakes hands.]
JESS: Why?
[PETER does a 'sleepytime' gesture.]
[JESS gives him a look that's slightly pouty but actually translates to "Well, piss off then."]

I walked out and caught a cab to the hostel. Now I have peace and quiet and keyboard.

Laurence showed me four-wheel driving today. We went out on a trail into the woods. The car gathimped and gathumped over the track, while Laurence encouraged it verbally.

We jounced our way along. We stopped. I stepped out and looked around. Trees.

"Would you smell that air?" I sniffed. Tree-y.

It was nice to see the secluded woods by the highway. In the movies, it would be the scene where the innocent tourists find the first body.

may 16

Sunday morning looks bright and cheerful, and it's time to start exploring Melbourne. I have six days in which to do so, so I feel no particular hurry.

Health continues to be a bit subpar, with the spot on my gums still bleeding (why?) and, this morning, a small-but-persistent cough showing up. Also, I woke up after only five hours of sleep -- yuk. Well, we'll see how things go.

I woke up at about 7:30am, and Laurence slept for another four hours or so. At one point he mentioned that the girls missed me last night. "That's very flattering," I said affably.

At a little before 11am, I went up to the roof to snap a couple of skyline photos.

What an excellent day! Laurence begged out of any city-exploring, nursing a nasty blister on each calf, so I had a look at things on my own. It felt really good to get out on my feet again, and see some things I wanted to see. I walked from the hostel down through the center of town, down to the Botanical Gardens, and looped around back up to the hostel.

All told, I was walking for two and a half hours.

My first impression is that Melbourne is the city I could actually live in, if I had to live in Australia. That sounds mean, but it has to do with how un-Australian I am (sickly, pallid, bookish pessimist with no enthusiasm for sports, gambling, or practical jokes). I think because Melbourne has real seasons, people don't just spend all day on the beach looking for the perfect wave, and a bit more culture starts springing up.

The National Gallery of Victoria, for example, looks really cool, and right next to it there's a long run of Shakespeare performances. Jay Farrar is coming to town on Thursday (w00t!). There's an improv theatre around the corner from the hostel. I don't see people doing curl-ups on every open space in the park; instead, couples loll together on the grass, using public gardens for their proper purpose.

I took some thirty or forty photos. I made one drawing of a building in the Botanical Gardens (passers-by gently walked around me when necessary).

All in all, a good day's walk.

I'm just in a damn good mood. I'm listening to Summerteeth as I write this, and it's a damn good album, and I'm in a great city, and I spent last night chatting with a bunch of cute uni grads, and life is just pretty damn good. On the way to the grocery this morning, I was whistling "Mister Songbird" to myself while Laurence nursed a weak hangover.

Plus we have a guitar again. Give me a guitar, and what can be wrong with life?

So, yeah, Melbourne is my kind of city.

Not much going on for the rest of the evening. Laurence is downstairs watching Ned Kelley with other hostellers. Laurence cooked us hamburgers. I've been reading, writing, and hoping to play a bit more guitar.

Occasionally I look over my drawings. Flipping through the sketchpad is very relaxing. I think the drawings will be good Trip Mementos.

I've discovered a small room here, with a desk, two well-upholstered couches, and a small table. There is a small bookshelf with a variety of interesting books -- that's probably where I'll dump the Terry Pratchett book I finished. Nice home for them. And -- here's the important bit -- the door is labelled "Quiet Lounge." Backpackers being who they generally are -- various kinds of drunk college kids -- I'm sure nobody ever uses it. At the moment, Dominic has turned in early for to wake up early for work, Laurence is sitting in bed, silently re-examining his three-and-a-half month itinerary, so I sit in this private little room, typing away and listening to "Don't Think Twice, It's All Right" (Dylan) on my Sony headphones, and a nice day comes to a nice conclusion.

Not much on tap for tomorrow. Laurence and I are exploring the city separately, so tomorrow he's wandering all around (good to get out of each of each other's hair for a change), and I'm checking out the art gallery. Hopefully I can also get tickets for the Bell Shakespeare Company and for the Jay Farrar show.

Still a very very slight sore throat. Stupid gums still bleeding in places. Maybe I need a new toothbrush. Hopefully none of this will get any worse.

may 17

Pretty good day so far, but it's going by too quickly. Had a moment of shock looking at the watch attached to my backpack, and seeing that it was suddenly 3:30pm.

The morning I got up ahead of Laurence (in spite of falling asleep a couple of hours after him -- I think it's just a personal oddity that I can't ever get much sleep) and took a shower. I finished that up as he got started. I ate breakfast and checked the internet, and came back when he was finishing up the shower. I went out and ran errands, buying some soap for myself (I left mine in the mountains), getting a public-transport pass for the week, and getting some more stamps. (Two more postcards went out today.)

I went to the web again and submitted some top five entries. Then I went along a little guided tour of the city that the hostel put on.

It was pretty much useless, familiarizing me with stuff I had already seen. What little the conscripted reception-worker-cum-tour-guide had to say, I couldn't hear. Laurence & I had Greek food after that, and parted ways after that.

Melbourne is still very nice. The guided tour sort of went orthogonal to yesterday's walk, and I saw many of the indoor shopping arcades, and little alleys filled with street cafes. I would have taken more photos, but I never really want to take out a camera in all the crowds.

Now I'm stuck at an odd time of day. I could go downtown, but everything's tired, and I wouldn't have the chance to see anything properly. I've got to have a run at using the trams properly though.

So I went ahead and went downtown, this time via the trams (which went fine -- I validated my 'weekly MetCard' and everything). I moseyed over to the Rialto Tower, and had a look at the city from very high up. I sent a postcard to Thomas from there.

The Tower was pretty anticlimactic -- really high views of the city don't do much for me, I find. I looked around and around for the half-price ticket center, but no luck. I imagine I'll have to make phone calls tomorrow & try and get seats for the Bell Shakespeare show and the Jay Farrar show.

Tomorrow should be fun. I imagine I'll see the National Gallery and have another go at the Botanical Gardens. Maybe the Shrine of Remembrance, too. Maybe go down Swan Street, if the Jay-Farrar-venue box office is down that way. Lots to do.

The day ended kind of boringly. I took a nap; Laurence bought groceries; Laurence & Dominic cooked dinner while I went to the grocery.

Dominic had me play a song for him, so I played "Drunken Chorus" by the Trashcan Sinatras. I got lost as hell in the intro, and there were a few barely-perceptible flubs in the chord progressions, but once I got going I played the tune pretty damn well if I say so myself. Dominic seemed to like it a lot, and particularly liked my voice; very flattering, since he's a rather successful musician himself (his band has been courted by Universal for a while, and played some really big gigs in Hamburg).

Now I'm in the 3rd floor Quiet Lounge, because Dominic has to go to sleep early, in order to get up early, in order to get to work on time. Not much left tonight: try to launder the mustard stains out of my clothes (hemorrhaging money left & right); do the online stuff in the early American morning; read a little bit, write a little bit, follow the band.

Maybe I'll hear from Shel tomorrow; she thinks I'm coming to town on the 18th.

may 18

Another day of independent wandering through the city. I feel like I'm really getting things down -- I got up this morning, had a shower, ate breakfast, checked my email, and headed out as Laurence was waking up. I caught a tram downtown, and walked to the arts center. I bought myself a ticket for a preview show of the latest Bell Shakespeare Company production. I wandered over to the art gallery, and spent a full four hours taking it all in. I finally gave up when my legs got tired.

Needless to say, it's a great, great museum. They do a wonderful job of putting brief, useful descriptions of works beside the placards that list title and artist. While I was surprised to see but a single Monet at the Art Gallery of New South Wales, the National Gallery of Victoria has an embarrassment of riches. Specifically, their print and drawing gallery, devoted this month to graphic arts in France in the 19th century, opened with a famous Toulouse-Lautrec poster that my Mom has a copy of hanging near the dining table, and was amazing throughout. The modern galleries had a variety of playful works, including a wire sculpture set in front of a bar-code-like set of vertical lines -- as you walked past it, the wires moiréd like hell, almost enough to make your brain hurt -- brilliant! There were also some more traditional modern standbys, including a brilliant Rothko (I sat there for many minutes, with a goofy grin on my face; some intellectual part of my brain coolly noted that I was staring at two red splotches), a Calder mobile, and several Henry Moore sculptures.

There was an entire Rembrandt room. There were pieces I'd never heard of by artists I'd never heard of that nearly made me laugh out loud. There was an excellent collection of furniture -- I was pleased that they had a Danish swan chair. Strange to have grown up with furniture that keeps cropping up in museums. The Impressionist room was excellent -- sure, it's eclipsed by the Met, the Louvre, the d'Orsay, and the surprisingly wonderful Impressionist room at the mfa in Boston, but it's still nothing to sneeze at. In particular, a Cezanne with a title like "Uphill Landscape" or something like that (have to look it up on the internet) had me sitting and staring joyfully for minutes on end.

While walking through the modern galleries, I realized how grateful I am for No Shame Theatre. Without that, I'm sure I wouldn't appreciate the audacity and playfulness of performance art, and modern art (including painting) in particular.

This has inspired me to have another go at getting better at drawing again. In the "Asian Study Gallery," I crouched down and started sketching a sculpture of a dragon's head. This got me in trouble. I was very apologetic to the guard, who was quite friendly about the whole 'stop that right now!' thing.

But like I said, that occupied four hours, and afterwards I came back here to the hostel, and more specifically to the "Quiet Lounge." Did I mention that I love the Quiet Lounge? Reminds me of when I was in college at Sid Rich -- I ended up planted on the 7th-floor balcony half the time, reading and writing. I never change. :)

The weather was awful, rainy, and gray in the morning. Now the sun has come out. I might go to the rooftop, and do a sketch of the Melbourne skyline. Nice to fill up the sketchpad.

All in all, it's a good day so far. Got the Bell Shakespeare thing squared away. Took care of the gallery. Didn't have to answer to anybody. And even when Melbourne was gray and splattering rain, it felt cozy and comfortable.

So now we'll see how the rest of the day goes.

Hmm. It's a little after six right now, and I find myself at a bit of a loss for what to do. Evidently there's some sort of comedy on at 7:30pm, free to the hostellers. I hope it's improv; I would like to see some improv while I'm in town.

I got a few more things going, too. I looked on-line, and found a contact for a group of swing dancers here in Melbourne -- I sent off an email asking what there was to do around here. The Melbourne Symphony is performing a guitar concerto on Friday that I may want to go see. And I found out a little more info about the Jay Farrar show -- perhaps I will get the tickets tomorrow.

They had a wine & cheese 'meet & greet' at 6pm. I tried going down. Big crowd of people. I mentally noted that I don't like wine, and tend not to eat cheese (lots of fat that'll just go straight to my cardiovascular system), and really don't like people particularly, so I went back upstairs.

I might go out to the comedy thing tonight -- but it's stand-up. It's amateur stand-up. Surely I can do something -- *anything* -- besides watching amateur stand-up.

Still, I suppose I can go to the stand-up thing, endure the stand-up thing, and bail early from the stand-up thing if the stand-up thing is as loathsome and pathetic as the stand-up thing is probably destined to be, no?

And then tomorrow I will continue my efforts to get part of Thursday night and, yes, Friday night (there's a guitar concerto I want to go & hear) squared away. Certainly don't want *this* imbroglio happening again.

Ah well. It will be what it be. More interesting than staying at home, in any case.

Right, ok: it sucked. There were about twelve of us. Eleven guys, one girlfriend of one of the guys. So, the two incongruously pretty receptionists let this gaggle of dorky men off to the comedy club.

Anyway, we get to the club; the two receptionist girls dart back to the hostel, leaving girl-shaped clouds of smoke and girl-shaped holes in the wall. The rest of the group of guys starts milling together in chunks of twos and threes, while I pull out yet another Terry Pratchett novel to read.

The comedians try really hard. The crowd is dead, though, and even I can critique the comedians' style and delivery. In fact, as I watched it, the thought occurred to me: "I could do this." Yes, but I have no desire to. "Yes, but you *could* do this. You know how to come up with jokes; you can tell them decently." Yes, true, I'll occasionally get into some kind of 'stand-up mode' in conversation and spin out really elaborate jokes... but no. No need for the laughter of a crowd of strangers. No desire to put up with heckling drunks.

Still, I might try putting more comedy-routine-style writing in my diary entries sometime.

But, the show: the show went on and on. I laughed supportively whenever I could (if you've been on stage, you feel like hell for anybody dying on stage), but the rest of the crowd stayed pretty dead. It was fun to stop by a comedy club -- glittery curtains, cheesy proscenium of light bulbs, mic stand, and all -- but the show just wasn't more worthwhile than staying home at the hostel.

So, write this evening up as a waste. I'm going to go check the internet. Again.

may 19

I'm sitting in an Italian corner cafe/restaurant, where some thump thump thump music is playing, but it's a syncopated, groovy thump thump thump that they play in places that try to be trendy and elegant. There's the clatter of dishes, nicked tables and chairs, chatter at the tables around me, and a floral shop next door with a big floral weathervane out front. The front doorway is covered with long, multicolored plastic strips, as seems to be the custom in most of Australia.

I've walked from the Central Business District out to the neighborhood of Fitzroy, down Brunswick Street, which feels like a bit of Austin, near the University, that's been miraculously transported to the Antipodes. Every other shop is a quirky little cafe, or hair salon, or shop that sells trendy and ironic clothing. The architecture varies as much as the nationality of the cuisine.

It's great to get out to a little neighborhood like this. One gets away from the men and women in sharp, dark business suits. Here's a guy in a mohawk. Here's a tall, attractive girl in jeans that are really just large shreds of jeans attached to flesh-colored tights. Parents with little errant children. An old woman in a midwestern-style cap with ear flaps. It feels more normal here.

I stopped by the Grub Street Booksellers and picked up a gift for Katherine. I still have to buy the rest of the swag.

In any case, I guess I'll tram back to the central business district, take one or two of the walks recommended in the brochure, and then maybe call up Laurence & see what he's doing for dinner. Then at 7:30pm, the theatre show. So things look pretty good today.

As usual, I finished less than I meant to finish. I had a great meal at the cafe -- mung-bean dahl with bits of pumpkin, served over white fluffy rice. As I was leaving I saw a girl in a "Louisville Ford" T-shirt -- an Aussie who probably had no idea where Louisville was. In another version of life, I would have said "Hullo, that's the town I'm from," but in this one, I just thought it as I paid for my food.

Afterwards I went down the street a bit and bought an apple-berry crumble from a charming, attractive, and be-nose-ringed bistro-checkout girl and took the tram back to the city.

From there I walked to another suburb, Richmond, to check out the venue where Jay Farrar is playing. Found it; found out he doesn't play until 11:15pm. Dunno if I'll bother going. maybe I'll see what I'm up to then, and think about buying a ticket at the door -- for all I know, I might be swing dancing that evening.

Richmond seemed like another fun, vibrant little suburb, much like Fitzroy (where Brunswick Street is). I poked around a bit after seeing the venue (the "Corner Hotel" -- see http://www.cornerhotel.com), bought a jam donut from a little bakery, and took the tram back to town.

Once I got back, there was no way I was up for a walk. I hung out at Federation Square, and took in the Ian Potter Centre, which is the National Gallery of Victoria's building for Aboriginal and Australian art. I took it at a walking pace; I was too tired to really concentrate.

Then, I took the tram back here, to rest up a bit and maybe grab dinner before heading out to the Arts Centre.

The Powers That Be left little "Please keep the room tidy" notes around the room, so I've tried to sort my stuff out a little.

Anyway, I should sort out dinner in the next half-hour or so. Gotta eat before going out into the wilderness again.

Beatrice has just been told that the love of her life, Florino, has died not ten days before. She's stricken. She falls to her knees. "Florino... gone?" she says weakly. The tears come, and now, Beatrice, who has been so strong throughout, and such a perfect dissembler, hides nothing. "He was my life," she says firmly. "Now," she asks, in a tone something like bitter laughter, "What use is living?"

Silence. Pin-drop silence.

She has the audience eating out of her hand.

A short beat.

Then, "Bwwaahaaaaahaahaaaahh...." One of those big, heaving, embarrassing, messy sobs. I say "aw," empathetically. Elsewhere there are titters.

Another short beat.

"Bwwahahahahahhaaaaaaaa..." It goes on. And on. Pantalone checks his watch. Truffaldino shrugs. Now I can't help laughing.

"BwwwaahAAAAhahaa-guuuuh (a big intake of breath, a pause) bwa-haaaa-haa-waaaaahh!!!!" Truffaldo nods, irritated, but feigning sympathy. "Buddiwwwuviimanahaheedawahbahbahnah...."

In a just world, trying to say something while you're crying uncontrollably, would not be funny. In reality-land, everyone in the audience is rolling with laughter.

Truffaldo casually hands her a bra to blow her nose on (never mind why he has the bra handy).

"BWWAAA-HAAA-HAA <honk> BWAA-HAA-WAAAAGH!!!!"

It's absolutely perfect.

So this was part of the Bell Shakespeare Company's performance of The Servant of Two Masters, an old commedia dell'arte piece by Carlo Goldoni, back in the day. And the sense I got from it, more than anything else, was the joy of highly trained Shakespearean professionals getting to go completely off the rails.

To explain: *everyone* who plays Shakespeare, especially the tragedies (or even the romances) has this urge -- something of a death wish -- to go bounding off so far into melodrama that the whole thing becomes unbearably funny. Example: you're having a serious death scene, but there's a little voice inside your head telling you to claw your chest, fumble *all* around the room, pratfall to the ground, and make a little "kkkhhhahhhh" sound from the back of your throat. And then stick your tongue out.

Shakespeare rehearsals include much of this. Shakespeare tech rehearsals, with their stops and starts while people in black fiddle with faders and flats, even more so.

This show, like all good commedia, was so far over the top that it was somewhere in geosynchronous orbit. The fourth wall was broken from the get-go. Slapstick comedy approached the complexity of Jackie Chan fight scenes. The lovers' embrace towards the end of the piece was stopped just shy of oral s<tweeeeet> -- yes, using a big whistle. To stop the lovers, not to -- oh, never mind.

There were some drawbacks. The main problem I see with commedia is that it's always played for Serious Theatre Wonks (Who Spell It With A "-re," Thank You Very Much), who want to Appreciate the work. But really, the form is designed for audiences who want to see 1. a beer in front of them, and 2. they haven't really thought much about #2 yet. So we have these people silently sitting, and politely clapping, when commedia demands that an audience be a little more raucous and *involved.*

There were some Aussie jokes that whistled safely over my head, but only a few. And the players did seem to strain a bit to get a response out of the dead crowd. On balance, though, I had a great time, and the best praise I can give it is that it made me miss acting something awful.

It's been a long, long time since I've missed acting.

So now I'm settled in for another night of nothing. Dominic has turned in early for work, so I'll check email and read a bit more and call it a night.

Not much for tomorrow. Might take a couple of those long-threatened walks downtown, and have a long-threatened second trip to the Botanical Gardens. Kind of a lame way to spend my last day in Melbourne (Friday is the day trip to the Great Ocean Road), but l don't mind. The last thing I did before leaving Boston was go on a long walk through the city -- it just seems like a proper way to say goodbye.

That night I hope to catch up with some swing dancing scheduled to take place downtown. Wonder if I can borrow some sneakers from Laurence....

may 20

So this is my last proper day in Melbourne, and my last day left to my own devices in Australia. I'm sitting in the "Domain" section of the public gardens, the section just north of the proper Botanical Gardens. It's mostly cloudy, so the day keeps flip-flopping between bright and sunny and vaguely overcast.

I tried to slink out myself to my Big Walk Around Melbourne without waking Laurence. Unfortunately, I realized at the last minute that I finished my Terry Pratchett book last night (during intermission of the theatre show) so I needed a replacement. I unzipped a suitcase compartment to get my Edith Wharton book. Not there. Shit. I unlocked the locker, reached in the duffel for the book. Not there. Shit. I shine my LED flashlight in the bag, find it, close the locker, lock it, ready to go.

LAURENCE: Peter?
PETER: [wincing] Mmm?
LAURENCE: You up for barbecue tonight?
PETER: Yeh. Sure.

Anyway, I'll keep walking, on my little valedictory tour of the city. I might go dancing tonight. We'll see.

Now I'm sitting close to the middle of town, in a nondescript little cafe. I got thoroughly lost in the Botanical Gardens (the coup de grace was when I found some high ground and suddenly the central business district was rising up over the horizon in the exact place where I thought it wouldn't be) and made it to Federation Square around noon. I tried doing the walk from the brochure entitled 'The Cosmopolitan,' but found myself going through areas I'd seen before; I've decided to settle down for a bit of food.

Most of the walk was through the financial zone. I felt really weird, walking among the Suits, with my sandals, sunglasses, and big foofy hair. (There's something about the ambient conditions of Melbourne that makes every day a Bad Hair Day.)

So I sit and I wait for my food. I may go see if I can get half-price tickets for The Mikado.

I wandered around the city for a while longer, but there really wasn't much point. I'd pretty much seen everything, and my legs were tired, and soon I was having serious thoughts about going back to the hostel and having a nap. So that's what I did.

Then I called Qantas to sort out what time I should show up to the airport.

I was on hold for a long time. Then the friendly woman at Qantas told me there was no way I would make my connection through Sydney.

So now it looks like I'm paying 100$A in change fees and 100$A on a hotel bill, and leaving on Friday night instead of Saturday morning.

The worst of it is, I talked to the Qantas people about booking this; they mentioned nothing about any problems getting through Sydney.

Oh well. It's not that much money, in the grand scheme of things.

The day ended passably. I wandered off to the central business district and went to the local equivalent of the 'Tuesday night practice dance.'

I wallflowered a lot, feeling kind of useless, but watching the locals dance and taking mental notes. They know a fair amount of vocabulary, but they seem to have some connection issues. Then again, maybe those were just the beginners, who knows; they were pretty talented across the board, IMHO.

I danced a few times. The tempi skewed fast, and those I skipped. On other ones, the song changed, people changed partners, and I was still firmly rooted to the wall. When I did dance, I danced like ass. One of the more pleasant follows smiled in a perfectly friendly way as I nearly crashed her into every other couple in the vicinity. (Come to think of it, she was one of the more connected follows I danced with.) I'm sure it was a combination of factors: I was borrowing Laurence's sneakers, which hurt after a while; I was tired and unhappy; the follows were a bit different than I'm used to; there are limits to my terpsichorean talents.

Okay, the Foundations' "Build Me Up Buttercup" just came on the mp3 player. Nobody can feel too bad about anything while listening to that.

But anyway (as my head bops back and forth of its own accord) I had a pretty good time, even though I felt diffident, clumsy, and homesick. It was frankly just cool to sit and think "I'm at a dance venue in Melbourne. How fucked-up is that?"

An amusing exchange:
MICHELLE: I lived in Jacksonville, Florida for a while.
PETER: Cool!
MICHELLE: Well --
PETER: Hold on a second. Jacksonville isn't cool...

And so, Peter learns a valuable lesson about thinking *before* talking.

Ah well. Tomorrow won't be too complicated. Drive out to the Great Ocean Road. Snap photos. Go to airport; go to Sydney; go to hotel.

may 21

All my stuff is in my suitcases, and I'm pretty much ready to go. A drive on the Great Ocean Road today, then I get on the plane to Sydney, then I stay a night there, then it's off to Austin.

So really, from here on out, I'm this is an extended, roundabout trip from the Queensberry YHA to my apartment, that will take something on the order of forty-eight hours.

Stopped at a gas station -- we're on the Ocean Road now, but still not really seeing the ocean. Evidently the start of the coastal route is sort of nondescript. We went through Geelong, which wasn't much to see. Laurence spun round and round the radio dial, finding a predictable mix of shallow divas singing r&b-lite, until finally giving up and switching to a Fatboy Slim CD.

Our first stop along the Great Ocean Road, at one of the slow-vehicle turnoffs. I took a few quick snaps; Laurence is busy switching expensive lenses and finding vantage points from atop the car. Me, I like the relaxing sound of the waves.

Saw the twelve apostles (a group of rock formations off the coast outside of Port Campbell). Now we're stopping periodically for sunset photos. Off to the airport now.

[PETER marches along in the big line of people boarding the flight to Sydney; he reaches the FLIGHT ATTENDANT who's taking tickets.]

PETER [handing the ticket to the FA]: How long's the flight?
FA: [beat] How long is the plane?
PETER: Oh-kay, sure.
FA: How long is the flight?
PETER: Yes.
FA: The flight's about an hour. I don't know how long the plane is.
PETER: Um. Thanks.

Yes, I'm ready to go home. Ready to get back to an ambient accent where I actually understand other people properly and they understand me.

So, before I go into any long-winded nonsense about What the Trip Means, I feel like brain-dumping some random bits that I wouldn't manage to write down otherwise.

Last night one of the follows asked me, "How is Melbourne different from Austin?" To free-associate for a bit: The buildings are splattered across the landscape more disparately. I've never seen wren-like crowds of businesspeople in business suits -- and if I did, such overdressed folk would surely be mocked by more sensible locals. The center of town is not so gruff and busy and imposing as the center of Melbourne. The suburbs are far more sterile- and bland-feeling than the old and lively suburbs of Melbourne. South Austin has no Melburnian equivalent, but I don't know if any city has a South Austin except for Austin. Austin has no good art galleries. It is mostly unwalkable.

Can I make any larger statements here? I think there is a way to summarize it. Say that Sydney and Melbourne are two points on a graph. Extrapolate past Melbourne a ways, and you'll wind up in the vicinity of Austin. It's even smaller, and even more casual, and its burgeoning artistic scene is even more pervasive.

And the swing scene is huge.

God, I'm homesick.

I wish I could give a better description of the swing venue from last night. it was halfway down McKillop Street, one of the little covered alleyways that crisscross the blocks in the central business district. there was a little black sandwichboard sign out front with (I think) a paper that said "Swing Patrol" and some more details.

There was a long, black stairway with several 90-degree kinks, and you could hear the faint, fast, 40's music as you ascended. You got into the room, and you saw the small bar in front of you, and a little table of four to your left, and an empty couch to your right. The room was lit with a few colored lights, a spangly disco ball, an adjacent, smaller spangly disco ball, and a blacklight that made all white cotton glow in an unearthly way. There are couches lining the walls. There is a stall on one end where the DJ is. The floor is about the same size as Buffalo Billiards (?), allowing for maybe 8 or 9 couples on the floor, max.

The crowd skews a bit older than the Austin crowd (which may have to do with the huge freakin' university in Austin). The dancers are much more comfortable with shag, charleston, and balboa than Austin dancers are.

They are fiercely proud of their scene. Most of them, as it turns out, live in Fitzroy, where Brunswick Street is. They seemed a bit puzzled by the fact that I only thought of checking on swing dancing on arriving in Melbourne, instead of introducing myself on yehoodi well in advance of my trip. Water was $3, which I first misinterpreted as "free" (not "three").

Ah. Happily ensconced at the Sydney airport hotel. I took a shower, spent all my spare change on a Snickers, updated all the internet stuff, and figured out the local access number for Laurence's phone card (so: another call to Katherine).

Now I'm gearing up for a noble attempt at staying up all night -- so that I have some hope of success at sleeping on the plane when it's broad daylight outside.

More brain dumps:

may 22

Now I'm here at the Sydney airport again; back to waiting to go home. I'm going to check everything but the backpack. Then it will be a long way back home.

The airport is pretty standard stuff. I finally (after asking at the customer service desk and meandering for entirely too long) found the check-in gates for Qantas departures to the United States, and now I'm waiting in a row of plain airport-lobby chairs under the usual fluorescent lights, waiting for the check-in stations to open up. It's 6:08am (jesus), and the flight isn't until 8:10am, so: no reason to worry. Yet.

Now I'm in the gate area for the flight to LA, about to fly off into the sunset. I'll come back in a bit and see if I have any more bits and pieces to write down.

Now I'm in New Zealand, sitting at the airport, waiting to board for LA. New Zealand looks beautiful from the air and from the airport.

I think Melbourne was pretty easily the best part of the trip. The Servant of Two Masters was hilarious, the swing dancing was fun, the Botanical Gardens were gorgeous, and it's very good to know that Brunswick street exists, ceramic couch and all.

Ah, what tedium. So I slept three hours at the hotel last night, and now I've been travelling for about eighteen hours, and I have yet to get a wink of sleep anywhere. I've had some near misses, floating towards sleep and then some body part slips out of position, or some baby starts crying, and then I'm startled out of it.

I've watched all the movies that are available, except for Catch That Kid, which I refuse to watch. Okay, maybe I can watch Cold Mountain -- but the movie does not appeal to me. I watched The Cooler , and it was okay. I'd call it a 'solid three-star flick' that isn't that ambitious, but does what it sets out to do. Too many clichés, too many obvious/blatant pulls on the heartstrings for it to be good, but still a well-crafted little movie.


I watched Paycheck. One reviewer described Paycheck with something like: "If you liked Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind , but wished that it had more explosions, then this is the film for you!" Oh, it was so bad. And it was the worst kind of badness -- it's the bad that drags good people, like Uma Thurman and Paul Giamatti and Don Cheadle and Aaron Eckhardt and hell, even Phillip K. Dick himself -- into a film that's no more than, well, a paycheck. (I know, obvious, but had to be said.)

There were so many laughable clichés -- the racial stereotypes (Who steals the protagonist's diamond ring? Why, a Mexican, of course!), the people who can't shoot, the hero engineer who just happens to be an excellent martial artist.

And it was so grating to see Paycheck retread the same ground as Minority Report and Eternal Sunshine so... badly. I can't pick a more specific adverb. Its incompetence includes too many forms of badness. They range from misspellings (there's a newspaper line with an errant apostrophe in the word "its") to blatant overwriting. (This is a big spoiler for the end of Eternal Sunshine , so

spoiler


space


here


Compare...

UMA: Even if I knew that things wouldn't work out for us, I would still do it. I wouldn't trade these three years for anything. And after all, it's our experiences that make us who we are! And often the *best* experiences are the mistakes! (&c.)

... to the last lines from Eternal Sunshine:

KATE WINSLET: But if we get together, won't all this bad stuff happen all over again?
JIM CARREY: [beat; shrug] Okay.

The latter, in being so much less on the nose, in not being explicit about philosophical implications, encompasses much more than the former. Plus it actually sounds like real people talking. Plus it's an exchange between better-realized characters who are making a decision with stakes that we really care about.

The bottom line is, I was almost in tears at the end of Eternal Sunshine for these sorts of reasons, and that's why that particular moment in Paycheck stood out for being craptacular by comparison.

Oh, but what else, what else... a car chase that only needed occasional freeze frames for voiceovers from Waylon Jennings. Loud product placement (BMW motorcycles are *cool* , kids!). Explosions! Explosions! Explosions! One car crash sent a tire spinning out across the street. It came to a stop. I was seriously entertaining a hope that the tire would explode. Yes, John Woo, we've seen the two-gun Mexican Standoff before. And the slow-motion dove. Thank you.

I dunno. Ordinarily I just let the crappy movies slide without comment into well-deserved oblivion, but this was such a waste of good actors who could have been doing better things that it sticks in my proverbial craw.

I also saw The Big Bounce , largely because Sarah Foster looked cute and I didn't want to watch Cold Mountain. I never caught The Big Bounce straight through from beginning to end, instead seeing Memento -like chunks of the film that slowly came together as I filled in the blanks. Light, entertaining Elmore Leonard. Looks like Owen Wilson got a lot of ad-libs in, or just had really good, unforced dialog written for him.

JACK: [tosses aside domino] Wait a second, this is *nothing* like Mah Jongg.
WALTER: You play Mah Jongg?
JACK: Nah.

I love dialog like that. It's so random you feel like it could never happen in a film, so it lends the easygoing conversation (does Owen Wilson have any other type of conversations?) a very natural feel.

Other than that? Sarah Foster was indeed cute and spent most of the movie in various states of half-dressedness. I think Roger Ebert said this about the plot: "It has a plot, and I could tell you about it, but that would just leave you banging your newspaper against your head while you said, 'Why, why do I need to know this?!'" So, yeah, standard tricksy-turvy Elmore-Leonard heist plot. Lots of quirky characters (including Charlie Sheen sporting an ill-advised moustache) and pretty Hawaiian locations.

Hmm. Forty-nine minutes to L. A., and still not a lick of sleep. I guess the sleep on the flight over will stand as the only sleep I get on a plane for some time to come, possibly ever. Then in L. A. -- jeez, a four-hour layover, and somewhere in that mess I have to clear customs and immigration. Fun.

Ugg. Back in America.

[PETER approaches gate 48A, which is staffed by a ticket AGENT -- female, middle-aged, bored-looking]

PETER: I think the last guy you talked to may have answered my question.
AGENT: What's your question?
PETER: I have a ticket for the 11:30 to Austin, and was wondering if I could get the earlier fli --
AGENT: Show me your ticket.
PETER: [handing it over] Here it is. And what you said to him about luggage is --
AGENT: That gentleman's question has nothing to do with you --
PETER: Oh-kay....
AGENT: Not unless your destination is Chicago Midway.
PETER: Well, that would be an exciting change of plan.
AGENT: No. You've already checked your bags on the 11:30 when you cleared customs.
PETER: Yeah, I figured it would be a 'luggage and passenger have to stay together' issue, like with the last guy --
AGENT: That gentleman had a completely different issue than yours.
PETER: Okay.
AGENT: Always check for an earlier flight before you check bags. Just in general.
PETER: [exiting] Okay, thanks!

Ah yes, the first gentle sirocco of American bureaucracy.

The gate area is packed, and I'm at the least-packed corner. Somewhere to my left, an Asian couple sits silently. Somewhere to my right, a dazzlingly attractive brunette with a battered guitar case chats on her cell phone, excitedly, to somebody about 'her video.'

So: about three hours waiting for the flight home, about three hours *on* the flight home, and then about an hour getting from the airport to home sweet home.

Ah. Survived the LA layover. Got a small Dr Pepper to caffeinate myself through it. Now I'm on the plane back home to Austin. Hallelujah!

And now I'm home. Thanks for reading!

Footnotes