Insert pirate joke here.

Boating in Australia and New Zealand is incredibly popular and often the best way to see the sights.  Surrounded by water, the good people of Oceania have figured out how to incorporate boats into tourism, entertainment, and daily transport.  I've always loved being on boats, and we've been super jazzed to be afloat exponentially more than usual since being down here.

Our last night in Sydney, we stayed with the Brightons in Cronulla.  Barb is the big sis of one of my besties from SU.  We went out for a sail and a dip; wine, cheese, and sunset included.  It was awesome! Only Dave had the stones to dive in from the mast. Made us want a sailboat.  And to know how to sail a sailboat.

From Auckland, we took a day trip to Waiheke island and hiked all over it, often through private property, which the locals graciously endorse.  Its beautiful and WASPy and nautically themed.  Apparently there are also white sand beaches there, but we hoofed it to the south shore where there were ruins of old boats, an equestrian club, and plenty of strangers' dogs to accost. 

After Auckland, we headed north to the Bay of Islands.  We stayed in an amazing cottage (Sunseeker Cottages in Paihia, if ever you're in the 'hood) overlooking a valley and tooled around the area for a few days.  We saw a ton of stuff and really dug it up there, so perhaps that bit merits a separate post.  One of the days, we went out on the boat pictured below for a day-long sail around the islands.  We anchored in a bay for a swim, a hike to a bluff vista, and a picnic lunch on deck. 

Once on the South Island of NZ our first itinerary item was a trip to Milford Sound.  About 4 hours from Queenstown on the windy-est roads since Pai, we took the early boat out because we'd read there would be less traffic on the water.  We basically had the joint to ourselves.  It was a quiet and nature-filled few hours as we traveled through the sound and were reunited with our old buddy, the Tasman Sea. 

We'll likely only be land lubbers for a few more days before we head to the Cook Islands, where we'll be in and on water for almost a month.  We'll be taking a break from cultural exploration and replacing visits to temples and climbing up shit with snorkeling and competitive seafood eating.  Expect scintillating tales of tan lines from the South Pacific...

The one where I complain about Australian food, or, first world problems

We're in New Zealand now, where people can not only identify raw vegetables, but also enjoy eating them. Our 2+ months in Oz sometimes felt like a great pre-slaughter fatten up. We didn't love Australian food (save a few outstanding meals), and were told on many occasions that the Aussies weren't too fond of American fare neither. Which poses a question about taste. We all started off as Brits eating, presumably, gruel and salted meats. Have the intervening hundreds of years changed our taste buds so drastically that we can't even recognize the same things as “good”?

My beef with Australian food (pun intended) is the same issue I've had on occasion in the mid-west (no offense Chicagoans, but I think if you dig deep you'll know where I'm coming from). Vegetables are rare and when available, they're cooked, fried, or flavorless. Salads in Australia are often a pile of toppings – bacon, cheese, meats, on a bed of lettuce. “Veg” as defined in the pubs is boiled root vegetables in boiling water juice on a plate. Its gross and my jeans are too tight. Which would be okay if I'd eaten lots of lovely foods. Said jeans were too tight at the end of Tokyo but I earned those 5 lbs through competitive izakaya visiting and shochu cocktailing. After Australia, I just feel used.

Australian food also tends to be criminally under seasoned. There must a hyper effective anti-salt marketing machine at work on the island. The belief is widely held, and was explained to us more than once (unprompted), that fish n' chips is alright unless you add salt at the table. To be clear, deep fried food is okay, salt is not okay. In fact, having gone to MacDonald's at the airport I was surprised to note that the McChicken, with its breading, cheese, mayo, and single lettuce leaf, is a government approved “healthy meal.” Unless, I would suppose, you added salt. Because otherwise there's none in there and you're looking hot like OG Richard Simmons.

And back on the Mid-western tip... The Aussies enjoy their mayo. Its a sweet concoction (more Miracle Whip than Hellman's) and can be used as a substitute for any sauce a chef has included in his menu but never tasted. I had sugary mayonnaise served both as Caesar salad dressing and as Hollandaise.  Just. Why.

As an American, I'm not one to throw stones on the dietary leanings of another country. But when a nation that prides itself on beef chooses not to season or dry age at even the fanciest of steak houses, my vote is going to have to be for the Outback Steak house chain of America. Rather than, say, an actual steak house in the outback.  Which we ate at.  They served "veg."

The Big Rock in the Middle

Before we split from Ozland, we made it to the middle to see Uluru, aka Ayer's Rock.  The tourist industry that's been built in the outback surrounding this giant hunk of earth is astounding. The “Ayers Rock Resort” is the only game in town, encompassing 5 or 6 hotels, car rental service, a jillion restaurants and as many ways to see/attack that rock as a room full of ad execs could've come up with in a brainstorming sesh. 

To wit, you may experience Uluru on foot either on your own or led by an Aboriginal guide. One can ride to it on camel or horse back, over it in a helicopter, around it on an ATV or in tour bus, or dine next to it as the sun sets. These folks are squeezing the figurative blood from the rock that tourists can't get enough of.

Alice Springs is the nearest outback town, about a 5 hour drive from the rock. We'd originally planned to fly there and rent a car but after seeing broadcasts about unrest in the aboriginal camps there and some low grade rioting on the street, we were rethinking.  After a German tourist was stabbed to death and a city wide curfew of 9 pm enstated, we crossed it off the list entirely.

Fortunately, our handy American Airlines miles (virtually useless in the US) allowed us to fly directly into the little airport (called Yuluru) that's been built to service the rock. As the plane bumped its way through and along the runway, I wondered allowed if this whole thing would be a disappointment. Before deplaning, I said to Ed: I think we should prepare ourselves that this could be underwhelming. I mean, its just a rock. Being on the road for this long and seeing top ten itinerary items on a near-daily basis, I thought it important to acknowledge our own jadedness. We're not so easily impressed these days. Mongolia was a long time ago.

After checking into the resort, we wandered about the complex and had a few cocktails at the various bars. We walked to one of the lookout points and had our first real look at the thing. The earlier rain was still streaming down it, making it appear bluish and multi-colored. It seemed almost to pulse on the horizon.  It was fucking huge.

The next morning we collected our little car and drove to the rock. When it came into view in the park, it nearly took my breath away. We pulled the car over about every 45 seconds to stare at it. Once we arrived, we parked and hiked around it. Seeing the huge caves and waterholes and rolling changes in its face up close was surprising, it looks smooth from far away. Every angle gave a new perspective and we giggled our way around it in the outback heat. In short, we fell in love with the rock.

We returned that evening to watch the sunset behind it, and the following morning to see it come back up in front of it. Ed took a ton of gorgeous photos, I've just included this one because you can see the rainbow that appeared during sunrise. Something about Uluru seems animated, or anamorphic. Dippy as it sounds, the hunk of dirt seems to have the personality of a wise and kind old soul. Its so inexplicably huge, and so surrounded by nothing, that its mesmerizing. It kept appearing in the side view mirror, or reflecting itself in Ed's sunglasses. Even when I wasn't looking at it, it seemed to follow me.

On a practical level, if anyone out there ever plans to go, don't book anything through the resort. The prices they quote, and their claims to be the only way are boolsheet. I booked our hotel and rental car online for less than half the price quoted to me by Voyages; apparently their talent for screwing people extends beyond the local tribes. 

We spent less than 48 hours near the rock, and that was probably about enough for us. The overpriced food and false cruise ship atmosphere of the resort felt strangely inappropriate. We could have stayed and stared at that thing for days, but having a limited time together meant appreciating it and filling our eyes with intensity.

Uluru was one of my favorite parts of our trip. I don't know what that thing is, but it is, most certainly, not just a rock. 

Winos

We've recently worked our way back to Sydney from South Australia. We stayed in Victor Harbor, Adelaide and the Barossa Valley. The Barossa area is well known for wine and widely considered to be the premier producer of Shiraz in Australia, if not the world. Ed and I love wine and have, on several occasions, planned trips around visiting wineries and tasting rooms both in the States and afar. We were psyched.

The Barossa lived up to the hype. There is a huge variety of wine produced throughout the region. The folks serving, particularly at the smaller wineries were awesome. The only assholes we ran across were at Peter Lehmann, a major player in the region. That is, the only assholes behind the bar.

By far the most painful folks we ran across while in the Barossa were North Americans. At Torbreck (amazing, if pricey, reds) a couple from Montana were tasting next to us. The dude owned a Vitamin company and was so obnoxious (in anticipation of a glass he'd had before, he said, out loud “this will be like an old friend”) that I was embarrassed for the cellar door worker who had to indulge him.

At Taste of Eden, a gorgeous tasting room for several of the micro-vintners who don't produce enough to have their own room, we were served wine by a gorgeous and fun former ballerina. We so enjoyed talking with her about the wine, and life, and her dog Max, that we were there for almost 2 hours. That is until the most obnoxious Canadian woman (I know, suprising!) showed up. As the husband sweetly tried to chat Ed and I up about New York and our trip, his wife barked “are we tasting or are we just going to talk?” about every 30 seconds. We quickly cut the convo short, said our good byes, and bolted.

In Australia, wine people aren't necessarily wine snobs. A lot of the cellar doors don't have distribution in restaurants or bottle shops, so folks come to taste and to shop. Most of the people working in the tasting rooms seem to love drinking wine more than talking about it, and very few people spit. This is a swallowing country, where its okay to get a little pissed on a bottle. The winemakers consider themselves farmers and the whole vibe is a super laid back rural feeling.

It was disappointing to witness our fellow countrymen taking pains to demonstrate their knowledge of wine to Aussies who really just wanted to pour it and sell it.  Note to visiting Americans: use your grape holes wisely - more drinky, less talky.  Alright?

Australia Hotness on the Internets

As we'll soon be leaving the land down under, I wanted to pass along my hott tips on travel websites for anyone who might travel to this part of the earth.

Hotel Accommodation
wotif.com
lastminute.com.au
roamfree.com
hostelworld.com

Apartment Rentals
airbnb.com - this is where we met our new loveliest friends Ruth & Loren who we stayed with and subsequently missed terribly.  It combines vacation rental with social networking - genius

Car Rentals
discoverycarhire.com.au


Sydney Transportation App for iPhone
tripview.com

Airfare Compare
webjet.com.au

Also, don't be afraid of Vegemite.  Its salty and delicious when taken in small doses.

RBT

Scare tactics are big in Australia. Popular reality TV shows include Bondi Beach Rescue, which follows lifeguards as they pull the nearly lifeless from the surf, RBT (Random Breath Test), which follows cops at a drunk driving check point breathalizing and drug testing drivers, and Border Patrol, where the viewer gets to watch airport interrogations by customs officers. Government sponsored cautionary commercials tend toward the visceral; a smoker coughing in various scenarios until he hacks up blood and is diagnosed with lung cancer; a prisoner in a jumpsuit behind a glass panel inviting viewers to put their hand on the TV screen to experience the closest they'll get to friends and family if convicted of drug-driving (that's a thing); a children's birthday party where Nicky is noticed missing while the candles are being blown out only to find him drowned in the family pool. And, perhaps most randomly, a lengthy illustrated explanation of how, and how not, to store home-use petrol tanks.

The message here is, if you fuck up, we will most definitely catch you. Which is weird, because I've seen virtually no cops on patrol, especially in the smaller cities and towns we've visited. I sort of guessed the hyperbole was pro-active advertising, until we were cruising out of the Grapians National Park after a hot and vertical 10K hike, only to be pulled over. I knew I wasn't speeding (we've already learned our lesson on that front) and was amused and delighted when asked to blow into a tube! I think the officer knew by my hiking gear and sweat crystals that I hadn't been boozing, and I was somewhat disappointed that the whole interaction lasted less than 30 seconds. I just thought we were going to bro, like he'd congratulate me on my choice of vitamin water over wine or at least offer a fist bump?  He just mumbled G'day and off we went.  Mere minutes later we were checked in to the next motel, car parked, and cracking open a bottle of Tasmanian Rose.

Tasman Island Cruises

I've started to “like” pages on Facebook. This is new for moi, as I've really only been a passive FB user in past and never understood the point of liking until this trip, when our podcast lifelines pointed us to their tweets and FB posts. Now having liked a scant few podcasts, bands, and personalities, I get it: they tell me what's going on, so I don't have to remember to check in on what's going on. Genius!

Just yesterday, I “liked” the Tasman Island Cruise page. Not because I need to receive updates about what's happening on the east coast of Tasmania, but because I want to give them due PR. 

During our time in OZ, people have hammered home a ton of “MUST DOS” - a helicopter ride above Cradle Mountain, harness climbing the Sydney Bridge, ferrying to the Kangaroo Island, I could go on... This is one of the few tourist offerings that we've taken up. And it was worth every penny.

Ed and I were last to board the 40 ft, super maneuverable boat with rubber bumpers because we were, as usual, peeing it forward. As a result, we ended up in the front two seats; the otherwise tough Aussies didn't want to be dampened by sea spray.  Bundled and poncho'd, we were thrilled to be crammed right up front. No heads in Ed's picture, no voices in our ears.

The boat went crazy fast, and soon we were pulling into the rock caves we had glimpsed from above. Each time the skipper steered toward a white water filled hole in the 10 story high rock cliff, my heart pounded. My brain was screaming - “don't go in there” and then, immediately, “go in there."  What came out of my mouth was “WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

We reached Tasman Island to see hundreds of fur seals draped across the rocks and dozens more playing in the water alongside the boat. An albatross with a 6 foot wing span flew past us, and the whole group went nuts.

Our adorable co-captains looked like surfer/models and happily talked about the birds, phyto plankton, and currents throughout the ride. They also handed out Timtams and high fives at the end of the tour. Not one of us disembarked without a smile on our face. Happy as the seals.

Hay-o

The bad news is that I'm terribly behind on updating this blog.  The good news is that the reason for my tardiness is that we've been having a lot of fun in Australia, wandering the hills and socializing with old (like from way back in Thailand) and new friends. 

We're now on the Fleurieu Peninsula in South Australia.  We've been hiking our asses off (sadly not literally) and have seen, like, 50 kinds of kangaroos.  Including albino kangaroos which I'm convinced can see directly into my soul.  Adorably creepy.

Tomorrow we head to Adelaide where we will actually stay in one place for more than 24 hours, giving me time to return several way belated e-mails and catch up on this here blog.  Por favor, stay tuned...

Weather related poetry

We're staying in Cradle Mountain National Park for a few days and the weather has not been conducive to nature loving.  Or even nature making out.   On the upside, the season does change about every 4 minutes.  The I composed these haiku while staring out our cabin window waiting for the sleet to subside so we could get on the trails. 

big hike planned today

sleeting on Cradle Mountain

every fucking time

momentary sun

quick, before it hides again

run for the summit

wilderness village

stupid name for these cabins

but, there's a heater

Tasmanian woods

weatherproofed my new hikies

now, about my face

Old hikies.  No treads left on the heels.

New hikies.  Ready to climb shit.

Are we empty nesters?

I've noticed in the last couple of weeks days, as we tour around Tasmania and stay in caravan parks that we are, on average, the youngest people in any group by approximately 20 years.  I'm not sure what the other 20s & 30s aged travellers are doing, but I'll tell ya, they are not following our itinerary.  I think the Australian tourism machine should recognize and start giving us the pensioner's discount at attractions.  We're clearly the demographic.

A few examples from recent outings:

Historic Richmond Town & Gaol (that means jail in olden times language)
There was a group of fleece-clad photography enthusiasts who had traveled there to take photos of the 17th century prison.  They were probably in their 70s and concerned about the dust mites impacting their photos.  Also complaining about the cold.

Berry picking at the Sorrell fruit farm.  The dining room occupied by a bunch of ancient ladies woofing down scones.  We had the whole strawberry patch to ourselves.  Due to the windy conditions, the rest of the older folks stayed indoors. We were strawberry millionaires.

Ghost Tour of Historic Port Arthur.  We were in a group of about 20 people, the next youngest probably in their late 40s.  I think the scariest element for most of them was the uneven steps at the various historical homes.  I, however, saw a ghost.  For real.

Stops at the rock & water features on the Tasman Penninsula.  A woman tapped on my window in the Tasman arch parking lot who had mistaken me for another woman who was approximately 65. 

Port Arthur Historic Village.  This is where the really really bad convicts went.  The ones who got sent to Australia first for being criminals, but then additionally did something bad in Australia to warrant being locked away with the worst criminals.  Its one of the first prisons in history to test out the theory of reform through limiting contact with other humans.  The walking tour was about a mile, total, and people had to sit down.  No further explanation necessary.

We're back in Hobart now, and I feel like we should go out and do something rowdy, just to re-establish our youth.  Maybe go to a discotheque or a dive bar.  Maybe stay out past 10.  Or maybe not.

Tasmaniacs

Hobart, Tasmania is now seeded my #1 favorite city on earth.  It has all the ingredients for greatness: near water, 200+ year old architecture, a fab food and wine (and whiskey) scene, museums a plenty, and some requisite hipsterness so we feel at home.

We spent 3 glorious days in (mostly) sunny Hobart.  We wandered the historic area by the marina and through Battery Point where the homes haven't changed since the 1800s.  Right next to the marina is a boutique whiskey distillery where they pour some truly outstanding spirits. 

We took a couple of epic walks out of town and were well rewarded for our kilometerage.  One direction took us to the Cascade Brewery, where we sampled and lunched and walked the immaculate 23 acres of gardens.  Its a shame they don't take care of the place:

On our one rainy morning we spent a few hours in the maritime museum where we learned about some of the truly hair-brained shit the Brits did in the name of empire expansion back in the day.  Ed bought a knot tying book and rope in the gift shop and we had some, um, slightly disjointed convos with the salty old volunteer working the till.

North Hobart is where the hipsters live and work and make the arts.  Tomorrow we'll be heading to the home town of a waitress we met there at an AMAZING place called the Raincheque Lounge. We had a lovely chat with her and she recommended Dover and thus tomorrow we will drive to the southern most point of Australia.  Straight shot from there to Antarctica.

This is the post office in NoHo:

There are also plenty of drool worthy boutiques in the neighborhood.  I've done more than a little stalking of these chairs I peeped in a design store in North Hobart.  When I have an income, I will be working out how to adopt one of these to come live with us:

If it weren't half way around the world, we'd be looking for an apartment to rent.

Aubservations

Suprising:

• I bought an Australian tabloid to take to the beach (hahahaha) and it featured not only an interview with a survivor of a great white attack, but also an illustrated guide on how to handle a poisonous spider bite. 
• There is a popular show on TV about the most confusing road intersections in Australia.
• No one has mentioned dingos.

Somewhat surprising: 

• I've not seen an Australian wearing Uggs (boots, slippers, moccs or otherwise).
• Australians are friendly.  Also, opinionated.  In conversations with total strangers we've been told, unprompted, that: New Zealand is not a country, American food is disgusting, and cockroach infestations can not be controlled.  

 Not surprising: 

• Australian hot dogs are delicious.
• The only people I've seen talking loudly on their cell phones have been American.
• Kangaroos are bonkers cute. 

Sydneysiders

People from Sydney call themselves Sydneysiders.  For a people who so lovingly shorten even the most benign of bi-syllabic words, its surprising that these slickers chose to add on when nicknaming themselves.  None the less, 'Siders is what they are, and we traveled amongst them.

Our time in Sydney was fast and furious.  Ed and I spent one day on our own, scaling the Cremorne/Mosman peninsula.  Sydney is so hilly its not uncommon to walk a straight-up staircase to get from one major roadway to another.  Our first day, we hiked around the water line for about 4.5 hours.  I literally had shin splints the next day.  And I'm literally using the word literally correctly.  For once.

The next morning my Mom arrived from NZ.  We crammed the lonely planet top 10 into 2 short days together.  From what we had heard about Sydney, we were expecting a business-y, buttoned up, not our scene city.  In actuality, Sydney is colorful, interesting and has a ton on offer.  When we return we're planning to stay for at least a week to take advantage of the top notch food, the groovy neighborhoods, and the excellent surf schools.  Hopefully I can talk Ed in to seeing an opera too.  I'll wear my fanciest Birkenstocks. 

The 48 hour Sydney circuit went something like this.  Day 1 we took the ferry from Mosman, where we stayed, to Circular Quay (pronounced "key" for reasons unknown).  We strolled the market at the Rocks, walked up and looked out from the harbor bridge, had brewskis at one of the country's oldest pubs, and obligatorily posed for this:

Day 2 we did a coastal hike from Bondi to Coogee Beaches.  Bondi is hip - hot girls, gorgeous graffiti and hard bodies abound.  We ate giant burgers and, smartly, stayed fully clothed in post. There's a nifty outdoor market in Bondi on the weekends where people hock more-interesting-than-usual crap so we trinketed and then set about walking off the beef.  The weather was relatively uncooperative but we were undeterred.  Fortunately, the storms only encouraged the surfers who were out in full force and full wetsuits for our entertainment. 

The railing for the walk is visible in the top left - the whole thing is about 4 miles long:

Non-sequitur...  Having now spent time on several sections of Australian coast, we've been surprised to note how many cemeteries are perched on peaks overlooking the sea.  We've guessed that this has to do with the incredible number of ship wrecks in Australia's history and its general sea-faringness.  In any case, dead folks get some prime real estate in this country.

And back to the plot...  We spent the our last night together at a truly fantastic Japanese joint in Mosman called Toshiya.  The food in Sydney, on balance, was consistently the best we've had here.  For all of Melbourne's braggery about being the food capital of Australia, we had some shit meals there.  We literally didn't have one misstep in Sydney, even when my Mom (bold call) ordered eggs Benedict at the ferry dock cafe in Mosman.

The gang at Toshiya.  I'm shocked that the sushi chef behind us didn't throw out a peace sign):

Thanks for coming to the other side of the world to see us, Mom.  It was the best. 

Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder?

Though dampened, our 9 days in the Gippslands and on the East Coast of Victoria and New South Wales weren't a total wash out.  All that driving gave us a chance to catch up on our podcast listening which had fallen waaaayyyy behind.  The Nerdist ep with Kevin Smith is amazing, btw.  And there were some diary worthy moments, which I thought I'd highlight to balance the amount of bitching I've done about the weather. 

We hadn't stayed in any motels on this trip until we arrived in Australia.  Love motels, yes.  Regular old drive up motels, no.  But here in the exorbitantly more-expensive-than-New York first world, motels are the budge traveling option du jour.  Between the Great Ocean road and our recent coastal road trip, I consider us experts in the pros and cons of motor lodge living.  The joint pictured below was a place called the Sandbar in Lakes Entrance, Victoria.   It was one of my faves.  Clean all around, super nice proprietors, across street from the bay and super duper bonus points for its nautical theme and living room area.  The highlight, though, was the food hatch through which our complimentary breakfast was shoved at the appointed time each morning.  Like prison, but with individual french presses and cloches.

 

One rainy day, we headed to the Killer Whale Museum in Eden, Victoria.  Below is the skeleton of Old Tom, a killer whale and folk hero in Eden.  Tom and his pod assisted the local fisherman by locating, herding and entrapping the Right and Humpback whales they were hunting.  In exchange, Tom and his crew were given first dibs on the carcass, feasting on the lips and tongue.  The fishing boats at the time were tiny and unstable and it was not unusual for one or several crew members to go overboard when a large whale was on the line and thrashing about.  The story goes that when a man was overboard, Tom would swim around the area for protection until he was rescued.  Tom and his pod lived miles off shore in open water but when it was his time to go, Tom swam into the harbor to die near his fisherman friends.  The following fishing season the pod didn't return to aid the fisherman, contributing to the collapse of the local whaling industry.  The exhibit also displayed some bitchin' nautical poetry.

We had a few hours of sun in Narooma and used them to visit a local winery and gab with the crusty old pourer about various means of death by Australian animal.  We bought a bottle of local Sauvignon Blanc, headed to Tailor's BYO fish restaurant, got drunk, and ate the most delicious oysters I've ever had.  Afterwards, we got lost in the dark walking back to the Festival Motel and then babbled to some wasted old Brits in the parking lot.  About astronomy. Good times.

The following day in Narooma, it was sunny and we were practically beside ourselves.  We started with a grueling morning beach hike with a gelato chaser.  By three, we wading in Mystery Bay.  Its hard to tell from the photos but the awesomeness here was swimming in the protected pool made by these giant rock formations while massive waves crashed just behind them.

Small towns in Australia are stuck in the 1950s.  Not in a kitchy or preservationist way.  They just haven't seen the need to change.  Folks stare gape-mouthed at strangers passing through, coffee can take an hour, and pubs like these still offer accommodation for those too drunk or weary to get home after last call. I can't get enough of them.

The day before we arrived in Sydney, there was a break in the weather and we threw on suits and practically skipped to the beach.  We made the ugliest sand castle on record (the blueprint was solid, we failed in the execution) and swam in waves that took my breath away.  Literally.  They were big and the currents were strong and I was simultaneously giggling and trying to avoid drowning.  It was a fantastic afternoon.

People say when you lose one of your senses the others are heightened.  I think this is can be applied to travel.  When the situation-appropriate stimuli aren't available (in this case sun, beach, outside) the mind busies itself noticing what otherwise may have gone unobserved.  On this journey where our minds are regularly blown, there was something refreshing about having so little to do.  I'm awarding 1 travel point to boredom.  And 2 to miniature golf.

Auspitality

After a few days in Melbourne & Philip Island with my Mom, Ed and I had grand coastal plans.  My mom departed for a 9 day tour of New Zealand and we headed for the Gippslands.  We thought we'd use the time my Mom was away to meander up the east coast of the country, meeting back up with her in Sydney.  But before we'd even reached the first beach town on the itinerary, it started to rain.  Of the 9 days that we traced the coast, only one was full sun.  Our plans to alternate ocean swimming and mountain hiking were drowned.  Instead, we spent more than a week walking on beaches in rain gear and looking at the national parks we were meant to be hiking through the wipered windshield.

We met Marvin in Mallacoota.  We'd been looking forward to stopping there since our friends from Melbourne had raved about it.  Max & Siobhan's recommendations had yet to disappoint, so it was high on our list.  Per our luck, it was also pouring. 

We arrived in time for lunch and popped into the most crowded restaurant in town, an Asian noodlery called Lucy's.  One long table had only one occupant so we asked to share.  He obliged and shortly before our bowl of soup came struck up a conversation with the standard "Where are you guys from?"

Marvin told us all about Mallacoota; the shack he's been building in the woods for the last 10 years, canoeing through the narrows, the lakes and beaches and bushwalks that the beautiful town has to offer.  Less than 5 minutes into our acquaintance, he offered us a tour of his property and use of his boat.  We were debating whether to stay the night in town or to use the rainy day to get in a few more hours of driving.  He said that if we decided to stay we should call him and come up for tea.  He tore off a corner of his newspaper, drew us a detailed map to his house, jotted down his cell and headed out.

After lunch we agreed to press on, bought long blacks for the road and unhappily settled back in the car.  Marvin happened to be parked in front of us and was still in town chatting to someone outside the IGA.  He came to our window and offered to show us his place right then and there.  Unsure and slightly suspect but not wanting to offend, we agreed and he hopped into what can only be described as a rape van.  Rusty paint, newspapered-over windows and a bashed in side, he hung his arm out the window as the rain poured in and started to wind through town.

"Are we going to get murdered?" I asked Ed. 

Marvin pulled over abruptly in town and asked us to wait when he spotted someone he'd been meaning to call.  While he was gabbing, another woman pulled up to talk to him.  We decided that since he seemed the defacto mayor of the town and since we'd been seen with him by quite a few Mallacootans (I made that up), we might be safe.

Following the van, we wound along the road that hugs the jagged water line and up into the hills before the rape van pulled over and Marvin's burly arm signaled for us to park on the road.  Another good sign; surely if we didn't return, someone would find our rental car.

We had supposed that Marvin was being modest when he called his place a shack, but actually that was pretty descriptive.  His property is a sloping hill in the woods that boasts a shack with a sleeping loft and two old campers, set at angles down the hill.  Marvin gave us the full tour, moving from the cabin down the slope to the first camper on blocks and finally to the lower camper near the bottom of the property.  Though he'd been nothing but pleasant, my internal monologue was expecting Marvin to fling open the door of the final camper and exclaim "and this is where I keep the trophy heads!" He did no such thing. 

Collecting what others toss, Marvin has created sitting areas, an outdoor shower, and several bird shelters from salvaged material.  He's used a wagon wheel for a potholder, an old sink as a hood vent, disused concrete as a retaining wall.  Some of his ideas were downright ingenious and he seemed happy talk to us about his creations.

On the other hand, the collected crap that hasn't yet been put to use (old water heaters, a pile of bricks, extra bath tubs, TVs, all manner of dilapidated furniture) is lying around on the property, giving it a Sanford & Sonsian vibe.  While we loved his enthusiasm for bird watching, tinkering and industrial repurposing, the place was a bit junkyardesque. 

Having spotted several instruments in the main cabin, I asked Marvin what he did for a living.  He said "mostly music stuff" and mentioned that he'd been in a band at one time.  A bit further on in the conversation he said he'd met his now-girlfriend 20 years ago while touring and recently reconnected. 

As the mosquitos had begun to attack and we'd shown as much interest in the mad inventor as we could muster, Ed and I began to make wrap up noises and move back up the hill.  We thanked Marvin for the tour, exchanged email addresses, and motored.

That night, I got an e-mail from Marvin restating his offer to borrow his canoe if we'd decided to stay in town.  Last name in print, I started google stalking.  It wasn't hard.  Marvin was a member of a hugely popular Aussie bands in the 90s and is highly praised instrumentalist.  Dumbfounded, I watched a video of the bands' one big chart topper to see a 20 years younger Marvin dancing around the streets of Melbourne.

Suspending our usually firmly held suspicion led us to a strange and lovely afternoon and an interaction with a super gracious and generous local.  The next time I recall a beloved band from my youth and wonder "whatever happened to..." I will think of Mallacoota Marvin, tiling a fish mural on the bathroom wall in his shack in the woods.  Inviting up strangers from the noodle shop to be his audience.

(I changed his name to Marvin because he's actually famous enough that googling just his real first name and the Mallacoota yields pages and pages) 

Q&A

Our good friend Cor sent these questions about Oz, which I had to post full answers to.  This way, we all benefit from my learnin':

1. does the toilet/sink water drain in reverse?
I just tried to confirm this for you, but I have to admit my experiment failed.  Its really hard to tell.  I haven't gotten any good whirlpool action in the sink and the toilet water goes straight down.  That said, some very triangular shit happened in my brain the first week we were here.  I was consistently confusing left & right, north and south, and continue to wake up in the middle of every night for no apparent reason.  There are definitely gravitational/hemispheric forces at work.

2. are the animals nice?  i have heard that aussies think of koala's as we do pigeons.
The animals are so rad and seemingly friendly.  I'd say that the analog to pigeons at home are parrots here.  I've seen people feeding parrots and cockatoos from their hands and old people throwing seed for them from park benches.  The birds are, literally, the breeds sold in pet stores so its both amazing and disconcerting to see them perched on telephone lines.  Initially I kept thinking that the entire country's pet parrots had staged a massive jail break. 

Most of the Ozzies we've talked to about them are pretty infatuated with the koalas, so I think they're more synonymous with badgers or a hedgehogs or something furry like that.  Koalas don't really do anything except eat eucalyptus and nap.  They're basically cuteness professionals, which I think makes them universally lovable. 

3. are you safe from the crazy weather that seems to be on that continent?  I have no concept of the geography there or size.
The weather here is as extreme as the sports.  Cyclones, typhoons, bush fires, flooding, plus a 10 year drought - it seems like something nasty crops up daily.  Its the only place I've traveled where I have to watch the news to avoid meandering into a random cataclysmic act of God.  Thus far we've been lucky to avoid anything major.  Though we have had cyclone-related rain and non-cyclone related bush fires for the last 9 days.  Which hasn't been ideal for touring the coast line.

Thanks for reading, Cor.  We miss you guys!

Last post about the Ocean, the Road, the Greatness, mmkay?

If I were reading a travely blog and an author who had previously devoted, say, 3 posts to an entire country had decided to dedicate a full weeks' worth of entries to her time driving around looking at agua, I'd be nap ready.  In a world of information availability, sensory overload, and imagery barrage where our imaginations are becoming an obsolete tool, spending a full 6 days driving alongside the sea to stare at various rock/wave combos sounds like a visit to yawn town, yes?

But at each of our many stops a watery soap opera was unfolding and it was damn riveting.  I'll concede that I'm all stocked up on the light houses, but the immensity and deafening sound of the ocean continues to enthrall me.  Since we've been in Australia, I can't imagine the number of hours the sea has stolen from my days.  I wouldn't have it any other way.

Ed's posted some sick vids and tons more on flickr, but here is are some sample stills stolen (as usual) from his collection:

That's not one of us, but we'd been on the edge of that rock about 10 minutes prior and were pretty pleased to have exited stage right before the tide came in.

The 12 Apostles are the main attraction.  They were cool, but we liked Loch Ard Gorge better.  Its the Epcot to the Apostles Disney.

Penny & I demonstrate scale at Gibson's steps.

To wrap up our tour of the Mornington Penninsula, the Bellarine Penninsula, and the Great Ocean Road, we classed it up with a visit to Cheeseworld in Allansford.  We were disappointed to find that Cheeseworld lacked a sense of irony and didn't peddle kitch.  But, my Mom got to relive her midwestern childhood in the farming museum, Ed bought a hat, I posed for this, and we all ate mad cheddah.

BINGO!

To say the wildlife here is notable would be an understatement the size of the indigenous saltwater crocodile.  The creatures that roam Australia are like mutant versions of recognizable animals.  Alien beasts thrive here and they're specialized; the cutest animals, the killingest animals, the highest hopping, the strangest looking - the critters are the yearbook superlatives of zoology. 

Last night, driving along the 90 mile beach road looking for a motel (which there wasn't because despite our assumptions, not every beach town on earth is like the Jersey Shore) I completed Australian animal bingo when we nearly ran over a wombat with our shiny new Mitsubishi Lancer.

I'm not counting anything I've seen in captivity, so... I've got:
Koala
Kangaroo
Poisonous Snake (...)
Echindna
Wombat
Parrot
Black Swan
Wallaby

No dingos or emus yet, but I'm on the hunt.  The one I'd really heart to spot is a platypus (its got feet like a duck but its furry) but they're squirrely little guys. 

My heart gives out from a saccharin overdose:

Oh, and just FYI, Australians don't have a very self-deprecating sense of humor.  I haven't made a dingo-ate-my-baby-joke, but its not for lack of want.  I just don't think it would kill.  And while I'm dispelling myths from down under, Foster's is NOT Australian for beeeyah.  Served.

Great Ocean Road Continued. And continued.

Days 3-5 on the GOR, we tried to mix it up between the coastline and inland roads.  The area is known for farming and has a self-proclaimed "gourmet trail" running inland from the Tasman Sea.  On Day 3 I aimed to agendize us with something for everyone: a hike for me, koalas for mom, an epicurean moment for Eduardo.  As it turned out, I was easily as obsessed as Penny with the marsupials, my Mom hasn't stopped raving about the lunch, and Ed happily lead us (to scare away the snakes) on our romp through the woods. 

Gentle Annie's is a farm and cafe that we stumbled upon while driving after our hike to Erskine Falls.  We were starved and followed cutie hand painted sandwich boards perched along gravel roads in the middle of cow-grazin' land.  By the time we arrived none of us was picky, but we could have been because we were served one of the best meals we've had in Australia.  And while I'm on the subject, may I just say that this place is pretty effing hit or miss food-wise.  Huge portions and price tags can be counted on, but its a small number of meals we've had that surpassed mediocre.  Oh, and never go to a "Mexican" restaurant here.  We've tried twice and the food has been borderline inedible.  At $25 for a vegetable burrito, I'm thinking that Chef Ole could dress it up with something superior to tomato paste.  Blergh. 

Oh, but Gentle Annie's!  A cafe tucked into a working berry farm, serving locally sourced dairy, wine and produce and baking the roof off in-house.  I ate a beef burgundy meat pie with a local shiraz and happily/stuffedily nodded off in the car before we reached the end of the driveway.  At 3:30 pm.  A moment of sheer travel kismet.

 Country Sweetness

The Ploughman's Lunch.  Bet you can guess who the ploughman at our table was...

Later that afternoon, we reported to Kennett river for koala watching.  True to Australian form, the koalas were in the trees noted in the brochure from tourist info at the appointed time.  They were pretty high up and a bit hard to see, but for tiny-brained animals, I had to applaud their punctuality.  Those little guys hit their mark more reliably than a chorus line.

There's a reason its not called the "Alright Ocean Road"

Yesterday we concluded a full 4 days on the Great Ocean Road.  Ed piloted our sessy slate Toyota Corolla around windy, sheer cliffs, up gravel mountain passes, and through countless beachside towns.

We started our journey in Torquay at the Surf Museum where we learned that surfers in the 60s were really skinny and smoked a lot of weed.  We followed this up with the obvious visit to Bell's Beach, where major surf competitions are held.  Unfortunately we arrived mid-afternoon and there weren't any wave riders to ogle.  I think they prefer to ride at dusk when the white sharks feed.

We stopped in the town of Anglesea because we had read that kangaroos hung out on the golf course.  I wasn't holding my breath, because I figured this was like promising a dear spotting in Connecticut - like, the odds are pretty good, but there's no guarantee one is going to show up.  Apparently Australian animals are more predictable:

After checking the first animal off of our Australian wildlife bingo cards, we motored on to Aireys Inlet to see our 2nd or 3rd lighthouse of the day.  This one was mighty impressive; my Mom and I surmised that high gloss paint was employed.

As my FB brethren know, bookings here have been a bit of challenge due to the summer holidays and "the tennis."  So I was a little uneasy when the only affordable accommodation I could source that afternoon was at a "tourist park" in Wye River.  Limited on time and options, and with both Ed and Penny boring holes into my brain across the picnic table, I called.  I used my nicest Yankee manners to get a break on the price, and booked us into a cabin at the campsite.  After an obesity inducing dinner in Lorne (never order a large anything in Australia.  never ever ever) we hopped in the car for the final leg to the campground and held our breath as we pulled in.

Our 2 bedroom cabin was located on "Koala Road" within the camp and as we pulled up, we were all very quiet.  I think, as Americans, we might be slightly, snottily, predisposed when it comes to motor homes and the like and this place was full of them.   Imagine our surprise when we unlocked the door to find the tidiest, most spacious, well equipped, shiny new rooms we've inhabited in months.  After the best night of sleep we'd had in ages, complimentary coffee and mind bogglingly good muffins from the "world famous" general store at the bottom of the road, we continued down the coast for day 2 of epic views and wild water.  Rugged! G'day!