Wanderlust Heaven!

And on to Sydney, my final stop in Oz.  I worked in Sydney in 2000-01 and have very fond memories of the city and its people.  The projects I worked on were my all-time favorites, I had a great group of clients there, several of whom are now good friends, and the city itself just sparkles.  This visit was to be short – just 2 days, really – and I stayed with my ex-colleague George Crocker and his family.  George is running a food products business near Sydney and seems to be very happy about living in Sydney.  I can’t blame him.  I picked a terrible time to visit – George and family had just moved houses a few days before I arrived (but somehow their new house looked perfect) and then were leaving on holidays the very day I was leaving Sydney.  So they had a lot on, but it all worked out fine. 

As I left the airport and headed into the city I noticed 2 Krispy Kreme shops, and was a bit surprised that this chain was popping up in Oz.  It was a huge thing in the US 5-6 years ago…before the Atkins diet craze…which is now old news.  So I wondered about Krispy Kreme’s infiltration of Oz and whether it would have a rollercoaster ride a la the US experience. 

I spent most of the daytime each day walking around my old haunts – Darling Harbour, where I once lived, the Rocks area which has many sights (and pubs), Manly Beach (named because one of the early British administrators thought that the local Aboriginal men looked toned, confident, and ‘manly’) and downtown.  I also took some ferries across the harbour and soaked up the sunshine.  Sydney gets about 330 days of sun a year and has nearly perfect weather, similar to L.A.  I was nostalgic about my time in Sydney years ago – my living conditions were good, the work was busy but enjoyable, and I was able to catch the 2000 Olympics.  Everything had come together very nicely for me and I recalled it warmly. 

One might I went out for drinks and dinner with my friend Bernie, whom I met through my old buddy Iain.  It was good catching up with Bernie – he’s a self-assured, sharp fellow and good fun.  We met at the excellent ECQ Bar at the Quay Grand Hotel – which overlooks Circular Quay and the Harbour Bridge.  There aren’t many finer views you can have with a beer in your hand – although the 36^th-floor Horizons Bar in the Shangri-La Hotel across the way is very close competition.  We later on moved over to a nice Japanese restaurant for a real feast – I hadn’t had Japanese food for some time and it hit the spot.  Bernie and I spent a fair bit of time discussing business and real estate, and I want to continue this dialogue with him in coming months as there may be something we can join forces on.   

The next night – my last night in Sydney/Australia and also the eve of my 39^th birthday – I went out with an ex-client and good friend whom I hadn’t seen in a couple of years.  I’ve always admired this fellow’s sense of irreverence – when I was working for him he never let me get too serious, and he taught me a few critical lessons about enjoying the ride.  We wound up in the city at several ‘mature entertainment’ places and caught up on life, business, and the other key stuff.  He recently left his long-time employer (and my ex-client) and took a break…he’s now focusing on some real estate projects and perhaps some independent consulting as well.  Given my interest in Australia and Aussie real estate, he had some helpful counsel, and there may just be some ways for he and I to work together in the near future.  I’m trying to avoid doing much serious thinking about life after my trip, and business opportunities I should focus on – but I also shouldn’t micro-manage my thought patterns and conversations and if that’s what comes up, then I’ll run with it.  My friend also gave me some useful insights on families and being proactive about letting those whom you love know it.  I’m not particularly skillful in that area so will take his advice to heart starting now.

Our evening went quite long – and we had some fine views.  I didn’t get home till about 3:30 a.m., and had to get up 3 hours later to say goodbye to George and his family (wife and daughter were flying to Taiwan that morning), and then head to the airport myself.  As expected, my 39^th birthday didn’t come in gently, and in fact as I sit here on a flight to Manila tapping out this posting, my head still hurts a bit.  I’m sure we would have been out late no matter what…but in any event it was a great way to usher in my birthday and I think it’s one I’ll long remember.  The next day, my friend couldn’t remember where he stashed his car…hopefully he’s figured it out by now!

So the Aussie portion of my journey is now over.  I had a fine month and will miss Oz.  I’m certainly excited about next destinations, right now the Philippines – and per my point in an earlier posting, it’s hard to feel sad when you’re not returning to your cubicle/desk.  But Oz does have a way of grabbing you and even changing you.  Whenever I’m there I’m struck by the sense of ‘mateship’ (even if it may be diminishing) and the sunny nature of the people.  And while real estate and cars are as big an obsession as they are in the States or elsewhere, I do feel that Australians are generally good at valuing experiences and mood over possessions.  I came to realize that years ago while living in Sydney, and also realized that this is one of my core values.  I don’t have many possessions, and generally feel that by owning things you wind up having to take care of them, fix them up, etc.  It really detracts from thinking time and getting out there in the world.  That’s my view, anyway, and when I’m in Oz I feel a certain connection with the overall vibe.  So perhaps I’ll be back there soon, in some capacity.  Stay tuned.

There’s more about Byron Bay than can be said in a blog of infinite length. I won’t even attempt to be comprehensive about my stay in this lovely little spot – but be forewarned that my filtering skills are still pretty weak and this may be a long read…

I first visited Byron about 6 years ago, when I spent the Xmas holidays there with my friend Iain and his friend Bernie. I had never heard of the town before, despite working in Sydney for some time earlier that year. To make a long story short, I had a fun holiday in Byron and have returned 3-4 times over the years. I’ve never seen a place that brings together so seamlessly the well-heeled (Paul Hogan from Crocodile Dundee has/had a home there) and those who can’t afford heels of any sort. It’s both a hippy hangout and an Australian Riviera, and you’re as likely to see a ‘feral’ individual in town from the wooden hinterlands to pick up some basic necessities as you are a Sydneysider tooling around in a Benz. Byron’s popularity is pretty much universal, at least throughout Oz – which explains why real estate prices have skyrocketed and the town’s having a hard time maintaining that old time feeling.

I got into town on a Thursday evening and dropped my pack off at my grotty hostel. This place was particularly unpleasant – paper-thin walls, stained carpets, and filthy bathrooms. Despite my pledge to ‘suck it to the base’ and thrive in any sort of conditions, I felt compelled to switch hostels the next day, and found a much better place. I guess I’m just a bourgeois Jewish kid at the end of the day…

That Thursday night I walked around town, noted the changes that had taken place, and ducked into a few pubs to wet my whistle. One of the livelier places is the Great Northern Hotel, which (as I noted in an earlier posting) is more of a pub than a ‘hotel,’ and as unpretentious as they come. As I stood at the bar nursing a beer, a group of revelers walked in, with one of them wearing a pink pig outfit. I wasn’t sure what they were celebrating, and after an hour of drinking with them I still couldn’t make it out – but they were a joyful group and the fellow in the pig suit only stopped dancing around to sip his beer every now and then. Most of the customers in the pub didn’t look twice at the ‘pig’ – because things like this seem to happen regularly in Byron.

I moved on soon after that, and ended up having a phone call with my brother-in-law Dave, who’s always been good about getting me on the phone despite massive distances and time differences. As I was speaking with Dave I noticed that a guy who was staying at my hostel was lying passed-out drunk against a parked car next to another pub. I recalled seeing him pounding beers at the hostel’s bar quite early in the evening, and admiring his stamina. I planned to give him a hand once I got off the phone with Dave. But as soon as we finished up, it started to pour and I ran inside to wait it out. Once the rain stopped and I emerged, the drunk guy was gone – I imagine the rain woke him up, or perhaps he simply melted away. I never saw him in my ensuing days in Byron. I suppose the rain was probably good for him, and it was certainly good for Oz, which struggles with water supply and could use a year’s worth of rain.

Towards the end of the evening I walked into The Beach Hotel. You guessed it, another pub, although this establishment is actually a real hotel as well, and a very nice one at that. But the pub is sprawling and perhaps the nerve center of Byron Bay. The outdoor tables look onto the beach and surf, there’s nightly live music, never a cover charge, and the mix of people is wondrous. People tend to stay there all day and all night, drinking, eating and socializing. As I was ordering a drink one afternoon a Hell’s Angels type asked the bartender where he could smoke. About 9 hours later, when I came back to the bar for round 2, the biker was still there. For all I know, he’s a wealthy entrepreneur in Sydney and likes to dress down and get hammered in Byron. Anyway, I have to say that The Beach Hotel is probably one of the better all-round bars I’ve seen – particularly on a sunny day or on a night when they’ve got a good band on. Australians may roll their eyes at this rating – perhaps it’s a cliché – or perhaps they’ve known this for many years and don’t want the place to get any more crowded. If you go to Byron, you’ll spend a few hours at this place, for sure. It’s very difficult not to have a good time there.

The only issue I had that night was when I ordered a margarita at The Beach Hotel – and was charged $14 for it. Given that my hostel was only $50, this felt rough – and the wrong way to go given that a Victoria Bitter draft was only $4. The margarita was very good, expertly mixed and all that, but believe me when I say that I sucked and ate every single ($3) ice cube in there!

My final stop that evening was in La La Land. This is a little dance place that has excellent DJs and attracts some funky types. Nice feeling to the place, primal beats coming through at high volume, everyone’s dancing, wearing some eye-popping outfits, and in their own groove. I’m glad it’s still around, it’s a nice way to finish off the night. And you really can’t argue with the name…La La Land. I love it.

My dive trip the next day was cancelled due to bad weather, and I didn’t schedule much else, preferring to sleep late, walk around, and chill. On Sunday I did succumb to the siren call of organized activities and went on ‘Jim’s Alternative Tours.’ This is a bus full of (mostly) backpackers which visits inland towns, most notably the tiny village of Nimbin. Nimbin is Oz’s Woodstock – there was a anti-war protest/Aquarius festival there in 1973, and from all accounts many people never left. I think that almost every single resident smokes pot, and that the majority also sell it. There’s a special little establishment called the ‘Hemp Embassy’ which is a lot like the hash bars of Amsterdam. This was seconded by two Dutch backpackers I was with – they seemed to know how to operate in these sorts of places and pretty soon we were best mates. Let’s just say that the bus ride home was interrupted often, either by munchy-breaks or by loud giggling. When I got back to Byron I went out for a bite (probably my 7th meal of that day), and a couple drinks, before I collapsed for the night. Good fun, as anticipated. The next day when I woke up and showered, I noticed that my little travel bottle of shampoo is the brand ‘Herbal Essences.’ How apt.

I also spent a bit of time in The Arts Factory, which is a backpackers lodge kluged together with a restaurant, pub, and second-run movie cinema. It’s a remarkable place…particularly when you find out that it was once a pig slaughterhouse. When I first visited Byron the restaurant was called ‘The Piggery’ and oddly enough, served only vegetarian fare. It seems they’ve given in, though – it’s now called Buddha Bar (boringly enough) and serves anything you’d like. I think that long-term residents of Byron really feel that the special quirkiness of ‘the old days’ is slowly vanishing under a commercial onslaught…and even I feel that way a bit, from my 4-5 visits over time.

A few other unrelated observations, in no particular order:

• Backpackers (and young people in general) seem heavier and bigger than they were 15-20 years ago – and I’m not talking just about myself. Is this an obvious statement? Probably so. I’m not sure why this might be – is it aggressive marketing of junk food? Natural growth from reducing (Western) disease and hunger? People having more discretionary income? There are certainly more options these days for filling your belly – better food (imagine trying to find a Thai place 20 years ago), 24-hour stores, etc. Even the crappiest hostels seem to have little restaurants and vending machines. When I traveled around Europe way back when, there were times when I couldn’t find anything to eat and just dealt with it. Now, it’s easy to lounge around stuffing cakes and sandwiches into your gullet.
• I’ve started dreaming again while on this trip. I’m not sure when I stopped having/remembering my dreams, but it seems a long while. I discussed this with my step-sister Amanda while in Boston, before the trip, and she told me she dreams and remembers her dreams pretty much every night. I thought that was cool…and wondered what was going on with me. Anyway, I’ve had nightly dreams lately and can recall a good portion of them. I think it’s probably a healthy thing and indicates my mind is being challenged and is “recharging” during the nighttime. I’ll let you know if I have any special dreams – PG-13 rated, natch. I should try to keep this blog ‘family friendly’ – of course that may include the Manson Family…
• Is there a single greatest human characteristic? Perhaps not, but it does strike me that perhaps the most valuable on a daily basis is the ability to compartmentalize. If you can’t do that, any medium-sized problem in any aspect of your life – love, health, finances, work, etc. – can overwhelm the whole deal. I like to think I’m good at compartmentalizing – perhaps a 7 on a 1-10 scale – but I’ve met people who are true masters…and it seems nothing really bothers them. When you factor in the lack of stress, wasted time, etc., these people have it pretty good.
• On the same topic: my other two candidates for ‘greatest characteristic’ are 1) wit and 2) grace. Wit is self-evident. As for grace, it’s perhaps best considered in its absence. I find nothing so disturbing as to watch/hear someone lose their cool. And I’ve spent a lot of time in airports, train stations, in tense business meetings, and so forth – all prime times for someone to lose it and go off. It’s OK to get angry about something you’re passionate about, and no one expects humans to be robots – but I find it deeply unpleasant to watch someone get unhinged in public. You wonder what’s the underlying driver, I suspect there are various frustrations at play which run deep. Perhaps people who fly off the handle regularly lack the ability to compartmentalize. Ah, it feels good to tie up that knot! And thanks for humoring my dime-store philosophies, dear readers.

Finally, a question for you: should I be posting some photos on the blog? Thus far I’ve stuck to the text, out of a sense of ‘purity’ and a greater sense of laziness. But if there is some demand for graphical accompaniment, well then I’ll stick some of my many photos on the blog, at least for the future postings. Drop me a comment – about this topic or any other.

I’m currently on a bus from Brisbane Airport to Byron Bay – one of the real meccas of hedonism in Oz.  Just passed through perhaps the most soulless part of the continent, though – the Gold Coast.  This is an entirely purpose-built resort – a monstrosity, really – which sprawls for miles and comprises the usual sprawling thingies:  chain hotels, chain restaurants, gaudy residential developments, miniature golf courses, water-slides, and car rental agencies.  One of the towns in the Gold Coast is wonderfully named ‘Surfers Paradise,’ but you’re apt to see many more Japanese families (wearing the latest fashions and looking ever so uncomfortable on the beach) than hardcore surfers.  Anyway, if you come to Oz don’t bother with the Gold Coast – there are so many more worthwhile places to visit – Byron Bay, for one.

I realized today that I’ve made a few strategic timing errors in the past week, and that’s because I’m too wedded to conventional timing.  Last Friday night in Darwin was one example.  I had a 4:15 a.m. bus to catch on Saturday, so Friday night was always going to be a bit of a tricky proposition; I did want to go out and have fun, but didn’t want to screw up the next couple days by getting zero sleep.  So I went out around 8 p.m., hit the sack around midnight, then got up at 3:30 a.m. and made the bus.  As I walked to the station, I noticed that the bars were still going strong and that the streets were far livelier than they were at midnight.  Better thinking would have had me sleeping till 10 or 11 p.m., getting up and going out hard, then getting the bus and catching some more sleep there and on the flight. 

Example #2:  the World Cup match between Oz and Brazil was Sunday night at 1:30 a.m. (thus, Monday a.m.).  Pretty important game for Oz, and emotions were running high.  While I’m not a true-blue soccer fan, I had some interest and wanted to be amongst those who were ‘barracking’ for the Socceroos.  ‘Barracking,’ by the way, means to be for a particular team.  In the States we say ‘root’ for a team, but in Oz ‘root’ has an entirely different (delightfully sexual, of course) meaning.  This time I went out a bit later – around 10:30 p.m., after a nice jog around Cairns city – which incidentally has superb winter weather, I can’t recall ever running in such perfect conditions.  Anyway…I met a few characters, drained a few cups, and had some trouble making it to 1:30 a.m., much less to 3 a.m. when the match was over (and Oz had lost).  I’m definitely getting old, that’s one thing, and in similar situations I need to keep odd hours and be a bit more modest about my capabilities.

The weather in the Far North of Queensland, as mentioned above, is mighty fine this time of year.  If Adam and Eve had weather like this, we would never have gone beyond the peremptory fig leaf.  I’ve never been up here in the winter, only in the summer, when it’s brutally warm and sometimes very wet and humid.  One fellow in Darwin said to me that during “The Wet” you can’t drag a comb through your hair without breaking a sweat.  You also drink a boatload of water – you’d spend a fortune on bottled water except that Aussie tap water seems pretty drinkable.  In fact – Aussies don’t recycle their water, even though Oz is the driest continent and continuously struggles with its water supply.  Stephanie from Adelaide, who’s French, put it rather well – ‘Aussies don’t drink their piss.’  I never quite thought about it that way, but I suppose we Yanks and most others in Europe and elsewhere do ‘drink their piss.’  Makes you all the more willing to shell out for the bottled stuff (water, not piss). 

Cairns is a cool little city.  It was nothing more than a huge sugar plantation until the airport was built around 1980, then the Great Barrier Reef adventure craze got going.  The mountains, Aherton tableland (a big low-lying plateau), and Daintree rainforest are all around it, with some dramatic vistas.  Some years ago I took a cable-car to a bizarre little rainforest town called Kuranda, which actually has a few hundred inhabitants, all of whom apparently prepare sandwiches for visitors and/or work on the cable-car and ‘scenic railway’ (another way to get in there).  And you can spend the night there, I believe there are a couple hostels/hotels, although the mere thought of who’d show up at the pub after dark was enough to get me out of there on the last cable-car.

The Great Barrier Reef is just an hour-long boat ride away, and I’ve been to Cairns several times over the years to go diving and to kick back.  I got my diving license in nearby Port Douglas (see below).  In 2002 I came to Cairns from Japan to see a friend of mine, Seung Minn, who was there on a holiday, and while out in the bars I met a lovely young Japanese woman who was studying English in Cairns.  A few weeks later we went on holiday together around Oz and when she returned to Japan shortly thereafter we were together for a while.  I’ve therefore got many nice memories of Cairns and its offerings…the diving, some excellent seafood restaurants (e.g., Splash!), the pubs, and the resorts.  What Cairns lacks is a beach in the city – all the good spots are a drive to the north.  The city did create a ‘lagoon’ to fill the swimming void, but it’s very weak and I wouldn’t be caught dead dipping into it.  It’s mostly for the kiddies and works out well for them, I suppose.

I went diving on one of the days in Cairns.  The Aussies do a top-notch job with diving and other adventure tours, so my high expectations were met as usual.  Did a couple 40-minute dives with a small, guided group, and the sights were excellent.  Saw a giant turtle, a large wrasse, and a couple of small reef sharks (which are momentarily unnerving to come across).  One of the divers in our group was from Italy, named Emmanuella (?).  She’s studying marine biology in Sicily – which sounds like a good thing to do – and was by far the most excited (and excitable) member of our squad.  This tendency didn’t disappear underwater – somehow she was able to convey her excitement and thoughts with ease, whereas most of us are basically deaf, dumb and nearly blind in the depths.  At one point one of the divers ran through his air quickly and we had to shorten the dive – and I could tell from her hand motions that Emmanuella was pissed off.  I do love the Italians.

A couple other memories from Cairns

·        The Aussie syntax revisited – in some states you can just order a pint, whereas in others you order ‘schooners.’  At least that’s how it seems – schooners aren’t always the same size, sometimes it means 425 ml, sometimes 375 ml (or thereabouts).  Anyway, a pint or schooner is a respectable lad’s glass of beer; a ‘middie’ is a small glass and those don’t seem to last for more than 3-5 minutes.  I don’t know the origin of the word ‘schooner,’ but to me it’s another delightful example of the semi-Western terminology (e.g., ‘reckon’) that you find in Oz.

·        When I was walking back to my guesthouse one night I heard “Baby, I’m a-Want You,” the classic Bread song, coming from a house.  Not sure why that stuck in my mind, but it did.  I felt like popping in and singing the rest of the song with the tenant – or at least till the cops showed up.

After a few days in Cairns, I went up to Port Douglas, which is a fantastic little town an hour north, even closer to all the attractions – rainforest, reef, etc.  Port D was a sleepy little fishing town until the 80’s, when a (now) infamous Aussie businessman named Christopher Skase built the Sheraton Mirage resort and the town became a favorite of ‘southern Australians’ from Sydney and Melbourne.  And while Mr. Skase’s world fell apart and he fled to Spain (where he died a few years ago), the town has remained popular – perhaps because it’s a rare example of a well-made upscale town which has somehow retained its frontier, rascal spirit.  There are only about 5,000 locals, and only one main street (Macrossan Street), but it’s packed with cool little bars and restaurants and shops.  I reckon (!) that Macrossan Street is one of the more colorful streets on the planet.  One of the bars there – the Iron Bar – features cane toad races every evening at 8 p.m.  Cane toads are a massive local pest – introduced by man, of course – and the ‘races’ are worth a peek, although probably not more than once.  The locals don’t bother, they just sit in the front of the bar and make jokes about the tourists in the back.

While the diving is excellent, I reckon (!) the main attraction of Port D is the set of local characters who have a biting wit but who are welcoming at the same time.  On both of my nights in Port D I found myself in lengthy conversations started by the person next to me at the bar – one fellow was the president of the ‘Combined Clubs’ (a sort of local civic league, and which has a surprisingly good little restaurant/bar).  Very likeable guy – full of odd facts, e.g.:  Bill Clinton was in the Central Bar in Port Douglas, playing sax and having a few drinks, when he was told of the 9-11 attacks.  My new friend told me he was standing right where I was when he heard the news, then was quickly trundled out by his Secret Service lugs.

Another fellow works on one of the sailing boats at the marina.  We spent a lot of time discussing his risk of getting consumed by a shark – we ended up agreeing that even if it did happen, it would be an unmatchable experience (particularly if he survived to tell of it).  We then went to another bar to listen to a local band – Port Douglas is full of live music every night of the week. 

I enjoyed myself there so much that I went to see a local real estate agent to inquire about purchasing some property.  One major problem:  foreigners can only buy empty lots or brand-new, never rented properties.  This is highly restrictive, as you might imagine – and Port Douglas is almost completely built out – it’s situated on a narrow peninsula and the newest development is mostly several kilometers out of town.  The realtor took me to see a few lots – not that gripping, particularly when considering that land cost plus the cost of building a new house would easily exceed AU$1 million, and the hassle of building and maintaining a house would drive me insane.  I’d rather invest (and live in) an apartment, so we went to see a couple of new developments which are open to foreign buyers.  There are some sweet places, which are of course costly, and I need to think through the pros and cons in the coming months.  I could see myself spending some time in Port D, it’s got a special feeling and unique lifestyle – let’s see how I feel in a few months after hitting several more unique places.

So, back to the start of this posting – just a reminder, I’m on a bus from Brissy-Byron Bay.  I felt a bit sad leaving Port Douglas earlier today, and already miss it a bit, but any feelings of sadness are well mitigated by the excitement of going to the next amazing place.  I’d be pretty misguided to feel anything besides jazzed to go to Byron Bay, also one of my favorite places (and everybody else’s as well – part of the problem).  If I were going back to the office, I’d be unhappy – but that’s not the case and thus I’m very relaxed about moving on, and on, and on…

Darwin’s an odd place.  I’ll get into my reasons for saying so soon…but the first thing I noticed was the sub-tropical temperature and mood of the place.  I could finally shed my long pants and fleece, and strap on the Tevas.  80% of the clothes in my pack are for hot weather, so the preceding two weeks were a bit challenging in the clothing dept.  This was the Oz I remembered and loved from way back.  Finally, a bit of sweat on the forehead and on the beer bottle. 

OK, various observations about Darwin, in no particular order:

·        In other parts of the world, humans are beating the animals, for the most part – as evidenced by the massive amount of roadkill, the extinction of sea creatures, etc.  But in Oz, the animals may be winning – there are millions of feral rabbits, kangaroos, etc. in Oz, and around Darwin the crocodiles and bats are numerous.  The bats remind me of being in Sydney’s Central Business District at night – I used to hear screeching, then look up and see scores of bats flying around the tops of tall buildings.  With the proliferation of introduced animals in Oz, and global warming, it makes me wonder if the planet is taking control back from us and gaining revenge.  Might be a good thing, after all.  As the dearly departed Dr. Hunter S. Thompson once wrote (I summarize liberally), “Most people are afraid of topics like death, massive destruction, and the complete annihilation of the human race – but not me.  I’m comfortable with these concepts.” 

·        Darwin was bombed 64 times by the Japanese, who pretty much leveled the place in Feb. 1942.  They sank some Aussie, British, and US ships, and blew up some critical oil tanks that were conveniently painted white, thus ensuring a nice clear target for the Japanese Zero warplanes.  There are some amazing ‘oil tunnels’ built into the side of the cliffs – older Aussie men built these tunnels from 1942-5, after it was finally understood that external oil tanks kept bringing the Japanese back for (successful) bombing runs.  By the time the tunnels were ready, the war was over.  Anyway, the town is full of monuments to the bombings.  Between those and the Christmas Eve 1974 Cyclone Tracy, Darwin doesn’t have much left from the old days.  I remember going to Sydney’s Maritime Museum and watching video from the 1942 bombings and the 1974 cyclone, and both were simply devastating.  Makes you realize that the current era is peaceful almost without precedent, and that every day that doesn’t feature a murderous cyclone is a pretty damn good one.

·        Darwin’s the capital of the Northern Territory.  There’s something random about being in a ‘territory,’ I can’t quite put a finger on it.  The NT did get self-government in 1978, so it’s technically a state (I think); that said, locals called themselves ‘Territorians,” the local broadsheet is “The Northern Territory News,” and in general the place has a bit of an out-there feeling that might have been present in the 19^th century in the US West. 

·        It’s a small city, with about 75,000 residents.  I had beers in a city pub with the 2 people who sat next to me on the flight in…it’s that kind of place.  You keep seeing the same people, so be nice to them first time round!

·        Despite its small size and perceived lack of offerings, Darwin surprises.  The night I got there, I was reading ‘The Northern Territory News’ and noticed there was a poetry slam in a little artists’ space in town.  I grabbed a poetry I had written in Adelaide (denouncing the Bush Administration, natch), walked over to the slam, read my poem, and made some friends in the process.  I should say that almost anything that ‘slams’ the Bush Administration is guaranteed to make you friends over here.  It always pays to read the local paper, even if it’s crap – I usually pick up 2-3 things to do.

·        Darwin also has a kaiten-zushi (sushi train) place.  That’s one more than Boston has.

·        Some people walk around barefoot.  You don’t see that in many first-world cities, except on city beaches.  Darwin does feel like a cross between a developed, Western city and a laid-back, low-boil Asian or Latin place.

·        There’s a Thursday night market on Mindil Beach with a huge array of food, music, crafts, etc.  Good place to wander about for a few hours and watch the sun go down – which is stunning to watch up here in the tropics. 

·        The nighttime weather, at least now in ‘The Dry’ (season) is perfect.  I walked out of the poetry slam, which was held in a stuffy room (artists don’t seem to be into air-conditioning), and into a beautiful, breezy night, estimated temp. 80 degrees F, with a hint of a sea breeze.  I could have slept outside…would have been a good way to lose my wallet.

I liked the place, despite it being a little sleepy.  My general belief is that you can have a good time anywhere, at least for a night or two.  Curtin Springs Station (see above) was good for about a night.  Darwin would suit for much longer.  But tomorrow I fly to Cairns for some scuba diving.  Over and out.

Ayers Rock and the Olgas (nearby formations which basically look like 6-7 mini-Ayers Rocks) are among the most stunning sights I’ve seen – at least outside of bars and nightclubs. I took about a thousand photos and will share those at some point, so won’t get too deep into descriptions here. I can only say that Ayers Rocks (Uluru in Aboriginal local language) has my vote for monolith deposited on Earth by an alien culture. I half-expected HAL to communicate with me via ESP as I approached the Rock. It rises straight out of the ground, though scientists believe there’s about 4 square miles of rock under the ground – kind of like an iceberg. The base is almost 6 miles around, the height is about 1000 feet, and it’s just awesome. I walked around it in two hours, but didn’t climb it – the Aborigines are strongly against it, and their logic made sense to me. I spent some time in the Cultural Center, then went on to view the Olgas and hike around there. Again, well worth a trip there – will definitely go back there someday. One minor observation I had was that Ayers has mostly smooth rock, while the Olgas seem more pitted, and in some places almost concretized rocks. One fellow I met had climbed Ayers the previous day and said it was surprisingly slippery – there are falls and deaths from time to time.

Around noon, I got back in my car to race all the way to Alice Springs before the sun set. This drive was far less dramatic – no camels along the way. I did again see an enormous amount of roadkill…and when I reached Alice I went straight to a steakhouse for some wallaby shanks and emu fillets!

Alice is a strange little town of 25,000 souls, smack in the middle of the desert. There are various things to see and do – balloon rides, visits to Royal Australian Flying Doctor Service HQ, etc. – but I didn’t have much time. I had some glorified roadkill for dinner, then went to a pub to medicate myself and meet some locals. I ended up talking for a while with a woman who was of Tongan descent and had just moved to Alice to work in the local casino. We watched the rugby match – it was New South Wales vs. Queensland in the ‘State of Origin’ match which is a huge deal and which meant the bars were absolutely jammed…despite Alice being in the Northern Territory and thus not directly involved in the match. I suppose many people there were originally from, or visiting from, those 2 states. Or maybe it’s just the general love of sports that Aussies have. Anyway, the match was a rout (Q’land won 30-6) so we spent most of our time talking about various matters – mostly about how inept the US government is, and how the Aussie government is right behind.

It’s not easy getting to or leaving Alice. It’s the only sizeable town in the center of Oz, kind of like if St. Louis or Kansas City was the only ‘city’ between Chicago and Houston. It’s approx. 1,500 km from Darwin, my next stop – so I decided to fly out and not spend another day in a bus or train. Even when you’re unemployed and seeming to have all the time in the world, you can still be in a hurry. The world’s a huge place and sometimes I feel the need to see it all…which probably means I’ll die unhappy and dissatisfied. Oh well.

One final thing to note here, en route to Darwin – Alice Springs Airport has a pool table. And I managed to get in a game before I flew out.

I’ve now settled into a rough pattern for posting my blogs. When I’ve got 3 major topics to cover, with notes taken down in my PDA, I’ll sit down to write the blogs and then post them when possible. This means that you can expect postings about every 5 days – 3 days of experiences, 1 day for writing, and perhaps another to find a way to post them. But this is just an estimate right now, so please check in whenever you feel like it. And I’ll try to adopt a more mellow methodology too, for now this feels about right. After all, I’m not working or anything…

OK, read on, here are 3 new blogs, the first of which is lengthy but should be a good read. It was certainly interesting to live it!!

Iain left me off at a Subway sandwich shop in the soulless burgh of Port Augusta. I had 6 hours before my bus departed, and Subway’s the only place with an Internet portal, so I sat there for 4 hours catching up on emails and posting blogs. The counter girl didn’t mind that I only ordered a single soft drink…particularly as the computer was costing me $10/hour.

Iain and I had a good hug before we parted ways. We’ve known each other since 1992, have met pretty often throughout the years, and have become good at saying goodbye to each other. I suppose we both know we’ll be seeing each other before too long. Port Augusta was probably the worst place imaginable to part ways…at a Subway franchise on a minor highway in a very minor town…albeit one calling itself ‘the crossroads of Australia.’ Perhaps being a ‘crossroads’ is good for business; I’ve known a number of such ‘crossroads’ around the world, and they generally tend to be shitholes solely organized because they offer geographical convenience (or bribes) for the various transport operators – bus, train, etc. Pathankot in the Punjab of India was the worst place I’ve ever passed through – easily topping dozens of other disturbing towns scattered around northern India. If you’re ever up there and you’re told you need to pass through Pathankot because it’s a ‘railhead,’ find another way to go. I mean it.

Even after spending 4 hours on the Internet in Port Augusta (supposedly called ‘Port Aguta, mate’ by the local Aborigines), I had a bit more time before my bus to Alice Springs, so I walked into the Flinders Hotel for a couple. Drinks, I mean…’hotel’ in Oz generally means ‘bar’ and not just a place to sleep, although many pubs do have a few dusty/smoky rooms upstairs if you can stand the noise. Best to fill up before heading up there. At least you’ve got lots of choices – Australia probably has more variety of booze than any place on the planet. Besides all their own beers – Crown (my fave), Boags, Coopers, Cascade, VB, XXXX Gold, Carltons, etc., they’ve got beers from all over, and also a bizarre and wonderful variety of canned mixed drinks. Jim Bean mixers; vodka ‘cruisers’; Woodstock bourbon & cola; Red Bear vodka & raspberry; Canadian Club, Smirnoff, and Jack Daniels based mixed drinks too. I considered trying them all out in alphabetical order, but realized the difficulty in doing so in the 90 minutes before my bus left town. So I stuck with VB’s (Victoria Bitters), a good local beer.

The ride to Alice was long (14 hours) and uneventful. I slept for much of it. We made numerous pit stops, including one in the desolate opal-mining center of Coober Pedy – which translates in the local Aboriginal tongue as ‘white mans’ holes.’ That’s because most inhabitants have underground dwellings to protect them from the 110+ degree (F) heat in summertime. Most hotels and other places are also underground. I only had 45 minutes to wander around the place before we drove off, but it gave me a decent sense of the otherworldliness of Cooder Pedy. This is where Mad Max and a few other Armageddon-type films were shot…you might recognize a few features. I could almost imagine Mel Gibson coming up and firing on our Greyhound bus as we slowly drove out of town.

While at the ‘café’ in Coober Pedy I watched the end of the Oz-Japan World Cup match. Oz was down 1-0 with 10 minutes to go, and then scored 3 times before the end of the match. Japan couldn’t believe what hit them…and the few grizzled Aussies around me went wild with joy for their ‘Socceroos’ (Aussies have a nickname for everything – each other and all of their teams – quite endearing). These fellows were probably not huge ‘football’ (soccer) fans…Australian Rules Football, cricket, and rugby are much bigger in Oz, although things differ state to state. But getting into the World Cup is a big deal here, and I suppose that beating Japan in anything is cause for celebration. Japan did bomb Darwin 64 times, after all. More on that in an upcoming post.

It was damn cold, incidentally. Before heading to Oz I thought it would be a bit chilly, but Adelaide and the desert were both close to freezing in the early morning. You really don’t expect that in the ‘desert,’ and one’s always hearing about the scorching red center of Oz. I guess that temperatures can really go to extremes without the moderating influence of a nearby ocean.

This is getting to be a long post, but what the hell. More to report. When I was awake on the bus ride, I saw the odd ‘roo hopping around. And while I was mentally prepared (and even excited) to see no evidence of man in the Outback, that’s not the case. There are cattle fences in many areas, and the roads, even the unpaved ones, are sign-posted. The land has been tamed, to a degree, all over. I wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that. Then I fell asleep again.

On our final pit stop before reaching Alice, I had a meat pie with the bus driver (don’t read anything into that), and he asked me about my plans. He smiled wickedly as I told him I planned to hop into a car when we reached Alice at 2:30 p.m. that day and drive straight to Ayers Rock. He told me that you can’t drive at night in that part of the Outback – there are huge camels that wander into the road, the cattle do so too, and there’ve been many wrecks and fatalities as a result. He also said that the car rental companies don’t cover nighttime accidents…so if you wreck, you’re boned (dead or alive). I probably should have seen this coming…although when Iain and I were in South Australia we drove a bit at night, albeit on unpaved roads at slower speeds. Anyway, given my very tight timeline for seeing Ayers the next day, getting back to Alice that same night, then flying to Darwin the subsequent day, I was cutting it pretty fine, and knew it. My original plan was to drive from Alice to a roadhouse called Curtin Springs, stop there for the night, and drive an hour the next morning to see Ayers and the Olgas – and then drive all the way back to Alice (5 hours). After speaking with the driver, I though I’d need to adjust my plans and avoid nighttime driving altogether. I’ve gotta say that it always pays to have a chat with bus drivers and people like that…they always know something you don’t.

When we reached Alice I raced over to Avis, got my car, and hit the road right away. I made pretty good time, completely ignored speed limits and warnings of ‘speed camera postings’ on the Stuart Highway, and was soon out of radio earshot. The speeding was stupid considering the risk of large animals on the road – while many are semi-nocturnal, kangaroos seem to be everywhere all the time. The bus driver had told me I could easily reach a roadhouse/truck stop called Mt. Ebenezer before nightfall, so I aimed for that. I’d need to get up at 4-5 a.m. the next day to drive on to Ayers, but didn’t seem to have much choice. I came upon Mt. Ebenezer around 5:15 p.m., as the sun was getting low. I got out of the car and looked around…and didn’t see much. There was a grim-looking Aboriginal Museum which featured 6-7 Aborigines hanging around the front…they looked at me in a way that was difficult to interpret. I managed to glimpse some accommodations out back, but in general Mt. Ebenezer looked like a desperate place to spend the evening – even though I often have a tendency to bottom-fish. I decided to take a real risk and race on towards my original plan of Curtin Springs Station.

So the day became a completely unplanned adventure, one of many I’ve had over the years. As I drove at 1.3x (where x = speed limit), I realized that I may be genetically incapable of following any speed limit – my foot always seems to press the throttle approximately 30% more than the police and insurance companies would prefer. I can probably blame my father for this – when he was driving me around when I was a kid, and speeding as a matter of course, he warned me never to drive like him. Right, that worked out well…

I had one eye on the road and another, indirectly, tracking the position of the sun. I didn’t have much time left, to be sure. Sunfall was pegged for about 6 p.m., I had 100 km (62 miles) to go to Curtin Springs. It reminded me of a Bill Cosby piece in which he had to be home from the movies before the sun went down, otherwise the monsters would come out and get him and Old Weird Harold. In my case, as warned by the omniscient bus driver, massive feral camels, camels, and wedge-tailed eagles (which eat roadkill and look like they could carry off a small car) infest the roadways and can total a car. As I was racing along, I came around a bend and sure enough, there was a 7-foot camel that probably weighed 2 tons, munching a plant at the roadside. I slowed down, and stopped…Cid the Camel stopped munching and looked right at me. We both wondered what to do for a moment, then I backed up, took a wide berth around him, and got out of there. I’ve been told that domesticated camels are wonderful creatures, but the feral variety don’t look so cuddly.

I drove along, and saw two more camels – which were less scary. Perhaps I was become blasé about seeing two-ton beasts crowding the roads. I also saw an unbelievable amount of roadkill – mostly ‘roos. I didn’t think that they were all killed by autos – if so, then I’d seriously need to consider acquiring an auto body shop in the Outback, and perhaps a funeral home as well. Big trucks probably did most of the damage, and rolled right over the ‘roos and even a few camels. There are trucks which pull several trailers and are called ‘road trains,’ and these things are a wonder to behold. When we drive by them in the other direction, the wind tunnel they create almost blows you off the road. Anyway, every few km I’d have to slow down and let the eagles and other birds fly off their roadkill, then I’d drive around it (stench wasn’t that bad, surprisingly) and speed on.

I reached Curtin Springs at 6:15 p.m., the sun having sun but a touch of twilight remaining. I swear I had white knuckles as I pulled it. I turned around to see if a herd of feral camels was tailing me, then pulled into the parking lot and walked into the pub for a series of beers. I told them my story, and they let me know that the previous day a car had flipped over on the road and killed the driver, a young Japanese fellow. He was probably swerving to avoid some roadkill or eagles; that was a little unsettling. The rest of the night was mostly uneventful – I had a camel burger (really), had a few drinks with truck drivers in the pub, endured two power cuts, and finally crashed in my little ACO-room (basically a prefab building with a few rooms cut into it). I slept till 5:30 the next morning, and needed the sleep, given my previous night spent tossing & turning on the Greyhound bus.

Iain and I left Adelaide bound for the Flinders Mountain Range and the Outback. He hadn’t been up there in many years, and I was looking forward to getting out of the city – although Adelaide isn’t the most stressful place I’ve known. Perhaps I was really hoping to get far away from the construction site – I had already demonstrated remarkably limited building capabilities and wanted another area in which to show my incompetence.

Iain made all the arrangements from Adelaide. We first drove up to a remote station called Arkaroola. For most of the drive up I tormented Iain with my attempts to pronounce words like this – Arkaroola, Anamooka (a major opal-mining site), Coober Pedy (probably the #1 opal-mining site), Parachilna, etc. I like the fact that Aboriginal names have been preserved in many cases – they have a deep, rich sound that somehow also comes off as playful. They’re also quite distinct, as you might expect, from the Indian names that have lived on in the US – such as my home state of Massachusetts. All of these are a hell of a lot more interesting than the typical British names – Yorke, Wales, etc. Although I am drawn to the sound of Cape Tribulation…and to the Nullarbor (“no trees” in Latin) Plain.

After a pleasant’s day drive we reached Arkaroola after sunset. Arkaroola was founded in the late 60s by Reg and Griselda Sprigg, and is now run by their kids. It’s a basic place with a decent-sized common hall/restaurant/bar and reception, and there are various campsites and rooms for hire. It’s really in the middle of nowhere, right amidst the Northern Flinders mountains. We hit the sack a bit early as we had an 8 a.m. tour for the next morning. This was the Ridgetop 4WD Tour, in which you sit in the back of an open-air uber-jeep while an extremely knowledgeable young ranger carts you up and down various ridges and lookouts. It’s a very cool 4-5 hour adventure and you cover some serious, challenging ground. This area is interesting, because in addition to the spectacular views, it’s one of the world’s biggest uranium sites. Mining started in 1911, and while that mostly petered out you can still pick up rocks and see trace amounts of the stuff today. Apparently there are other sites in South Australia – which has so much of the stuff that it’s like a ‘Saudi Arabia for uranium’ – where it’s easier to extract and transport the mineral to processing plants. Our guide Ryan told us that back in the early days, the miners strapped the rocks onto camels’ backs, but by the time the camels got onto flat ground there had been so much grinding of the rocks that most of the uranium chipped off and fell through cracks in the packs down to the ground. Bummer. Anyway, this led to an interesting discussion about preventing North Korean and Iranian agents from accessing the Arkaroola mines. We didn’t come to any conclusion about how to do that…

Later that day we went up in a small prop plane with Doug Sprigg, who owns Arkaroola and who’s one of the more switched-on people I’ve ever met. I don’t think he stopped talking the entire time we were with him…and he was interesting the whole way though. He knew the name of every single type of vegetation around the Flinders, knew the history of the rock formations (some of which were 1.7 billion years old), and was as friendly as could be. We flew over the Northern Flinders, radioed some mates down on the ridges (the afternoon version of the Ridgeway Tour was underway), and Doug let me take the controls for a few minutes. I fought off a few North Korean drones and then handed the controls back to Doug. All in all, a fun experience and well worth the cost.

Iain and I then drove down to the town of Parachilna, which has 6 full-time residents – basically, those who work at the Prairie Hotel, a wonderful little establishment. We stopped at another nice place, the Blinman Hotel, for a beer en route. The sun was going down as we left Blinman for the final short stretch of driving. When we were nearly at Parachilna an approaching car flashed its brights, so we stopped…and then noticed it was a cop car. Iain thought we might have broken the speed limit; I was generally nervous given the annoying power of the police to ruin our lives. The cop was just doing random breath-checks and breathalyzed Iain, who had had only 1 small glass of beer in Blinman and passed with flying colors. We proceeded on our way, but I was left with the lesson that the Aussie police aren’t fooling around, and that if you have more than a couple small drinks you’d better not get behind the wheel.

We checked into the Prairie Hotel in Parachilna – which had no record of our booking, and so we couldn’t get a regular (plush) hotel room, and instead had to stay in the “Overflow” accommodations, which were prefab cheapo rooms which turned out to be perfectly fine (and cheapo). There was to be live music that night, so we went over to the pub – which is the only game in Parachilna. To make a long story short, we ran into an old friend of Iain’s, who was there with her boyfriend, and we had many drinks and dinner together. The Prairie Hotel specializes in wild outback cuisine – the F.M.G. (Feral Mixed Grill) is the top draw. The F.M.G. included kangaroo (roo) shanks, camel sausage, and emu patties. All of it was unusual and strangely delicious. And the wine list was top-notch, too. I was amazed at the quality of food and drink right there in the middle of the great blue yonder. As I mentioned in an earlier blog, Australia has become quite the gourmet place and while you can find the old-style fish & chips, you can do a lot better almost everywhere these days.

The band started up around 9 p.m., and besides the 6 local residents of Parachilna there were probably another 40-50 visitors. The band was a 2-man set with the usual electronic gizmos backing it up – worked pretty well. Everyone was completely pissed (i.e., drunk) and the dancing became increasingly uninhibited and joyous as the night rolled on. As the working staff came off their shifts, they joined in the fun – a fine display of mateship and camaraderie. The band played till midnight, Iain and I and his friends bought each other a slew of drinks, and we enjoyed ourselves there in that oasis of life and friendship.

The next morning was a bit challenging, but we managed to get up (Iain before I) and wolf down some brekky before setting off. We headed south, as Iain needed to get home that night and I had to catch a bus to Alice Springs. But we had the better part of the day, and made the most of it. We spent the late morning driving through Brachina Gorge, which is a virtual museum of geological sights – many hundreds of millions of years old. We then went over to Wilpena Pound, which is a massive (100 km in circumference) rock basis which may have been formed by a meteor. Supposedly some of the basin walls were as high as Mt. Everest before being ground down by the forces of nature. We took another flight, over the Pound, and saw just how impressive it is. Inside the pound there’s a sort of parkland, which is partially denuded. About 100 years ago a family tried to grow wheat in the Pound but was unsuccessful…the only real outcome being destruction of the fragile soil system. The outback is a highly precarious ecosystem and man has done a real job on it. Near the Northern Territory boundary is the ‘Dog Fence,’ which stretches 5,300 km and is the world’s longest fence – three times longer than the Great Wall of China. There’s also the semi-famous ‘Rabbit-Proof Fence’ (of move fame) up north which is something like 2,500 km. Man introduced rabbits, goats, camels, etc. to Oz and naturally, some escaped, multiplied, and became feral. While there are limited benefits – a la the Feral Mixed Grill – the destruction wrought is immense and the solutions aren’t easy.

We then drove south to the charmless burg of Port Augusta, where I awaited my overnight bus to Alice Springs. I’ll cover that in my next blog, as my laptop and I both need a rest.

Before leaving Adelaide Stephanie and I went and visited the Penfolds Magill Estate, which is a little winery (run by a massive corporation, of course) right in the hills above the city.  I can’t think of too many vineyards within city limits anywhere in the world…although I do seem to recall tasty diesel-flavored red in a puny plot in Paris’ Montmartre section.  The Magill Estate is where Penfolds’ famous Grange is created using Penfolds’ top 10% of grapes from their numerous Australian holdings.  The tour guide let us have a taste from a 2006 cask and, while quite young, it was very tasty.  Only goes for approximately $500 a bottle, if you’re interested.  Another good way to spend that sum is to have dinner at the Estate’s beautiful little restaurant, which overlooks Adelaide.  Must do that sometime.

The next day we went up to the Barossa Valley, which is probably Oz’s premiere grape-growing region, at least for shiraz and other reds.  And as you might expect, there are some high-end hotels and restaurants; Maggie Beers, a well-known Aussie cook/gourmand, has an eponymous restaurant there which we intended to visit.  We bopped around 4 vineyards, with Two Hands being our favorite.  This vineyard is only about 7-8 years old, and makes some delicious and playful wines.  We picked up some reds and also a nice bottle of sticky white dessert wine – a botrytis Semillon, if my memory is accurate.  But while the Two Hands wines were superb, what Stephanie and I will most remember is a random conversation she had with a woman who was also there (with her husband) tasting the wines.  I’m not sure how they started talking, but in any event this woman was a food snob of the highest order.  I hung back and watched, slack-jawed I’m sure, as the woman mentioned to Stephanie that she had visited Maggie Beers’s restaurant 3 times during the past day, and that she was disappointed because Maggie had removed some sort of fig ingredient from her pate/terrine/whatever.  She then switched tacks and acknowledged that old Maggie did have a wonderful pumpkin risotto recipe – cooked in a pot the size of a Volkswagen – that she (this woman) had managed to replicate by accident. 

All the while I was wondering what Stephanie was thinking – was she actually engaged in this discussion, or was she thinking that the woman was mad?  I can’t even imagine what my face must have been communicating, and the woman’s husband was skillfully skirting the entire session by gazing at wine bottles on the other side of the room.  When the topic of the pumpkin risotto success came up, though, Stephanie somewhat sarcastically told the fig-woman “good job!” and I could tell she was dying to escape – so I muttered some excuse and we got out of there without further mental damage.

From there we went to Maggie Beers’s place for lunch, and the fun began.  We did a quick recap of the tortuous conversation at Two Hands, and then launched into our own critiques of Maggie Beers’s food, and food in general.  “I do hope the quince frangipani tartlette is there, darling” I said, and Stephanie said that she preferred the duck sherry glaze with capsicum paste.  Of course, we were both neglecting to consider the pheasant plum and green peppercorn soufflé, but you can’t think of everything at times like these.  The fact that Stephanie is French allowed us to infuse our dialogue with the proper airs – names of food tend to sound rarefied when spoken with an overdone French accent. 

In fact, the food at Maggie Beers was excellent – and we did consume some snobbish products.  The porcini terrine and quince paste was unlike anything I’d ever had, the capsicum paste (really) was creamy and piquant (say that with a French accent), and the cheese selection was memorable.  We failed to note the missing fig, and didn’t notice that the pumpkin risotto wasn’t on the menu that day.  This has been a running joke since that day, and one of the highlights of my walkabout thus far.  That’s one of the best aspects of travel – you never quite know what sorts of hilarity will sneak up on you when you least expect it.

In the words of the (hopefully) immortal Bill Cosby, I told you that (LA) story to tell you this one. I’m in Adelaide, Australia now, spending some time with my old friend Iain and his wife Stephanie. I was last here in April 2005 for their wedding…but only spent 24 hours here before flying to the States for some business meetings. I vowed to return, unemployed, ASAP, and here I am. Iain and Stephanie are building an amazing new home in Adelaide and I volunteered my unskilled hands while in town. Iain knew what he was getting – I did once change the oil in my car – so I think he had extremely modest expectations about my contributions, which I suppose I met but just barely. Anyway, the house is coming along nicely and Iain’s only tearing his hair out every other day. At least he’s a construction pro and is handling much of the work himself. At first glance you’d think that would lessen his anxiety level, but that’s probably not the case. He knows what the contractors can and can’t do, and what can go dramatically wrong – so his mind is constantly cycling through these potential disasters and how to head them off. Things will work out fine, but it’s good that you don’t build yourself a new house every year.

The work is pretty hard, and you develop a healthy respect for the guys who work on construction sites every day. Perhaps the biggest learning for me is the criticality of spending time on the planning and design. One day Iain, Stephanie and I went to the site to install some steel beams. I thought we’d spent a couple hours there, but we spent six, with five of those hours devoted to measuring, calibrating, and other painstaking activities that involved zero muscle but substantial brainpower. The final hour, of course, comprised lifting heavy steel beams and working them into place. Right when we were finished placing the final beam, two brilliant rainbows appeared overhead – a nice reward for a long day of work. You’d think I’d already have known the value of careful planning from my years in consulting – but that lesson isn’t obviously portable across industries, or maybe I was just being mentally lazy when I turned up at the construction site. Anyway, my other learning is that my next job will not likely be anything related to construction. I’m a lot better at destroying things.

The other area I should cover in this blog, is, of course, Australia itself. It’s a fantastic country and one I’ve kept coming back to over the years. I lived in Sydney during 2000-01, went to the Olympics, made some good friends, and consider it a second home. There’s no easy way to characterize the place, but I’ll make a stab at it here:
-Sometimes Oz feels a bit like a British-flavored Los Angeles. People have an accent that Americans would call ‘British’ or ‘English’ (although it’s quite distinct if you’ve got the ear), they use many terms found in the UK, and so forth. They also speak proper English, which is a nice change from the mindless valley girl dialect spoken all over the US these days (and which originated in LA). Australia, at least much of it, is sunny almost every day, people are laid-back (‘no worries’ is the expression heard most often), and there’s a nice edge in everything – music, food, coffee, clothing, and general design of stores, buildings, etc. I suppose Oz was a dreary, white-bread type of place in the 1970s (as was Britain), but now the place is as multi-culti as they get (25% of the population was born elsewhere) and the mix works really well.
-While the design and fashion is Australia is cutting-edge, Australians aren’t particularly precious or fragile. Most are self-deprecating, semi-profane, and risk-taking. And the lingo is fascinating…some of the common words in Oz have a western US bent. ‘Reckon’ is used all the time (‘I reckon Quay Grand Bar has the best margaritas in Sydney’), and while jogging by pizza joints I often looked twice as I saw ‘hot spuds’ offered and not ‘hot subs.’
-The entire country feels like a well-kept secret. Only 20 million people live there, and while tourism is huge, the distance seems to keep most people away. Those who do make it there seem to be the strain of tourist able to relax and fit into the Aussie lifestyle.
-Sydney and Melbourne are obviously well-known, but the Oz is full of cool spots. Case in point: Adelaide. The metro area probably comprises a million people (and the entire state of South Australia just 1.5 million), but there are more art galleries, music spots, fine restaurants, buzzing bars, boutique hotels, etc. than in many cities 2-3 times the size. Festivities seem to be taking place every few weeks, and the sports scene is great as well. You could happily spend a year in a campervan traveling around the country, taking in the excellent beaches, mountain ranges, deserts, and country towns. I may just do that at some point.

Since I got to Oz I’ve managed to spend 90% of my time doing things I want to do, and not stupid errands. My aim is to get that figure up to 95%, and I think I’ll succeed. Today I went with Stephanie to the construction site to talk through a few things with the builders, then over to the Art Gallery of South Australia to take in a lecture on Margaret Preston, an Aussie painter whom I’ve never heard of and who created some excellent stuff. We had a nice long lunch in the gallery’s restaurant – which, typically, had a lengthy wine list that we sampled. Tomorrow we’re going up to the Barossa Valley for lunch at a winery there. The Aussie wine industry is both large and of high quality, and while here I plan to balance my drinking across beer and wine – which I find is difficult to do in the States, but easy to do in Oz and Europe (particularly Spain and Italy).

I’ll be here in Adelaide for a few more days, then head north with Iain to check out the Flinders Mountain range, stay in some Outback pubs, and get even farther away from anything remotely demanding or stressful. After that, I’ll make my way over several days up to Darwin – which distance-wise is similar to traveling from New Orleans (say a prayer) up to Minneapolis. I’m looking forward to seeing the Outback and Ayers Rock/Uluru, which somehow I’ve managed to miss during the time I was posted in Oz. More on that journey in days to come.

A final bit here: if possible, Australia is even cooler than Skype…

I’m already falling behind in my postings…or perhaps my inner demon is overly tormenting me to get things accomplished.  I should embrace life’s distractions and my own general apathy – it’s just that if I consistently followed my base instincts I’d be a walking hard drive of amazing experiences without any system backup.  Perhaps I’d be able to share those experiences with others far away; perhaps my memory would fail under the influence of strong drink and I’d lose the thoughts forever.  Thus, this “slog” and my desire to keep it going.

Several of you helpfully pointed out that I laid it on a bit thick with my ‘join Skype now’ exhortations in my first posting.  After re-reading it I tend to agree with you.  But I did manage to get a few new Skype addresses and calls, so no regrets.  I also appreciated the various comments that flowed in…keep ‘em coming!

On May 31 I finally got going, flying from Boston to Los Angeles.  I spent the week beforehand pacing about, taking care of last-minute chores, and packing my backpack.  Things were pretty crazy before I left – my sister and her family were moving house, and spent several nights at my folks’ place, relegating me to an odd invention known as the “Air-Bed” (which should instead be called the “Floor-Board”).  But everything got done in time and I managed to shove off on schedule.  Checking in my backpack at Logan Airport, I thought back to the summer of 1992, when I headed from Boston to Bombay, India with my old pack, duffel bag, and not a clue about what I was about to get into.  At least now I’d be 14 years the wiser and with more money to lose.

Los Angeles is an engaging place.  I could live there…wait, no I couldn’t.  Things I like about the place:

-There are dozens of roadside Iranian/Persian diners all over LA.  You’d probably actually have to be Iranian to distinguish these places from the usual kebab and curry type joints…but I do think it’s cool that they’re around.  And while I didn’t have a chance to duck into one, I somehow doubt that anyone in there is talking about enriched uranium.

-When I was a greenhorn management consultant on my first project, I was based in LA and used to eat a couple times a week at a timeless place next to my firm’s Santa Monica office known as Bob Burns Steakhouse.  The chief benefit was proximity, but the place did have solid steaks and stiff martinis – and one night an ex-actress (more likely, an XXX-actress) asked if she could move in with me.  That hasn’t happened since.

-The best thing about LA is that you don’t see endless cohorts of Gap-clad dorks sporting light-colored khakis and Polo shirts.  There’s nothing worse than having to shield your eyes in Boston or NYC from guys wearing cream-colored pants – you know what I mean.  In LA people have an edgier sense of fashion, and generally look cool.  I wouldn’t be afraid to enter the average guy or girl in LA in a Global Fashion Contest – an Italian or Aussie might take first place, but the LA entrant would put up a fight. 

-A related point:  I’m not sure I believe in any sort of afterlife, but if I do, my conception of heaven & hell is a relativistic one.  In other words, my version of heaven features good music, good coffee, decent threads, people who speak proper English/other languages, and various X-rated aspects you can probably work out.  But for someone else, they might care much more about sitting around gossiping, having 24/7 hair salons, driving a Hummer, etc.  If there is any sort of heaven out there, then there might be 6.5 billion of them…otherwise, it wouldn’t really be ‘heaven,’ would it?  And tying this back to my previous point, I could imagine a heaven much like LA where I’d be pretty happy most of the time.

I had a 9-hour layover in LA, which I characteristically loaded up with activities.  I rented a car and drove to Santa Monica, where I had my share of (mis)adventures 9 or so years ago.  I met my B-school friend Amy (Eiselman) Ritz for lunch and caught up with her.  She’s quite busy raising her 2 kids and working on projects when she has a moment.  I walked around Santa Monica pier and studiously avoided the junk-food stalls and rickety carnival rides.  And I strolled through the lobby of the Miramar hotel, where I stayed when working in LA all those years ago.  The ghosts of many bottles of California cabernet Sauvignon called out to me as I walked by the lobby restaurant.

I then met my friend Joan Chu for dinner.  Joan was my first boss at Monitor Group and showed me how to ‘do consulting.’  We ended up working together for the better part of a year, and I was sad to leave her and the LA office to return to Boston and the cream-colored pants squad over there.  Joan brought her adorable son Conor and a buddy of his – we dropped them off at a child-care center (sort of a romper room) and had a nice Italian meal in the sunshine.  I think that Joan embodies the LA sense of cool – she never seems stressed, has an incredible sense of humor, and is good-natured beyond belief.  We sat around telling jokes and drinking wine…it felt a bit surreal, given that I soon had to hop on a flight to Melbourne.

Driving back to LA Airport, I recalled the time I had to fly from LA to Boston on a redeye that departed LA at 10 p.m.  I was late leaving Santa Monica and didn’t have time to waste.  The kicker was that I had to return a rental car, and the roads/signs around LAX were so confusing that I drove around for precious minutes trying to work out where the damned Avis lot was.  I finally found it, flagged down a cab to race me over to the terminal, and made the flight with about 5 minutes to spare.  These days, that wouldn’t happen – you’d still be removing your belt and shoes in the X-ray queue while the flight was taking off.  And speaking of X-ray queues, I’m always fascinated by those signs listing airports that are deemed insecure.  Years ago I always saw Murtala Muhamad Airport in Lagos, Nigeria listed at Logan Airport in Boston.  I think that Athens also made that list.  I don’t know who decides the list, but whoever they are hit the nail on the head with Lagos – you’re lucky to make it out of that airport with your baggage and all of your limbs.  This time, in LA, I noticed that Bali’s airport, known as Bandarah Ngurah Rai Airport (naturally) was on the shit list.  I’d been there and didn’t see any real problems, although at the only ATM in the building I inserted my cash card and waited at least 7 nervous minutes while the machine decided what to do…eventually spitting out scores of grimy Indonesian rupiah which I gave out to nearly everyone I met over the course of several days there.    

When I checked in for my flight to Australia, the counter lady surprised me by telling me I was going to Auckland, New Zealand.  Turned out that my Melbourne flight had a brief stop there which I didn’t know about.  These cheapo award tickets always seem to include every possible stop before you get to where you want to go.  If they could have routed me through Tonga and the Solomon Islands they probably would have done so.

On the flight I had a weird dream about various types of luggage tags I had seen and/or used over the years.  I also thought about the fact that I was ‘losing’ June 1 – when you fly to Australia you pass over the International Date Line and you usually jump to the next calendar day.  Kind of like when Pope Gregory (or was it Julian?) deleted a few days from the old calendar to get the days aligned with the sun.  Anyway, those were pretty boring thoughts and I think I’ll stop this posting right here.