overlanding

To call the rolling grassy hills picturesque, broken up as they are by winding fence, bits of rock, small tufts of trees, and everywhere dotted with sheep, to call these hills picturesque sells short the landscape I find myself moving through. From time to time, our train runs parallel to the road, and the colorful menage of vehicles that keep pace with our locomotive help to define the locale: pick-up trucks weighted down with the tools of the land, antique cars reinforcing the nostalgic atmosphere, and the odd motorcycle gracefully hugging the winding dirt road. Everywhere there that grass grass can grow, there are sheep, and the grass seems to grow everywhere. In broad strokes it paints the hillside, while in narrow slivers it follows the contours of clifsides and riverbeds. There are 60 million sheep in New Zealand, and I can hardly imagine an environment better suited to theses well-insulated fluffy lawnmowers.

Green fields and pastures.

Where streams and little rivers cut into the green earth, a dramatic display of elevation in the miniature scale contrasts against the great peaks and valleys of the background. All around me is beauty.

As I rode the train, the sunny day gave way to a spot of rain, which turned to snow as we reached into the higher elevations. But this bit of precipitation, and the corresponding cloud cover, would quickly vanish as we steamed our way north. I was on the Overlander, New Zealand's most famous rail line, which connects the political and cultural capital of Wellington with Auckland, the country's metropolitan hub. While both cities are on the North Island, Wellington and Auckland are situated at the southern and northern extremes respectively. This distance, coupled with the occasionally sluggish speed of the train as it steamed up the mountain track, makes the overland journey an all day affair. Now that budget airlines have taken up residence in New Zealand many are wondering if the 12-hour long Overlander service will be able to attract enough customers to stay viable. The line was already shut down some years back amidst a fury of local indignation. New Zealanders seemed adamant that the Overlander should keep running, and they asserted this by buying out all available tickets on the Overlander in the final weeks of its operation. Initially, this did not seem to be enough, and the line was closed for a number of years before resuming service. The Overlander is still on shaky ground, so I was glad for the chance to avail myself of it before services is shut down for good.

Sheep-dotted hills.

For my part, I share in the extreme disappointment felt by New Zealanders faced with the close of their historic rail line. The train ride may not be the most economical way of getting from Wellington to Auckland, or visa versa, but the experience of riding through the New Zealand countryside is so fantastically memorable that I would have likely paid for the ride even if it rain in circuit. Of the many unique amenities provided by the Overlander, one of the best is the observation car. This small, open air deck exposes brave, camera-wielding passengers to panoramic views of the countryside. Those seeking a smilar experience, with all the comforts of indoor living, can recline in the rear-facing lounge whose all-glass rear wall affords generous views of the surrounding landscape.

More greenery.

I was generally more disposed to the open air observation car, and I would alternate my time between capturing scenic vistas in the open air, and relaxing in the totally-empty front carriage. I suppose I can understand the budget crisis faced by the Overlander when an entire carriage is left without paying customers, but I certainly enjoyed having all the room to myself. Ordering a mince pie and a beer from the dining car, I took my light lunch to my private carriage (as I saw it) and enjoyed the classic Down Under meal while sunlight streamed through the train windows.

Mince pie and beer... delicious.

About four hours into the trip, we stopped at a small skiing town, all but abandoned as the summer months crept ever closer in New Zealand. It was a nice break to be able to walk around outside and explore the town, which simply choked of nostaligic wintersport appeal, but soon the train's whistle blew and I climbed back on board for the continued journey.

Tracing a river.

Every once in a while, one of the cheerful train conductors woudl get on the public address system and point out what was meant to be an interesting landmark. These addresses were made when passing along record-breaking bridge expanses, or tallest mountains, but also pointed out in our journey was New Zealand's largest coal-burning power plant, a variety of gardens the conductor found particularly appealing, and choice places to relocate if you were considering a move. I was admittedly charmed to bits that anyone could dote about the size and capacity of a coal-burning power plant, and soon I was listening for the crackle of the PA system, eager to learn another bit of Kiwi anecdote.

Nearing the end of the line.

And that is largely how I spent my day. I would take a few pictures from the observation car, retreat to my carriage to do some light reading, nibble on snacks while listening to the conductors, and generally take in the astoundingly beautiful scenery. Soon the sun began to set, and as I saw the skyline of Auckland appear on the horizon, I knew the journey would coming to a close. We pulled into Auckland right on time, and I stepped off the Overlander, the last passenger to do so, having more than enjoyed my day steaming through New Zealand.

beef in wellington

Three hours hours after falling asleep, I woke up to my final morning in Sydney Australia. You may remember, if you follow the intricate details of my blog with a near stalker-like interest, that I set my alarm to wake me up after four hours of sleep. But my brain, in all its intricate wonder, has a habit of waking me up before the time I set for alarms. I rarely rise out of bed when this preemptive consciousness strikes, and so I was left to sit there in the semi-dark, contemplating the benefits of pursuing an extra hour of sleep. In the end, I staggered up, crept quietly passed the sleeping hulks in the bunks around me, and allowed the alternating freezing cold and scorching heat of the hostel shower to bring me into my full senses. I then quietly extricated my half-packed bags from the room and nosily packed them in the hallway. Kneeling down to zip a final side pocket, I felt a tear in my pants, and realized that I had ripped a hole in the knee of my jeans. Annoyed, but unable to take any immediate action to rectify this, I hauled my luggage downstairs where I was able to catch an early morning breakfast before my shuttle bus arrive.

Sitting in the nearly abandoned meal room (there was one other hostel goer up and about, under circumstances similar to my own) I suddenly felt the compulsion to repair my jeans. I had all of ten minutes before my shuttle bus was scheduled to arrive, and so I tore an iron-on mending kit from my bag, and rushed to the laundry room to heat up the iron. Seven minutes later, my pants were mended, and I was feeling pretty good about myself right up until I reentered the meal room and realized that the shuttle had just arrived and they were impatiently waiting for me. Rushing to put my shoes back on (such things need to be taken off if one is to repair jeans you understand) I broke the fragile left lace, damaged in the fireplace mishap in Nepal a month ago. Cursing this misfortune, I hastily gathered together my luggage, and fumbled out to meet the shuttle. Leaving the hostel into an early morning rain, I managed to get on board and we were soon underway. Jerry-rigging my lace to hold my boot tight, I was soon stepping off the shuttle bus into Sydney International Airport, still feeling a bit disheveled.

I clumsily checked in at the Air New Zealand booth, and cleared security with such swiftness and ease that I found myself with plenty of time, far too much in fact, to look around the Duty Free and the various other airport shopping offerings. While I would avail myself of none of these offerings, I did learn a great deal more than I expect I needed to about the collection and processing of merino wool, as well as the myriad of different semi-useful things one can knit it into - if anyone has been looking for doggy leg warmers made from 100% Australian Merino Wool, I saved a business card.

On board the airplane, I was treated to one of the more impressive in flight entertainment systems I've yet come across, and having my pick of recently released films, I chose Frost/Nixon - this over Transformers 2: Revenge of the Fallen, under the theory that if you're going to go through the labor of watching a Michael Bay film, where the only redeeming values are the digital editing and explosions, an eight inch screen is hardly the proper medium. Frost/Nixon is definitely worth a look if you missed its release onto DVD, bearing in mind that I am a political science student, and anything I say about the fascinating qualities of politics or economics should be taken with a grain of salt; more on this later. For the time, Frost/Nixon got me through most of the three hour plane ride to New Zealand, and when we landed I had to hurriedly fill out the immigration card they provided me upon entering the aircraft.

New Zealand is famous for inventing the bungee jump, its fruits and birds beginning with "kiwi", and a fanatical obsession with keeping out anything that might be seen as an invasive or dangerous threat to their ecosystem. Germans were forbidden entry through the 1970's. So I was more than a little nervous at coming up to the immigration desk with a suitcase full of souvenirs that would provide textbook examples of "tree products", "food items", and "things derived from the sea." The "Instant $300 Fine!" sings didn't help to steady my nerves. I had half-heatedly declared that I was carrying certain things that may not be allowed into the country, as a way of safeguarding myself from the consequences of a random search, while still avoiding the heartbreaking loss of some memorabilia that has been with me throughout my travels. In the end, my scheme worked (I sure hope no one from New Zealand's Immigration Security reads my blog) and I managed to sneak passed after a short round of questions, during which I honed my political skills by never once lying.

Feeling really really good about making it into New Zealand, I turned my attention to the task of making it into Wellington. In this I was assisted by the most helpful non-human entity I've come across in my travels: a touch screen computer that I identified my hostel, placed a call into reception, then printed me out a little map of how to get there. I was so happy to have this machine, which by rights should fall into the long line of "things that seem like they should work well, but don't", that I took a picture of it:

Note the little receipt-like map that had printed out below.

Boarding a bus into town, I enjoyed the first and only free public wifi I've found in all of New Zealand. The bus ride took less than twenty minutes, though this was long enough to get my laptop out, boot up Skype, and place a truly mobile call back home to let my parents know I had arrived safely in New Zealand. I made it to the hostel without incident, checked in, dropped off my bags, and set out to explore Wellington. I wouldn't realize it until later, while I was flipping through an atlas at a local book store, but I had now arrived in the southernmost capital city in the world, having started out in Reykjavik, the northernmost capital city in the world. The two cities are almost exactly on the other side of the world from each other, but Wellington bore an almost uncanny similarity to Reykjavik, and I really enjoyed just walking around the city.

At one point, a fine mist that had been coming down from the sky finally turned into the barest definition of rain long enough to become affected in the most dazzling way by the strong winds coming off the harbor. These tiny rain droplets danced in the sky, moving from side to side and coming at me from all angles as they were tossed about in the shifting winds. Behind me, a rainbow formed out of the swirling mist, and the whole thing was rather magical, if a bit cold.

Faded in the bright light of the afternoon, the rainbow was still clearly distinguishable.

I took refuge from the wind and rain in Te Papa, New Zealand's free National Museum, which is basically the entire Smithsonian complex of museums rolled into one big harborside building. Much of Te Papa involves a rather childish interactive quality to the exhibits, lifting latches, and being rattled by mock earthquakes, so suffice to say I loved it. I was hardly the only person there taller than a yard stick who seemed to be getting a kick out of the exhibits, as Kiwis (the people, not the birds or the fruit) seem to have a very playful approach to life that no doubt comes from lives lived in desperate isolation and sheep.

Te Papa was really cool, but I had come near to closing time. So, vowing to return, I headed back into the fresh New Zealand air to continue my explorations... only to find everything else closed. It turned out that this particular Monday was New Zealand's Labor Day, and so the only things that were open were the National Museum and the grocery stores. Having seen the National Museum, I naturally made my way to the grocery store. There I chanced on a ludicrously low-priced cut of beef tenderloin, that I spent the next half hour fashioning a meal around. It took the purchase of two slices of bacon at the deli, the procurement of two kebab sticks from the meat lady, and the acquisition of lettuce, potatoes, and ginger ale, but I soon had everything I would need to prepare two meals of filet mignon on a backpacker's budget. Everything, that is, except a stove. For some unfathomable reason, the hostel's kitchen had no less than twelve electric ranges (none of which worked with any consistency) and not a single stove or broiler. So after halving the steak and wrapping it in bacon, I cooked one portion in a covered pot with as much success as I should expect to get from the troublesome electric range.

Wandering through Wellington.

Wires for the tram stand out against the colors of twilight.

Dinner was pretty much the highlight of my evening, as after enjoying it I opted for an early night in. The next morning, and in fact most of the next day was dedicated to a proper visit of Te Papa, where I wandered through interesting and interactive exhibits, the likes of which I have never come across in my many museum-going years. Highlights of the visit included an exhibit featuring interactive architecture, a good - if goofy - summery of race relations in New Zealand between the Maori and the colonists, a large and inexplicable section dedicated to the Scottish in New Zealand, and the Colossal Squid. The Colossal Squid was entertaining for a number of reasons, none of which had to do with the squid itself. First of all, the amount of media coverage of the hooking of this squid was only matched by the fascination exhibited by museum-goers over this specimen of the deep. Where Americans would have seen a large, but otherwise unimpressive portion of calamari, New Zealanders have build an entire exhibit around the squid - which is now preserved in formaldehyde - featuring a documentary on it's capture, a build-your-own-squid interactive game, and - no joke - a 3D film complete with glasses that follows a supposed telling of the squid's daily life up to its capture by a local fisherman.

For all of this, Te Papa has earned my endearing love, and as a way of giving back to the museum that provided me with so much entertainment - not to mention squid-based factoids - I ate lunch at the famously over-priced museum cafe. My seafood chowder was, well, certainly full of food from the sea, though the beverage I paired with it helped to redeem an otherwise mediocre meal. After finishing the late lunch, I left Te Papa to continue my exploration of Wellington. Stopping by the tourist information center, closed the day before in observance of the holiday, I procured a number of useful brochures for planning out my remaining time in Wellington, then skipped over to the local library which was reported to be rather impressive. The library was actually very impressive, though I am hardly the type to run halfway around the world just to plunk down in front of a book all afternoon while there are sites to see and adventures to be had. So I left the library and continued to wander on to little if any circumstance until the sun started to get low in the sky. Hoping to find a good view of the sunset, I started climbing one of the hills that circle the city, and so began an hour-long distraction through the heights of Wellington.

Franks: a damn good drink.

The sun setting over New Zealand.

Having successfully obtained a few decent pictures, I made my way back to the hostel where I enjoyed a second night of filet mignon, much to the jealousies of my fellow hostel-goers. After dinner I shared a few beers with one of my roommates while I regaled him with tales of my adventure, and I am comfortable saying that New Zealand has by far the best beer of any country I have visited during my trip. While Belgium will likely never be dethroned from beer eminence, I place New Zealand right up there with the best of them.

Monteiths's Summer Ale: another damn good drink, though unlike Frank's, it doesn't see fit to advertise this point.

I woke up to a hot bowl of porridge on my last full day in Wellington. That is, I woke up, dressed, walked down to the the kitchen, and prepared it for myself - this wasn't the Ritz or anything. The calories earned by the porridge would be seriously taxed by my itinerary for the day, which started with a walk over to the Parliament Building. While I had been called on to give tours of the European Parliament Building in Brussels, I have never myself taken a tour of a foreign central government building. But New Zealand's government fascinates me. Here, in one of the most geographically isolated countries in the world, has flourished a liberal democracy that has afforded its citizens one of the highest standards of living in the world, despite historically violent and reasonably recent breakdowns in race relations between the European settlers and the local Maori. Yet today New Zealand boasts a system of universal health care, defacto free university education for anyone willing to stay in the country after graduation, and original inhabitants who are well represented in everything from the government to the core culture of the country. The United States, I feel disappointed to report, can lay claim to no such achievements.

"The Beehive", part of the Parliament Building.

Outside of the macro level achievements of the New Zealand government, I learned of two interesting features of their structure and procedure during the tour - I interject again my caveat about the relative interest of government procedure to me as compared to the rest of the world. The Parliament of New Zealand was founded as a bicameral legislature with an upper house: the Senate, and a lower house: the House of Representatives. Curiously, they adopted the British name for the legislative body, and the American name for the houses. However, when it became painfully clear that the Senate, a body that in function had more in common with the House of Lords than the US Senate, were almost totally corrupt and useless, they threw the goons out. And this was not on a Senator-by-Senator basis, the government took the necessary steps to completely dissolve the Senate, rendering the Parliament of New Zealand as one of the few unicameral legislatures in the developed world.

New Zealand's most famous Prime Minister, you've probably never heard of, died on June 10th as the last of a string of terrible happenings for New Zealand on that date in the 19th century.

This take-no-crap attitude toward government extends into lawmaking. Contrary to what Schoolhouse Rock's Mr. Bill may have told you, the process of going from a bill to a law in the United States is rather convoluted. Ordinarily a bill is introduced on the House or Senate floor, and then it is referred to the appropriate committee or subcommittee - groups of Congressmen or Senators with a specialization in say: Agriculture, Foreign Relations, or Daisy Planting. Subcommittees are where bills go to die. This is the easiest place to allow a bill to languish obscurity, and this is the fate of the majority of legislation before the House and Senate. Congressmen in New Zealand do not have this luxury. Every single piece of legislation that has been introduced on the House floor and referred to the appropriate select committee - as they are known there - must be reviewed by the committee and passed through to a vote within six months. Extensions are occasionally granted if there is an outpouring of popular interest in the bill which leads more public addresses before the select committee - another fascinating practice of the New Zealand government - but usually the committees are treated as though they are comprised of mature adults who can be expected to make the deadlines imposed upon them.

Aside from all the procedural stuff, the tour of the Parliament was impressive simply because of the incredible Victorian architecture that graced the interior of the buildings. All recently restored after a fire, countless stained glass windows, intricately carved wood, and abundant gold leaf come together to form a spectical in nearly every room. Unfortunately, cameras are not allowed inside, so I will have to leave it to you to visit for yourself.

When I finally left the Parliament, I had in mind a tour of the Weta Effects Studio, the people who are responsible for the costume and effects of many major films, most notably the Lord of the Rings Trilogy. Based right here in Wellington, their studio is in the coastal borough of Mirimar, which was only a few inches away from the Parliament building on my map. So I headed off into the hills, oblivious to the distance I was attempting to traverse. I walk at a brisk pace, and so to finally stagger into the Weta Cave - as it's known - three hours after leaving the Parliament is a testament to both the terrain of New Zealand, and the proximity (or lack thereof) of Mirimar. Admittedly, it was largely a pleasant walk, taking me into the hills high above Wellington and affording me fantastic views of the harbor. But near to the end of the walk, as I traversed a kilometer or so of windswept coast, bordered by the four lane highway, I was more than ready to arrive at my destination.

The winding coastal road that traces the Wellington harbor.

Walking along the windswept beach.

The Weta Cave was pretty interesting - perhaps not worth the three hour walk, but all the same. They had several displays showcasing the various props and costumes they had made, as well as a wonderfully goofy video showcasing the different effects work they had employed over the years. I've never been one for miniatures, so I left the gift shop empty handed, but still enjoyed the time I spent there.

Paintings hung on the ceiling of the Weta Cave.

One of the more famous creations of the good people at Weta.

My walk from Parliament had taken me passed my hostel, so it only took me two hours to return back to my place of lodging, just in time for a light dinner of bruschetta. After dinner, I joined my roommates for a light night out on the town. I am an unapologetic fan of Big Buck Hunter, virtual deer-shooting franchise that has become a staple of the American Bar. And so when I saw a New Zealand variant on the game, ironically called "US Hunter", I excitedly deposited 50 cents and waited for the thrill of the electronic deer stalking tention. The game was terrible, mostly large pixels moving against each other, and I quickly gave up and returned to more social pursuits.

Wellington Harbor, at night.

Despite the peer-pressurings of my roommates, I called it a night sometime before 2:00, as I had a 7:00 train to catch the next morning. Setting my alarm to allow me the reduced amount of sleep that had become all too familar, I slumped into bed excited about the comming train journey.

sunshine and rain

Friday in Sydney got off to a late start. After sleeping in, fighting wifi, washing laundry, and trying to plan out my remaining time in Australia, I'd burned through much of the day. Desperate to make the best of a nearly spent day, I headed out in the late afternoon to explore the city. Australian cities are famous for their frequent festivals and cultural celebrations, and I chanced into one going on in Hyde Park. Before I go on, I just want to point out how much I enjoy the fact that there is a Hyde Park in Sydney, a city that has gone to such lengths to replicate a classical English environment on the far side of the world the virtually every park, square, and civic construction is either named after a Royal Governor, or a preexisting park, square, or civic construction in London. Back to the cultural celebration, I quickly learned that it was just my luck to stop by a Thai Foods Festival, with loads of different booths selling the various culinary offerings of Thailand... for roughly five times the prices I'd gotten used to in Bangkok. Admittedly, even if the price was right, I needed a break from noodles, and so after looking around the city I made my way back to the hostel.

Sydney: a city on its way up.

I was reacquainted with my poker companions over a dinner of pasta and panini, and accepted an invitation to check out the night life Sydney had to offer on a Friday night. Of the half dozen of us that left the hostel, I was the only American, the rest of the gang being comprised entirely of Germans. As my German is restricted to the first verse of "Silent Night," and despite being a linguistic minority, the Germans graciously stuck to English while we explored the town. Our first stop was the aptly named Scruffy Murphy's, a rough-'round-the-edges Irish pub with live music blaring out from the mini-dance hall. After having my ID checked, I was subjected to the first metal-detecting pat-down I've ever experienced as a requirement for entry to a drinking establishment, and its necessity should have been a tip off to the character of the joint. After making it halfway through a cider I had ordered by accident, and had the barmaid turn the remains into a snakebite, which was a nice change of pace from the kinds of beverages I've been drinking in my travels. Ze Germans and I stuck around Scruffy Murphy's long enough to finish our drinks and listen to the music selection deteriorate into "the worst hits of the 70's" before we set off for our ultimate destination for the evening: the Ivy.

The Ivy is Sydney's current top-level exclusive dance club. Admission alone is $20 on Saturday nights, and combining that with a few drinks is enough to quickly bring you to a $100 night. But we weren't going on Saturday night, and so we managed to get through the the backdoor queue for free. The sound system, centered on the second floor of the four story structure, could be heard out in the street, but it would seem that this was just a marketing ploy, as inside the music level was more than reasonable, by club standards. Good songs at appropriate volume were matched by creative decor, and an open-air environment that helped to keep things cool. In fact, the only complaint I have to register about the Ivy is on that Friday night, it seemed as though most of Australia had managed to pack themselves into the second floor. To call the club "crowded" doesn't really capture the proximity with which people were forced to place themselves, which I would place somewhere between the Tokyo subway system at rush hour and the atomic structure of osmium, the densest element on the periodic table.

Looking up inside the Ivy.

I left the club sometime before 3:00, as it was around that time when I finally made it back to the hostel. I was just getting used to the feeling of my head of the pillow when I was jolted back into consciousness by an alarm going off in our room. My initial concern was that it was one of my alarms, but I quickly ascertained that it belonged to one of my bunkmates. My next move, after letting it go on for 30 seconds or so, was to get up and switch it off, but I was preempted in this endeavor by my more impassioned bunkmate from Liverpool. Rather than simply switching off the alarm, he punched the poor mechanism, and then proceeded to throw it violently across the room with a soft curse. I never did figure out for sure to whom the alarm belonged to, but I can promise you that it never bothered anyone again.

A bright and sunny Saturday morning greeted me when I awoke, and as soon as I finished breakfast, I made my way off to The Rocks. When the first settlers from Britain came to Australia - many of them in chains - it is likely that they first stepped off onto the rocky land plunging into Sydney Harbor in this less-than-creatively-named neighborhood. Where these British pioneers found strangled overgrowth and inhospitable crags, the modern visitor to The Rocks can indulge in boutique shops and some of Sydney's best restaurants. I was there enruite to the Harbor Bridge.

Purple flowering trees dotted The Rocks.

Before the Opera House was completed, the Harbor Bridge was Sydney's defining landmark: a massive steel structure spanning 3,770 feet and tall enough to allow a ten story building to pass underneath. When construction began in 1923, it was slated to be the longest single-arch spanning bridge in the world, but over its 10-year construction, a spanning bridge of similar design was quietly completed in New York, which took the title from the Harbor Bridge before it could even be completed by an understandably frustrating 26 inches. Nevertheless, it continues to dominate the harborscape, its twin Australian flags visible almost everywhere in the city.

The Harbor Bridge: helping to define the term "venerable."

The Opera House, reflected in a restaurant window.

The Saturday morning vibe was bright and cheerful, the melody of a jazz saxophone whined out as I made my way up and around the bridge, taking advantage of a soft-serve ice cream vendor parked along the harbor. A chocolate-dipped cone in hand, I sat on a park bench and watched as Sydneysiders, as they are fond of calling themselves, enjoyed the spring day. The Opera House seemed to be doing its best to draw my attention from the Harbor Bridge, reflecting the brilliant white sunlight from its interlocking sails. Equally impressive was a massive cruise ship moored in the harbor. I had initially assumed that the large white harborside building was an office building, or a ferry transportation hub, so it was quite shocking to discover propellers on the back of what I would later learn was the 951 foot Star Princess, a cruise ship of near-record-breaking size. In addition to long bridges and big ships, there were a plethora of street performers out and about, and as I traced the harbor boardwalk I saw everything from a man juggling a chainsaw to an aborigine's modern remix of didgery-doo music.

The designers of the Star Princess seem to have drawn artistic inspiration from the graceful beauty of the hammer head shark.

The city skyline, rising up above the Botanic Gardens.

Leaving the harbor, I delved into the Royal Botanic Gardens, which may be the most impressive I've ever visited. They certainly are the largest, the entire gardens taking up nearly as much space as the city of Sydney proper. As I made my way through well-manicured gardens, and an architecturally impressive Government House, I continued to appreciate the sunny, temperate, spring weather than was mine to enjoy for only as long as I remained in the Southern Hemisphere. Then out of nowhere, as I was walking passed a group of bache ball players, I was suddenly, and seemingly without provocation, attacked by a medium-sized bird. It dived at me, its tiny talons grazing my scalp and it continued it aerial assault on my head. My first instinct was to feel embarrassed, as though I should be ashamed that I was being attacked by a creature less than a tenth my size, but as soon as I stopped and appreciated my physical superiority, I quickly became annoyed and battle-ready. Of course, there was a perfectly reasonable justification for the bird's action's, though it took me a moment to realize it. It turns out that in trying to keep an appropriate distance from the ongoing bache game, I had strayed too close to a nest of baby birds. As I watched their little necks straining to compete for the offerings presented by a parent, I simultaneously forgave the actions of my attacker, and subsided annoyance for admiration.

Another example of good parenting, this male bird stood like a palace guard watching over his mate as she sat on their nest.

The Government House, a more stereotypical English manor house you cannot find in Sydney; or England for that matter.

After a full day of walking around Sydney, I passed a few weddings on my way back to the hostel. There I cooked up the most impressively delicious dish of pasta I have perhaps ever prepared, and I spent the rest of the evening chatting with my fellow hostel dwellers. Hoping to wake up early the next morning, I declined to go out on the town for the second night in a row, and instead enjoyed a quite night in, watching movies with some of my hostelmates.

Bats snooze in the trees high above the Royal Botanic Gardens.

I was up and at 'em early enough the next day, but yesterday's sunshine was not forthcoming and the sky threatened rain. As I had hoped to spend my last day in Australia down on the beach, this would seem to be a disappointment, but I made the best of it. Deciding that an umbrella would only egg on the precipitation, I left mine behind as I began what became a rather long walk to Bondi beach. For sand, surfing, and general beach-going stereotypes, Bondi beach ranks among the world's best. You have to figure that any stretch of coastline that can pack in 5,000+ beach-goers on a regular basis, despite being regularly infested with sharks, dangerous rips, and blue bottle jellyfish (some of the world's most toxic), has to have something going for it. So with no clear idea how far away, or even where, it was, I set off in what had been suggested to me as the direction of Bondi beach.

Displays of color abounded as I made my way through the suburbs enruite to Bondi.

It didn't help that I assumed that the east coast-facing Bondi beach was on the north coast-facing Sydney harbor, but even then it's at least an hour and a half long walk. Inside that first hour, it started to lightly rain, and by the time I made it to Bondi, about two hours after leaving the hostel, I was trying to find shelter from the downpour. Scampering out onto the beach quick enough to take a couple pictures, I quickly retreated to a bookstore/cafe, where I spent the afternoon sipping coffee, eating carrot cake, and reading a newly-purchased Bill Bryson travel book on Australia.

Bondi beach, nearly deserted in the driving rain.

As the rain showed no sign of letting up, I eventually abandoned Bondi, catching a bus back into town. There I found the majority of the hostel had never bothered to leave, and so I joined them in their late afternoon movie marathon. After yet another pasta-based meal, this one far more disastrous than last night's success, I continued by ongoing battle with the hostel's wifi, finally wrapping up shortly after midnight. I had put off packing, and as I would be leaving at 6:00 the next morning, I was now forced to engage in the delicate process packing in the dark while my roommates slept. Hoping that I hadn't left anything in a dark corner of the room, I set my alarm to wake me a mere four hours in the future, and slumped into bed for my last night in Australia.

melbourne ultimatum

I woke up early on my last day in Melbourne, in time to return the car with Seka, then pack my stuff and check out. Seka and I drove to the dealer's office, were after pumping $40 worth of gas into the gar, we discovered that we had driven so many kilometers that we owed double the original rental fee! But the day of driving was more than worth it, and after leaving the Elvis-clad rental office, Seka and I walked back to the hostel. I made a few last stops in Melbourne before I had to catch a tram to the bus station, and I have to admit that I was feeling rather bumbed about having to leave. My time in Melbourne was one of the highlights of a rather exciting trip, and so it was with a heavy heart that I said my goodbyes to Seka and the city.

I ended up riding the tram into town with Seka, changing at the last minute when I suddenly realized I was at my stop. The tram had taken much longer to get into the city than I had experienced before, and I was starting to get worried about catching the bus that would take me to the airport. Rather than flying out of Melbourne's Tulamarine Airport - which had welcomed me to the city four days earlier - I had opted to save a couple bucks by booking a flight on the budget airline Jetstar, which flies out of Avalon Regional Airport. Avalon is about 45 minutes out of town, and is only serviced by one public transportation option: a bus that is timed to leave Central Cross Station two hours before each flight. Flights left at less-than-regular intervals, which meant that if I missed the bus, the next departure would take place roughly 15 minutes after my flight had left the ground.

I hastily switched trams, speeding toward Central Cross Station while I conversed with my fellow tram riders as to the quickest route through the station to the bus counter. Feeling very prepared when I arrived at Central Cross, I lept out of the train and ran for the bus ticket counter. As I reached the counter, the women behind the booth was shouting to a man that he must run quickly if he was to catch the bus. When she saw my face, she immediately surmised my circumstance, and as she took my $20 and printed me out a ticket, the women suggested that I run to flag the bus. I ran, and watched as the bus backed out and started to drive back in the direction I had just come from. Spinning around, I continued my desperate run, waving like mad, my luggage bouncing behind me, until the bus turned a corner and was gone.

I returned to the counter to see if maybe, possibly, there was another bus, but my fears were confirmed when the women refunded my ticket and told me that the only way to get to the airport was to catch a cab. A pained curiosity forced me to ask "Do you know about how much that will cost?" The look on her face was telling enough, but the quantitative response was still dramatic. "It's going to be around one-hundred dollars I'm afraid." My heart, already dangerously weighty from having leave Melbourne, dropped to depths unprecedented in the Southern Hemisphere.

It's important now to mention that I only paid fifty dollars for the flight, so I was in a bit of a quandary as to whether it was worth it to triple the cost of my trip to Sydney, or just give up on the plane and treat this like some kind of devine intervention. Crunching numbers in my head, I figured that it would probably be about the same cost to buy another plane ticket and catch the later bus, though I wasn't sure if fifty dollars was a normal price. I also checked train schedules, and found that because it was already late, there were no trains leaving for Sydney until the next morning. Lastly, I seriously considered looking on this whole blunder as the aforementioned devine intervention, meant to keep me in Melbourne, or at the very least, renting a car and driving up. If I have to pick my one regret of the trip thus far, it's that I didn't take that last option, though it probably would have been a whole lot less romantic than I imagine it to be. Instead, I swallowed the ramifications of my prepared itinerary, and forked over ninety-eight dollars to a local cabby. I cleared security with only one hiccup - I lost a fork that I had left in my checked luggage; though I managed to sneak a knife through - and before long I was high about Melbourne enruite to Sydney.

Spending $100 to catch a $50 flight. At least it's a benchmark I'll hope never to match.

Melbourne from the air.

Everything went smoothly from there: I made it into the city with no problems, I found my hostel easily, and after dropping my things off, I headed into the city for a late-afternoon look around. The sun was starting to get low in the sky, and as I made my way through town, I had my sights on making it to watch the sunset behind the Sydney Opera House. As much as Melbourne, Sydney is a gorgeous city. It's even cleaner than Canadian cities, and it has a pleasant modernism to it that isn't as jarring as Dubai, but is much more comfortable than many American cities. I made my way through Hyde Park and into the Domain - another local park - admiring the incredible purple flowering trees as I went. As I walked through the Royal Botanical Gardens (if it's beginning to sound as though Sydney has a lot of parks, then you're beginning to get an accurate picture of the city) I looked to my left, and peaking through the trees was the most famous establishing shot in the world. Immediately recognizable by its interlocking sails, the Opera House is to Sydney what the Statue of Liberty is to New York and the Eiffel Tower is to Paris. Having been luck enough to see all three, I can tell you that nothing beats turning a corner and seeing the Eiffel Tower for the first time, but the Opera House comes pretty close. Fighting a dying battery, I managed to coques a few shots out of my camera before its obeisance finally won out and it refused even to close the shutter when I tried turning it off.

The purple flowering trees of Sydney.

The Sydney Tower, once the tallest in Australia.

Setting sun, sailboat, and symphony (I'll assume the last on for alliterative purposes)

Taking in the view for a little longer, I eventually retraced my path through the city, stopping at a grocery store to pick up provisions for my time in Sydney. The grocery store I chose to patronize (and I mean that in a good way) was the first IGA I've stepped into in over a decade. IGAs, which stood for: Independent Grocers Alliance (in Australia, the "A" stands for "of Australia"), used to be a feature of the United States, and I can still remember shopping at the IGA on School Street in Concord, which is now, unforgivably, a Rite Aide. Adopting the support for the mission statement of IGAs from my mother at a young age, I enjoyed the opportunity to shop in one while not sitting in the cart for the first time. My indulgent purchase of the stop was a bottle of Ocean Spray cranberry juice. Upon discovery of this most-missed favorite beverage, my heart managed to recover from the ravages of the day and soar.

The colors of night embrace Sydney.

I returned to the hostel with an armload of groceries, and quickly got to work preparing the first recipe I ever learned to cook. For most people, the first thing they learn to cook is pasta, or scrambled eggs. The first thing I ever learned to cook was stuffed peppers. This, combined with the fact that this skill was acquired in a course whimsically titled "Kindercooking", was the source of serious ridicule on the part of my college friends, but I nevertheless maintain that I made a damn good stuffed pepper and most of my friends may runny scrambled eggs. During dinner, I chatted with a German girl who remembered me from the hostel in Melbourne, and then accepted an invitation to play poker with a geographically diverse group of guys. A Yank, a Brit, a Philippine, two Germans, and one guy from parts unknown rounded out the poker game, and the five dollar buy-in game got under way. I am not the world's best poker player - I suppose you'll have to play a round with me to find out if that's the truth, or part of a long-term bluff - but I did fairly well that night. Things did get a bit desperate when I went all in on a no-chance bluff against the Brit, who was holding pocket eights. The flop was in his favor, but I managed to pull off a miraculous out-of-the-blue, no-chance straight on the flop and river, so I stayed in a while longer. I didn't end up winning that night, victory went to the disciplined playing style one would expect of one of the Germans, but it was a fun night, and it helped to me to end the day on a good note.

Hey, I've finally uploaded pictures to the two previous posts... check 'em out!

melbourne supremacy

It appears as though I have emerged defeated in my battle to upload pictures on the Australian wifi. My best hope now is to wait until I'm in New Zealand, and edit these entries then. For now, we resume our adventure with my last full day in Melbourne...

...which now has the pictures to match it.

I woke up at a reasonable hour on my last full day in Melbourne, and hastily inhaled breakfast. Packing a picnic lunch of peanut butter & jelly sandwiches and apples, Seka and I arrived at our first car rental agency by ten o'clock. Unfortunately the only thing the agency had to offer us was a rather impressive bucket of Jelly Bellies, as there were no cars with automatic transmission available.

Our next stop was a somewhat more run-of-the-mill rental agency, on par with Avis or Hertz. They had a 5-speed automatic available, but the $98/day rental cost was a little hard to swallow. Instead, we decided to check out one final privately-owned rental agency, hoping to find a better deal. When we walked into the office, Seka appeared to be immediately sold on the place because of the profusion of Elvis paraphernalia littering the room. For my part, the MG-F parked in the lot had endeared me to the place, and when we spoke to the representative, it seemed like this agency would give us the best deal.

I filled out the appropriate paperwork, and wasting as little time as possible, Seka and I climbed into our white two-door Hyundai and hit the road. Driving on the other side of the road isn't all that difficult, the hardest part about it is knowing how to make turns. Driving on the other side of the car, on the other hand, turns out to be a bit tricky. For me, the hardest part about driving was always knowing where I was on the road. After the better part of seven years, however, I've gotten used to the view from the driver's seat, and so to have that seat shifted to the other side of the car meant that I was constantly fighting the impulse to drift left. Before I go on, I'll ruin part of the story to reveal that Seka and I returned the car without a scratch on it, or any other person or vehicle it came into contact with, though at times it seemed like we were trying our darnest to keep from this blemish-free condition.

Our car had a certain retard dolphin-esque quality, but we loved it.

Following directions given to us by the staff at our hostel, the two of us headed out into the countryside. The rolling fields of grain and exotic trees made for a gorgeous landscape, but it was our first ocean siting that really sold the deal on all the hassle of renting the car. I drove until I ran out of road - which, because I turned down a dead end road, took very little time - and we parked the car and strolled along the beach.

The coast.

Welcome to my Levi's commercial.

When we returned to the car, Seka expressed an interest in checking out a fish & chips restaurant in town, and so, handing over the wheel, be backtracked to the small main street of the coastal hamlet. We placed two orders for the poster meal, as well as two "scoops" of scallops. The fish & chips procured, I suggested taking our meal outside. We found a picnic table in a coast-side park, and there we dug into our meal. The scallops, which rather than scoops were just two individual servings, were particularly peculiar, as they had some growth attached to them. I expect that this growth is a normal feature on scallops, but it is traditionally removed. Such removal is, in my mind, entirely appropriate as according to Seka it's pretty gross. After finishing our meal, the two of us monkeyed around on the playground, and took turns climbing trees for dramatic arboreal poses. Having exhausted the amenities of the park, we climbed back into our little white car and drove off to find the Great Ocean Road.

Seka finds skipping rocks and seashells along the beach.

It took a few laps around the round-a-bout, and a stop by the tourist information center, but we finally managed to figure out that we had been on the Great Ocean Road all along, albeit a rather poorly marked section. Before long, we were cruising along a gorgeous stretch of road, tracing the coastline of southern Australia. Through quite villages, populated by vacation homes and fishing shacks, and winding roads cut into the sheer rock face that plunges into the frothy sea, we drove along in our little white car, chatting as we went. The weather was absolutely perfect, and we made several stops along the way to take advantage of the scenery.

Steps up from the beach.

Our next major stop was a turn-off to a waterfall. Hiking a kilometer into the bush, Seka made me face my waterfall fears [read "Diary of a Brave Mountain Explorer" if you've lost the reference] and together we explored around the area. The area was rife with eucalyptus trees, and as my lifelong image of eucalyptus trees requires that there be a conjoined koala, I was rather disappointed that through the entire walk, we didn't see any of these icons of Australia. When we returned to the car, Seka graciously relinquished the wheel, and I had the chance to negotiate the coastal rode. Two minutes into the ride, our koala fortunes reversed when we came reasonably close to hitting one with the car. Koalas are loved for their lovable stuffed animal-esque appearance and their docile nature. However, our koala was not exactly lovable, in as much as it was... well, ugly. If you can combine whatever preformed symbolic koala complex you're holding onto with a the image of a late career Elvis Presley, then you've basically got the picture of the chubby bugger gazing back at us with a languid apathy for its near vehicular slaughter. But never mind that, because it was still a koala! A real live, out-of-the-wild koala, which more than anything else I had yet experienced screamed "I'm in Australia" to me.

Falling water.

This picture makes the koala look deceivingly cute.

Making our way around the koala, Seka and I continued to make our way down the road until we came to Apollo Bay, the southernmost point in... my travels (okay, it wasn't the southernmost point in Australia, that was a little farther down the road, but we didn't know that at the time, and I had a hankering to make it back to a lighthouse we had passed earlier in time for sunset). Which is exactly what we did. The suggested speed limit for the Great Ocean Road (one of the many excellent qualities of Australia is that they only suggest a speed here) was 80 kilometers an hour, but the good people at the department of transportation quickly realized that if a motorist was to take any of the countless turns on the Great Ocean Road at 80 kilometers an hour, then they would go flying off into the South Pacific most likely damaging the unique flora and fauna on the way to a fiery crash. The koalas certainly won't get out of the way in a hurry. So every few meters we would alternate between signs reminding you that the suggested speed was 80 and signs warning that taking the turns at more than 40 would most likely result in the aforementioned fiery crash.

Despite the mixed messages I was getting from the boys at the DoT, Seka and I made it to the lighthouse for our last scheduled stop along the Great Ocean Road. After taking in the sights, we climbed back into our car, Seka driving, and we headed off Melbourne-bound. As the light began to fail, we sped along, leaving the Great Ocean Road for the connecting roads to Melbourne. At least, that's what we thought we were doing. Distracted by conversation, Seka and I quickly found ourselves in the middle of the suburbs, with no clear indication as to where Melbourne was. Employing that marvelously uninhibited ability girls have for asking for directions, Seka quickly got us back on track, though we switched places so that I would be the one driving through the city.

The lighthouse at dusk.

We, and by "we" I suppose I mean "I", managed to get a bit disoriented, and thought that I had missed Melbourne, when in fact we were still some miles away. Making a few turns, and a 580 degree lap around a traffic circle, I made the first legitimately illegal act when I tried turning right on a red light. This, of course, if much like trying to make a left on a red light in the States, and but for some swift acceleration, we might have been skewered by oncoming traffic. Nervously laughing off the incident, Seka proved herself the best female driving companion I've ever had for her total lack of shrieking panic exhibited during the turn.

It would take some veering across lanes and even more backtracking before we finally made it back into the city, but once there, Seka felt confident about her ability to guide us back to the hostel. Everything went well up until the final turn out St. Kilda Street. We had a green light this time, so the left turn should have been painless... except that we ended up turning in the wrong way down a rather large one-way street. Five lanes of headlights were suddenly barreling down on us, and I have to thank years of computer gaming for saving our insurance deposit, if not our lives. Again, Seka handled the situation with remarkable restraint, but it was with overwhelming relief that we finally turned the engine off once parked in the hostel lot.

Running of a "we're still alive" high, we met up with Adam in the lobby, and the lot of us arranged to meet up at one of the local bars. After grabbing a quick dinner, Seka and I did just that, arriving for Indy Night at the Malibu bar. The beer was disappointing, but cheap, and the DJ was pumping out a good mix. We stayed until close, before making our way back to the hostel, singing Irish drinking songs as we walked.

It's already passed midnight here in Sydney, so I'll have to wrap this up here. Tomorrow I'll be waking up early, and making my way to New Zealand, so I expect to have plenty of time to write about how it is I made it here to Sydney, and everything I've done since. For now, it's time to pack and arrange transportation to the airport tomorrow morning. G'day.