Sydney - Part 1

No trip to Australia would be complete without a stop at The Harbour City and the most notable structures in Australia – the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge. This is where it all started (for Europeans at least), the first settlement a prison colony of criminals shipped from Great Britain. I boasted that two of the three oldest settlements were in Tasmania – Hobart and Launceston – but Sydney takes the top position. Capital city of New South Wales (about which, apparently, there is a mystery as to whether it is the new version of South Wales, or the new southern version of Wales), Sydney now boasts a metropolitan population of 4.1 million in 2006 (according to Wikipedia), the largest city in Australia (compared to 3.7 million in Melbourne metropolitan area). Though these may seem like modest cities in US terms, keep in mind that the 2006 census of Australia revealed 19.9 million people across the country. Combined, Sydney and Melbourne represent nearly 40% of the population of the entire continent, which is approximately the size of the continental US.

Okay, with that little tidbit behind us, let’s move onto the story. A week beforehand, my flatmate and I entertained another US expat who was working in Sydney. This weekend, he returned the favor.

After flying into Sydney, I headed downstairs to the train station, fan of public transport that I am. I was pleasantly surprised by the double-decker cars, and the short ride to the CBD.



Getting off at Museum station, I lugged my bags up above ground and looked around Hyde Park and what appeared to be an ornate mausoleum enshrined in the middle of the park.



I found my host on his way back to the flat where he was staying, dropped off my bags, and headed out for dinner with the expat group there. We walked around Cockle Bay and Darlington Harbour, taking in the three-story establishments with varying restaurants on each floor until we finally settled on a seafood restaurant in Cockle Bay. The harbour and bay form the west side of the CBD, Darlington Harbour dipping down from the north and terminating in Cockle Bay.

After dinner, we headed out to see some of the nightlife, but I ultimately turned in early so I could take on the city with a fresh set of eyes in the morning.

One thing I noticed almost immediately after I woke up was that Sydney is definitely warmer than Melbourne. I stepped out onto the balcony to determine how warmly I should dress for the day, since it was still winter, and decided a sweater would be enough for the morning, and might be too much later on.

I headed north from the apartment toward Circular Quay (pronounced “key”). The streets were quiet, though Starbucks was ready to warm me up. The city was clean and sharp, and besides the obvious postcard buildings, I really liked the ABN Amro building.



I had to work my way around blocked areas while the police set up barriers for the APEC conference that would be held there over the next week, with significant additional security required for the visit of George W. Bush later in the week. Embarrassingly, the set of security checkpoints was not enough in the following week to keep a group of late night comedy hosts from dressing up as Osama bin Laden and traveling through three checkpoints in a car marked as a Canadian envoy before they got out of the car near the hotel where some dignitaries were staying because they were nervous about exactly how close they had gotten. Needless to say, they were arrested; but, with over $300 million spent on security, I don’t think it was much of a tribute to effective use of the money.

In fact, the Sydneyites had complained about the money being spent to bring the dignitaries in (the APEC conference was the most significant international event ever held on Australian soil; in fact, they gave people who lived near the city a holiday during the conference in order to keep them away from the bustle). A former prime minister chided the people for complaining, which I found amusing, but appropriate. There is a proverb that says, “Where there are no oxen, the trough is clean.” There is a cost to every benefit, and the notoriety of hosting this event came with the burden of protecting those who came.

After navigating the barriers, I found my way into Circular Quay itself, which is the most known area of Sydney. Facing the north as I walked in, the Harbour Bridge was a little further north on my left, the ferry ports directly in front of me, and the Opera House sat like a pearl set on a small peninsula jutted into the main harbour, like a pendant to adorn the city.





The BridgeClimb
I headed northwest toward the bridge and though a charmingly preserved area of stone buildings, where a weekend market was developing from empty tables and boxes of trinkets into a bazaar of artsy goods. I meandered beyond the bustle onto lazy windy streets, and found myself at the base of the Harbour Bridge. It was a huge sight to behold from so close, and we would become better acquainted shortly.

While turning back around and walking along the bridge back south, I noticed the sign for the BridgeClimb, a chance to walk and climb your way to the top of the bridge. I had been debating whether or not to spend the money on such an adventure, but a short MasterCard transaction later, I was sitting in a preparation area looking at scenes from prior climbs and information on the history of the bridge itself. My climb would start around 9:00 am, and after changing clothes, going through “training,” actually walking the bridge, and getting back into my normal attire, I would get back out the door just after noon. Maybe my host would be awake by then – he was out late, and hadn’t shown a hint of stirring when I had left.

The group of 12 or so of us signed our release forms, and mingled a bit through the preparation process. I was with a couple who were originally from Indiana, but who had worked in a variety of places before coming to Australia. It was their last weekend in Australia before moving onto Singapore for a couple years. I hope to have similar stories. Another was a couple celebrating their 10th anniversary, and another was a father / daughter combo celebrating her 16th birthday. There was also a Japanese guy who had been on business in Sydney for a week and had to get in on the adventure. Our guide was a former teacher, who had lived overseas for a while and was working the BridgeClimb to enjoy his home for a while upon returning to Australia. Later I found out his daughter would be performing in a child concert at the Opera House that evening. Imagine being able to tell your friends that your daughter was playing at the Opera House.

We had to wear blue and grey jumpsuits and put all loose items in a locker. The jumpsuit was designed to match the colours of the bridge so we would blend in as much as possible. We had raincoats and jackets in pouches on our back, and were fitted with radio transmitters so we could hear our guide along the way. We had a cable attached at our waist, which we would use to remain attached to safety cables throughout the walk.



We started out by climbing up to the bottom of the inside of the bridge, and looked down upon the hinges that allowed the bridge to “breathe” as it inhaled the heat during the summer months and expanded, and exhaled during the winter. We walked around a construction area where they were repainting sections of the bridge, and climbed up four steep ladders. While on the second one, we passed between the underbelly of the bridge and the road that crosses it, so as I looked to the left, I could see the pavement and cars passing across. We kept climbing to the top of the four ladders, and proceeded to walk along the top girders of the bridge. When it was first built, they attached the various components by heating up rivets to melting points, throwing them to a catcher near the weld, sliding the rivet up from underneath, and rounding off the superheated rivet on the top. When it cooled, the rivet was permanent. Keep in mind, this all occurred up in the air on a partially built structure (including heating the rivets in the kilns).



We took pictures at various points, and looked over at a Luna Park on the north side, and the Opera House on the south side. We could see the various fingers of the harbours extending east and west, and in the distance on the east we could see where the harbours met the ocean. We crossed the center of the bridge and headed back down the opposite part of the frame where we had started. We saw the bridge “train” they used when they were building the structure, which they still retain and use for maintenance as necessary.

We descended the bridge and wound back around underneath and back to the starting point. I called my host and we agreed to meet for a sushi lunch.

Food for Thought #6 - Flake and Dim Sims

Flake is the short name for a shark fillet. You can get it grilled or fried, and I’ve had it both ways. It’s kind of a white fish, and I wouldn’t say the flavor is strong, but it is good. Not too expensive, you can find it at local fish and chipperies around Melbourne. Another interesting fish dish was Barramundi, which is just another white fish from the area. I really enjoyed it, and would say that I probably slightly prefer it to flake, though I had it at a nicer restaurant, and it isn’t as fun as saying I ate shark.

Dim sims. I’ve been trying for weeks to figure out how to convey what a dim sim is to Americans. It’s kind of like a pork meatball surrounded by the same coating on an eggroll. But that isn’t a fair comparison. They come either fried or steamed, though anyone worth their salt would say that the fried ones taste better (not surprisingly). I’ve had several of them, both steamed and fried, from a number of places, and I enjoy them, but not as much as Aussies. I’ve met more than one Aussie who said they weren’t sure if they could give up dim sims to live overseas for a while.

One friend actually went to Kenya for a while, and upon returning, insisted on having dim sims on the way home from the airport – it was the only thing she missed. In fact, she had tried to get family to figure out how to ship some to her in Africa while she was gone.

The next time you meet an Aussie living internationally, recognize the great sacrifice they have made – the dim sim.

Footy at the Telstra Dome

Another footy entry you say? Yes. I don’t think you understand how big of a deal it is. But this time, I had a quite different experience, for several reasons. First, I was at the Telstra Dome, the other stadium downtown that frequently accommodates footy fans. It’s actually just across the street from where I was living (so if you look it up on GoogleEarth, you can see where I lived), and was on my way to Southern Cross Station and the central business district, so I passed it all the time. I’ll always remember the trombone and saxophone players supporting the St. Kilda Saints, who would come out before and after each game playing “When the Saints Go Marching In” (If their team lost, the tempo was a lot slower, and their heads were hung, but they were still draped in Saints apparel).

Second, I went to a game between Carlton and the Kangaroos. My first game was between two of the top-rated teams – Geelong and Collingwood. This game was decidedly one-sided. The Kangaroos were having a great year. But Carlton, which has a legacy of being one of the greatest teams of all time, was living in infamy this year as an embarrassment given their losing streak, and the enormity of their losses. Unfortunately, this game would be no different.

Third, I was sitting in the front row. At the MCG, I may as well have been in the blimp. I actually took pictures of the jumbotron that game, because I had a better view on it. This time, I think you’ll agree, the pictures were decidedly better.



The Telstra Dome is a little more quaint than the MCG. I think it seats about 40,000. But it was great nonetheless, and complements the grand MCG. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not small. It was the venue for the rugby championship. And the fans are just as entertaining. I was sitting next to an elderly woman, who kept calling out players and chastising them for their missteps and missed opportunities. Why she didn’t go into coaching, I’ll never know.



I’d tell you the exciting points of the game, but as I mentioned before, it was one-sided. Nevertheless, it was still a great experience to be so close to the action, and I just had to show you some of the pics.

Tassie - The Trip of "Almost"

One of my great adventures in Australia will have to be my trip to Tasmania (Tassie to friends). My flatmate (Artie) and I will always remember it as the “Trip of Almost,” since we “almost” did a lot of things. It started out when I almost missed the boat.

You only get so much time in a weekend, so it’s important to plan things out when you have such a short time to spend somewhere – or so they tell me. I wouldn’t know. We planned to take our trip to Tasmania on Wednesday night, and then only the travel to/from Melbourne. On the way there, we had learned that there is a ferry / cruise ship that has an overnight trip across the Bass Strait to Devonport on the north shore of Tasmania. Sounded fun, so we opted for a two-person cabin. We’d fly back from Hobart in the southeast part of the island, in order to maximize our time there. How we’d get from one part of the island to the other was still a mystery.

The day of the trip, I got stuck at work longer than I anticipated, so I “almost” missed the boat. Fortunately, I had the best cab driver I’ve ever had (in Melbourne or otherwise). He knew so many back roads that I found it hard to believe we were navigating rush hour traffic, until we passed near the MCG (remember from the Footy entry), where it was slow going. With the driving ace at the wheel, I made it to the port with plenty of time to spare.

I met up with my flatmate, and we headed into the check-in area. We ended up behind the largest group of teenagers I have seen in a long time, with the most amount of luggage they could humanly carry, all of which had to go through security screening. You can imagine my comfort when they continued to set off the security sensors over and over again to the point that the security guards just let them through. Not to mention that my flatmate set off the sensors, and they just waived him on. Coming from American airports, where you have to strip down and demoralize yourself, unpack your carryon baggage, justify the extra drop of contact lens solution over the three ounce limit, toss your water bottle into a bin to be discarded (while Victorians are desperate for drinking water), walk barefoot across germ-infested floors, … need I go on? And by the way, recent studies about how well those security measures actually prevent the types of activity they are supposed to prevent are a little disconcerting.



We boarded the vessel, the “Spirit of Tasmania,” and walked up three flights of escalators (we weren’t about to wait for them to carry us up after the security line) to the grand entrance. It was a modest cruise ship, with five floors of car garages, one floor of entertainment areas, and three floors of rooms. We made our way around to check things out, found our cabin, put our things down, and headed back to the entertainment floor to get something to eat. There were two restaurants – a buffet and a fine dining restaurant. We opted for the fine dining, as there were so many people loading up at the buffet that I was afraid I might end up on a plate at some point.

The restaurant was almost empty, with about three couples sitting around, so you can imagine my surprise when the hostess informed me there was an hour and a half wait since they were booked. Booked. I looked around at the thirty or so empty tables and started to laugh at her joke – I thought it was pretty good. Until she didn’t let me in on the punchline and lead us to a table. Long story short, we outwaited her and finally got a table. Beside the rest of the meal, which I will skip, I will make one note: never order the fish.

The travel agent on board helped us plan our trip and rent a car. We would arrive in Devonport, pick up the car, drive to Cradle Mountain, drive to Wineglass Bay, meet some friends in Hobart, head to Port Arthur, and head back to Hobart in time to catch our plane.

Back in our cabin, I had the best night’s sleep I had in all of my time in Australia. Everyone told us not to take the boat, since it was choppy water and people get sick. Not so. Yes, the boat rocked. No, I didn’t have my sea legs, so I fell back and forth a bit, apologizing to people and inanimate objects I ran into. But sleeping was like being in a hammock. Or one of those self-rocking cradles, like the one in the McDonald’s commercial of so long ago, where the child changes from smiling to crying as he rocks back and forth and can sequentially see and not see the Macca’s (the Australian shortname for McDonald’s) sign. With the gentle rocking and the low hum of the engines (perfect white noise), we missed our alarm, and were awakened the next morning by the captain signaling we were arriving at the port.



Arriving in Devonport, we picked up our car, a blue Toyota, and my first car in Australia. Okay, another rabbit trail. Australians drive on the left side of the road. I had been walking/riding for over a month at this point, so driving on the left itself was not much of a challenge. There are two things, however, that I never would have thought of as being issues when driving on the other side of the road, and I want you to be prepared for these if you ever drive in a country like Australia. First, the turn signal is on the opposite side of the steering wheel. Not a big deal, until you get tired of signaling your intentions to turn by wiping the windshield (or windscreen, as they call it) in the direction you want to go. A single wipe means you want to turn left and caught yourself. A series of wipes, or a spray of fluid followed by a series of wipes, means you want to turn right. Second, I have gotten used to the frame of the car where my door meets the windshield as a part of my driving experience. It doesn’t get in my way. But, when you drive on the other side of the car, and you are used to the right side of your view being clear, it is a huge impediment to your view. I kept leaning in and out to try to see what was in my way on the right side of the car. It’s hard to explain, but just be prepared.

Devonport is a quaint town, and we only stopped long enough to get some coffee before heading toward Cradle Mountain. We wound through the countryside, which is beautiful, and headed south-southwest toward Cradle Mountain / Lake St. Clair, which are in one of the World Heritage Areas designated by the UN (there are quite a few of these in Australia, since its ecosystems are so different from the rest of the world).

After a series of switchbacks and some extra time to peel Artie off the window (I may have taken the switchbacks a little fast in my haste to get to our first site, and he has never let me forget), we finally arrived at the park, and wound our way to the base of Cradle Mountain and Dove Lake. So here’s another “almost.” We “almost” saw Cradle Mountain through the fog. Despite the let down of not seeing the full mountain, the lake itself, and the rise to the peak that ascended beyond the low hanging clouds, was beautiful, and the unspoiled air had a chill to it that kept us from adventuring very far.



I think this is a good time to point out something else. The colors in Tasmania were so unusual. They weren’t vivid as people think of some places, but they were rich and full. Deep reds bordering on burgundy. Dark yellows that swallowed up light rather than reflecting it all blindingly back at you. White tree bark that was so full, against darker gray rocks and earth. The trees rose high and spread out branches with just a little foliage at their tips. It was like C.S. Lewis’s From the Silent Planet, where the trees of Mars were so thin and tall – almost otherworldly.

From Cradle Mountain, we headed through another series of switchbacks to Launceston, one of the three oldest cities in Australia (Sydney and Hobart are the other two), and stopped for lunch at the Charcoal Chicken, where they rotisserie chickens over heated coals right behind the counter. It was a pleasant stop, but we didn’t have much time, since we still had another set of sites to see.



We headed down another of the designated scenic drives (the first was the one that led to Cradle Mountain) through the forest area of Tasmania toward the coast. So, I misjudged. I assumed that the forest path would be scenic, but straightforward. Welcome back to switchbacks. I think I have done enough of these near U-turns to last a lifetime. You would see signs for curvy roads with a sign under them that says “Next 14km.” They wanted to save money on signage I suppose. After 14km, you would go a kilometer or two, then see another sign that said curves “Next 20km.” This is no joke or exaggeration. Our short trip was extended by at least an hour.

The funny thing is that the speed limit was fabulous. In most places, I have a hard time just going the speed limit. In Tasmania, it was impossible to survive the speed limit. I would see signs that the speed limit was 80 or 100 km/h (think 50 to 65 mph), in the midst of the switchbacks. I was lucky to get up to 50 km/h for any length of time. And I must give it to the Tasmanians – despite their lack of population, they have fantastic, if a little narrow, roads all throughout the state.

In Haiti, they have a saying. “Deye mon, gen mon.” (Haitian Creole). Don’t worry, I’ll translate: Beyond the mountains, there are more mountains. When I was in Haiti (don’t worry, I’ll come back to Tasmania in a second), I remember taking a trek through the mountains to a clinic where we were to help with various activities. Every once in a while, to get our bearings, we asked how much further it was to the location. Every time the response was, just beyond the next mountain. I think that’s the only phrase they know when giving directions, because each mountain was followed by another one, and I think we gave up asking by the time we arrived.

Tasmanians should adopt the phrase, because I thought we were close to the coast line about 15 mountains before we arrived. So there were two forces working against us – 1) the mountains, which cut our travel speeds almost in half, and 2) the actual size of the island. Compared to Australia, Tasmania looks like an island of afterthought, just a dot in the ocean. However, that dot, in reality, is probably as long north to south as Florida, and at least twice as wide as that peninsula.

We arrived in St. Helens on the coast and headed south along the ocean (or Tasman Sea, as it is called more specifically). We raced the sun down a little peninsula toward Cove’s Bay and Wineglass Bay, another of the major sites in Tasmania. We arrived at the beginning of the walking trail to Wineglass Bay just as the sun was setting, and learned that the walking trail was a three-hour journey, so there would be no point in venturing out. So, we “almost” saw Wineglass Bay. We settled instead for Cove’s Bay, which was beautiful in its own right, and had interesting rock formations that were extremely smooth, almost like pillows.



From there we decided to venture through the night down toward Hobart, where we would meet up for a late dinner with my friends who were visiting for a wedding. Just after starting this leg of the trip, we had to stop the car and get out. Tasmania is so sparsely populated that we could see the brilliant lights of the southern heavens. Looking up we took in breathtaking views of unknown stars and constellations, including the famed Southern Cross. It was strange and mysterious to look into the sky and not see the stars so familiar to me, to take in the wonders of this strange place and try to guess which stars they had connected into familiar lore. I even tried to take a picture or two of them so I could remember my fascination, but my camera was not so fortunate, in that it was blind to these quiet lights.

We found our way into the quiet hamlet / capital city of Hobart around 9:00pm, and headed just north to a little Italian restaurant where we met the remnants of the wedding party and their friends just in time for a dessert coffee. Yes, I drank a latte. We discussed the possibilities for the next day, and determined that we would ultimately part ways, as they would head to Russell Falls, and Artie and I would head for Port Arthur.

We took Bronwin, Kirsten, and Rebekah back to the motel, where they had kindly arranged for a room for us, and we sat around chatting about the weekend events until about midnight, when we all turned in. They had also been kind enough to turn our heater on for us, which was a wonderful kindness, as the evening (okay the island) had a chill to it.

The next morning, the group of us (Artie, Bronwin, Kirsten, Rebekah, and me) met up with Olaf and a few other folks for breakfast, where Kirsten chatted with my grandmother and soaked up a true American Southern accent (I don’t know if she actually paid attention to the conversation she was so enamored with the southern drawl). One chai tea latte later, we separated. Artie and I spent a little time exploring Hobart and filling out postcards before heading southeast toward Port Arthur, armed with the instructions that it was best to head all the way to Port Arthur first, and make other stops on the way back as time permitted.



Port Arthur was a prison for most of its colonial history, and was based on the idea that prisoners could be reformed by providing them with opportunities to train, learn a trade, and earn an honest wage. The court of public opinion eventually turned against it, but it initially helped (as all prison colonies did) in establishing the infrastructure and trade that would pave the way for future colonial settlement. We took tours of various areas (and took a picture in front of the Accountant’s House), including a small cruise by the Isle of the Dead, where they buried people based on social status either higher or lower on the island. We also stopped briefly there for some lunch, where I had a Shepherd’s Pie, and Artie had a pumpkin soup.

From there, we headed back to a few natural sights, primarily sandstone objects that were in various stages of erosion from the pounding sea. I had to take the opportunity to step in the water, which is cold, very cold.



Finally, we darted back up the coastline and back toward Hobart, where we jumped on the airplane and rounded completed our trip with the relatively short flight back to Melbourne.

This trip held a number of “almosts” – almost missing the boat, almost seeing Cradle Mountain, almost seeing Wineglass Bay, almost making it for dinner with friends, almost going to Russell Falls, almost running out of gas, and so on. However, we did more than “almost” have a good time.

Yarra Valley Wine Tour

We got up early on a Sunday morning to meet at St. Pauls for our wine tour of the Yarra Valley. After loading up with our tour guide and about 14 other people, we shuttled out of the city and to the void between the Grampians, the Dandenongs, and the Dividing Ranges known as the Yarra Valley. A Scottish family planted the first vineyard here, and their former winery was the first of our four stops: Yerring Station.

Yerring, of similar origin to Yarra, is an Aboriginal word, meaning something like gathering place, so you see it everywhere. That, and there’s the Yarra River that winds all over Melbourne, so you have South Yarra, Yarraville, and the like.



Yerring Station is the oldest winery in Victoria, settled by Scottish brothers who happened upon the valley on their trip toward the southern tip of Australia. It’s changed hands a few times since then, but is still remembered for its history. We learned here that the Yarra Valley is primarily good for Pinot Noir and Chardonnay.

We also learned the five “S’s” of wine tasting: the Sight, the Swirl, the Sniff, the Slurp, and the Spit (or the swallow). These are unofficial terms, but it’s interesting. So here’s the summary:

1. The Sight – You always have to look at a wine against a white background, or your time is wasted. You turn the glass a little sideways so the meniscus shows better – this is more important with a red, as you can only check the color of a red by looking through its meniscus.

Now let’s clear up some misunderstandings. Looking at the “legs” on a glass of wine (how slowly the wine holds onto the side of the glass when you tilt it) isn’t how you tell much about a wine, except its alcohol and/or sugar content. Outside that, you’re wasting your time. The next time someone starts talking about the legs on a glass of wine as how you determine how good it is, smile and nod. If that’s how they determine a good wine, they are just in it for the hangover.

2. The Swirl – You swirl the wine in the glass. Pretty simple. It leads up to the sniff.

3. The Sniff – So after you swirl, you have to put your nose in the glass. Don’t be shy. Think of Steve Martin in Roxanne taking a drink of wine (little movie trivia for you). The way the wine is poured and the size of the glass for tasting contribute to the sniff. The glass has a wide bottom and a narrow top. The wine is poured to the widest point at the bottom of the glass. This allows the most surface area, which allows the most particles to take to the air for the sniff. The swirl just helps get a bunch of particles in the air for you to take in.

4. The Slurp – The official term is aspiration or something, and it’s not exactly pretty or nice. You basically try to suck in air while leaving the wine in your mouth. Kind of like blowing bubbles in milk as a child, but you have to do it while the wine is in your mouth. I think aspirate is a bad term, because medically, that implies that you accidentally choke on some of the liquid while you are trying this. Unfortunately, I would say that’s not an uncommon occurrence while you are attempting the slurp, especially with a strong wine. The slurp allows the most air to get through the wine, and causes you to be able to smell and taste the wine simultaneously, resulting in the best taste of the flavor. Try it out sometime – take a sip without the slurp, then take one with it. Remarkable.

5. The Spit (or swallow) – Wine tasters have a lot of wine to fit in, and can’t have their judgment impaired. So they spit it out. Unofficial wine tasters swallow the wine, because they paid $2 - $3 for the taste (I’m not sure how much I paid per glass, since I got it as a package deal).

Fun fact: Your taste buds are at their strongest in the morning, so you probably would like wine the LEAST in the morning, due to the strong flavor.

Fun fact #2: Blush wines (the ones that are pinkish) are not necessarily most like whites. They can go either way. More “white-like” blushes have been popularized by some Brazillian wine that everybody loved, but the more “red-like” ones are coming back in vogue. You can help the revolution.



After Yerring Station, we headed to Rochford. Rochford was a pretty swanky joint, in my opinion, and it’s where we sat down to a pleasant lunch in beautiful white room at the top of a spiral staircase. It was filled with original artwork. I had the braised lamb with a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon that was selling for $10 a bottle and was worth at least double the price (I’m cheap, okay). So I picked up my first souvenir – a bottle for the road.




Rochford also had this nifty thing – a smell testing quiz. People come up with the craziest ways of defining smells of wine, and apparently, there’s no right answer. But, it helps to have a good smell vocabulary. So they have little jars with different “essences” in them. You pick a jar, open it and smell, then try to guess the scent. I’m bad at this game. Everything is familiar, but nothing has a name. Interesting items included lemon, butter, and burnt toast. Yeah, I wondered how they got the “essence of burnt toast” too.



After Rochford, we headed to Yerring Farms, a small winery in the valley, known for holding back the release of its wines for several years until they mature, since they don’t produce as much as other wineries. There we learned about some of the process, including how where barrels are made (US vs. France), and how much barrels are burnt, contributes to the taste of wines. Reds are more likely to have more burnt barrels, as they need something to take the edge off the strong taste.



We also learned that the longer a wine waits before being opened, the less sharp the taste is, and the more chance it has for the other flavors to be noticeable and nuanced. The place itself was magnificent to look at.



Finally, we headed for Domain Chandon Australia, home of sparkling wines under the famous French name. We toured the facility, learning how a sparkling wine is made, and why it is no longer allowed to be called Champaign outside of that region. Real Champaign takes about 2 years to produce, as it has to go through two fermentation processes. In the second fermentation process, bottles are placed on a “riddling” rack, where they have to be turned one-quarter of a turn every few hours. And this one-quarter thing is a big deal. They mark the bottles to keep it right, and to be a professional riddler in France, you have to apprentice at it for something like 10 years before you can ever do it on your own. That might be why unemployment is high there – imagine what it takes to be a garbage collector, if it takes 10 years to turn a bottle.

Champaign / sparkling wine is generally made from a combination of other wines – e.g. Shiraz, pinot noir, sauvignon blanc (I can’t remember which are the right ones, but there are three popular ones). At Chandon, the owners mix more wines than I can remember (something like 140) from various sources before the final stock wine that will become their sparkling wine is created. Australia is known for making the only full red sparkling wine, so that’s the one I tried.



So why is it Champaign only in Champaign? Okay, there’s the normal answer everyone has – they want the rights to the name – the same thing is happening with cheeses lately. Fair enough. But, there’s a little more to it, and you can dispute it if you like. Real Champaign has two fermentation stages and takes 2 years to make one bottle, as I mentioned. But a bunch of opportunists figured they could short-circuit the process by just carbonating a bottle of wine, and save the year of second fermentation. Taste quality is reduced, and there was concern that Champaign would lose its true luster.

It was at Chandon that we learned our tour guide had actually studied viniculture in University (the study of wine and the wine-making process), and had worked at a vineyard for 18 months before becoming the tour guide. Then he told me about the part-time opening. I’m practicing my history, and trying to get my chauffer license.

Food for Thought #5 - Koko Black

Koko Black

I may not know coffee, but I sure know chocolate. Especially hot chocolate. Someone recommended that I stop by this little shop known as Koko Black and try a hot chocolate. Now way back in the day chocolate salons were popular across Europe. At some point they went out of vogue, but they have been making their way back. And they have crossed the Atlantic into the US as chocolate lounges (I saw an article on them once – there’s one somewhere in Chicago). Here they are chocolatierres, or something like that, and specialize in anything chocolate.

I went for a cup of hot chocolate, which is distinct from hot cocoa. Hot cocoa is what we Americans think is hot chocolate – the powder stuff, or some syrup with steamed milk. Hot chocolate is shavings of chocolate melted with hot milk and turned into basically a decadent Hershey bar in a cup – only it’s Belgian dark chocolate that leaves a little chunk at the bottom of your cup when you are through.

I’m not sure I can describe what it is like to drink chocolate, except to say that it is very rich – and very good. I’ve won some other people over with the tasty treat, and we decided that a chocolatierre is a place to go on a date. Perfect to sit down over one of these extravagant little delights and enjoy talk about a movie you just saw, the dinner you just finished, or whatever topic comes to mind. Everything’s sweeter with chocolate.

And that was my first experience.

I went back a second time for the Brazillian twist – chili powder in the drink. You don’t really taste chili powder, per se. Instead, there’s this kick to every sip – which can get caught in your throat if you aren’t expecting it.
Think Chocolate, the movie. That’s Koko Black.

Phillip Island and the Penguin Parade

Situated to the southeast of Melbourne, beyond Port Phillip Bay, is a weekend outdoors waiting to happen, known as Phillip Island. My roommate Artan, my friend Indran, and I headed out one Saturday morning to find out what all the talk was about, and found ourselves rushing around to try to hit the main places to visit in our short day trip. I had originally planned to fit a surfing lesson in, but no one was teaching that day – because it is winter (though other places in Victoria still have lessons).

We started out by buying the three-park pass after stopping at a tourist information centre. The three parks included Churchill Island, an old British vacation home that has been maintained; the Koala Reserve, where you can walk along various paths to see koalas in the semi-wild; and the Penguin Parade, where little penguins return from weeks at sea to their hobbit-village among the rocks and rabbit holes. We made two other stops along the way at the Wildlife Refuge and The Nobbies, both worth the effort.

Part 1 – Churchill Island

Churchill Island wasn’t really my cup of tea, to be honest. Once you leave the tourist centre, you make a right turn, and follow a winding road to a one-lane bridge onto the smaller, more private “Churchill Island.” I think the walks around there would be nice, but it was just someone’s old summer home. And we’re not talking B.C., we’re talking 1800s, at best. So, while it was fun, the highlight was feeding the horse with the bucket of food that was just sitting there to tempt it, or going to the petting area to mix it up with some baby sheep and weird chickens with puffballs on their heads. Yes, it was designed for small children, and yes, I was entertained.



We came back to enjoy the second best part of our visit to Churchill Island – the view of the water and island from the comfort of our balcony dining table. I sat down to some vegetable minestrone while we put our feet up for a bit.



Then the drill sergeant in me kicked in because we had deadlines to meet if we were going to see everything we wanted to see, so we jumped in the car, wound about the island back to the one-lane bridge and back toward semi-civilization.

Part 2 – Koala Reserve
Back at the main road through the island, we made a right and headed toward the centre. We finally made it to the fork in the road and took a right, toward the Koala Reserve. The penguins are much more time conscious than the koalas, which makes sense, since they tend to be more formal in their attire, so we had to build our schedule around the penguins’ ETA. Koalas are doped up on eucalyptus, so they’re always lounging about. More on that in a minute.

Once we arrived at the Koala Reserve, we stamped our three-park pass and headed out the door, where we noticed our first koala – a stuffed 4-foot tall (while sitting) marsupial (they aren’t bears) ready for picture taking. And tourist that I am, I took a picture with the four-foot fake koala bear.



We headed out onto the various paths that wind around the sanctuary, looking in the trees for the plush beasts, but initially to no avail. I make it sound bad – that lasted about 5 minutes.

Finally, we found the “Koala Boardwalk,” which sounded promising – it was a raised set of wooden boardwalks that brought us closer to the treetops where the koalas are more likely to be feasting. And sure enough, as soon as we stepped onto the walk, a koala came into view way up high in the nearest tree. So I started shooting the heck out of it – with my camera – only to catch myself wondering why I was the only one really looking at it (well, okay, there were three of us now. Artan and Indran had given me a mandate to find a koala, so I was showing off my skills). But a little bit of logic and social knowledge prevailed. There was a huge group of people (read: 10) crowded around another tree at the other side of the boardwalk. Being the student of psychology that I am, I knew that there must be something more fascinating about that tree than the one I was looking at. And I led our expedition onward.

Sure enough, there were two koalas at the site, one that was so close, I could almost grab it by the leg (okay not that close). But I could see him up-close-and-personal (no koala holding at this place), and I got some great shots. One might say I went overboard. I think I took 100 pics or so. Ah the benefit of digital cameras.



Fun fact about koalas: eucalyptus, the only food they will eat, is filled with a drug-like mellowing agent, which is why they always seem so relaxed. They are. They’re doped up like beatniks on marijuana, making nothing from their lives and constantly having the munchies. I think that is a fair assessment. Which also explains why they are so picky – they want their buzz.

We stood there amazed for 15 minutes or so, before I said, “Okay, you’ve seen one koala, you’ve seen them all,” and led us back past the fuzzy replica to our car, and onward to glory – er, the petting zoo.

Part 3 – Wildlife Refuge
We cut into our time at Churchill Island and the Koala Reserve to spend thirty minutes at the zoo (I don’t remember what it was really called). There, when you pay $15 to enter, you get a bag of food. Why? Because half of the animals roam around the area with you – no fences. To be completely truthful, some animals are in their own pens, but we’ve all seen that before. I got to walk with kangaroos, wallabies (basically, miniature kangaroos), and emus (like ostriches), among other animals. What’s more, we got to feed them! Mammals and marsupials, I have determined, are the friendliest animals to feed. They know how to take something without completely freaking you out. Birds, on the other hand, are the worst. They have this pecking thing that is really unnerving, and since their beaks are hard, there’s nothing tremendously comfortable about it.



We fed the kangaroos for a while before we found our way to the emu pen, which you can just walk into. Emus and kangaroos are the national symbols of Australia. They are also both animals that cannot walk backward. That’s the rationale for the symbolism – Australia is always moving forward.



The emus were by far the scariest animal I fed. They startle you the whole time. They have long necks, so when they peck for food, their heads cover about 5 feet in an instant. Then they stole my foodback and dipped their heads back like they were in a beer chugging contest. Fortunately I had another bag. Then, another emu came up to get some din-din, and the two almost got in a fight. A sad little wallaby tried to come over for a bite, but the emus threatened to take his head off. He curtsied politely and took off.



So we saw a ton of indigenous animals, too many to name, but worthy of note were the dingos, wombats, Tasmanian devils, and koalas again. There were also some other birds like the emu, whose name eludes me, but looked like some dinosaur with a “dorsal-fin” shaped bone on their heads and red eyes.




We milled about for a bit longer than I should have allowed, but how could you pass this one up. Finally, at the direction of Artan, we hobbled back over to the car, and back onto the road toward the end of the island, and The Nobbies.

Part 4 – The Nobbies
I don’t know why they call it the Nobbies. I also don’t know why the tourist centre closed ahead of time. The park said that it closed at 5:00pm, and we clearly had another 15 minutes. But c’est la vie, and the security guard at the door didn’t have any better information. Fortunately, the best sights at the Nobbies are outdoor. (By the way, it’s not part of the three-park pass, but it’s a free centre anyway). On some days, you can get on a ferry and head out to the trail of islands referred to as the Nobbies and see the seals lounging on the most distant bit of land. We’ll have to save that for another trip, because there were no ferries when we were there.



Instead, we were treated to a maze of boardwalks that led around this beautiful part of the island, where ocean water sprays up after waves break upon the black rocks beneath. Sea birds, like seagulls, but somehow more interesting, were all over the place – flying, standing, squawking, dive-bombing. The black rocks were in stark contrast to the white birds and the green foliage, while the ocean licked the rocks and foamed white as it fought for control of the coastline. Stunning.



Part 5 – The Penguin Parade
After retracing our steps back up the boardwalks to our car, we headed just a couple kilometers back up the road our formal meeting of the night – the Penguin Parade. Our hosts and entertainers tend to be pretty punctual, so we had to get there a few minutes before dusk. We headed from the visitor centre along to the main stands, which look like one side of the stands in a football stadium with no football field, including the monster lights that keep the field lit in the evening. I think it must be a funny joke to the penguins, and other onlookers, to see a group of people huddled in these huge stands with lights shining into the distance, only to see empty beach and a little patch of ocean.

Fortunately, after about thirty minutes of this embarrassing scene, little spots appeared as the tide ebbed in and out. The little spots started moving around, and as the waves pulled back, little black deposits of penguins were left on the beach, debating whether or not to head in the rest of the way. Here’s how they explained it to me (by “they” I mean the park workers, not the penguins): the penguins are perfectly camouflaged in the water – black / dark blue backs so flying animals won’t see them for the ocean, white bellies so underwater predators will mistake them for the sky. They tend to hang out in the ocean for about three weeks at a time, but need to stop back on land to rest for three to five days. On land, they hide in the rocks. But when they are coming from the water to the land, they are totally vulnerable on the beach. Which is why they wait until just after dusk. But once they get to the beach, they have to decide whether to scurry across and put themselves at risk, or to run back to the water and safety. As such, we couldn’t talk or take pictures, as we might scare them off – permanently.

Now you’re probably thinking of Emperor Penguins – those massive penguins from Antarctica that huddle around each other to keep their eggs warm in the coldest place on earth (there’s a great Discover Earth about them). These are not those penguins. They are called faerie penguins. Or were. The homosexual community here somehow was offended by calling these guys faeries, so they have started calling them little penguins. Not trying to be political, but I can’t understand how these penguins that have been called faerie penguins for so long have somehow started causing offense. It’s like Proctor and Gamble telling people not to call betting “gambling” because they have chosen to take on that name – there is no relationship between the two.

Okay, back to the story. Faerie or little penguins are pretty small guys, and they tend to run in little groups of five to ten penguins while they traverse the beach. Normally, in the summer, a couple thousand will come each night. Thinking about it as they only stop in once every three weeks, but they come in by the thousands each night, there are a lot of penguins. But, since it is winter, we only saw a couple hundred. Still impressive, but a little more quaint than summer.

After seeing the penguins, most people just rush back to their cars and head out for dinner or back home. But you really should wait around. After the penguins have been home for a few minutes, they start to get chatty. And they make such strange noises: clicking, screeching, whining like babies. Eerie, yet beautiful. Pound for pound, they are the loudest penguins for their size. And even with weight aside, they can get pretty loud.

By this time it was dark, we were wet, and cold, and hungry, but totally satisfied. We grabbed some hot cocoa from the visitor centre and jumped in the car headed for home.

Phillip Island and the Penguin Parade – COMPLETE.

Queen Victoria Market

In the US we are generally used to buying our groceries at a supermarket. And, while they exist here, you can’t forget the old European-style market. Welcome, then, to Queen Victoria Market, the biggest and best of them here in Melbourne. The market has been running here since the 1850s, if I remember correctly.



Although it is vaguely similar to the Dallas Market, it reminds me more of Pike’s Market in Seattle, except that it is much bigger. Segmented between wares and food, fruit & vegetables and meats and deli cheeses & spices, it spreads across several buildings and shelters, and runs with relatively sporadic (but consistent) hours throughout the week and weekend.





For a haggler (like me, thanks to genes from my mom), the best time to go is near closing time, as merchants are trying to unload their wares before they close down, especially in the meat sections. Merchants beckon patrons with bellowing offers of last minute great deals, and you can see people scuttling about from site to site like rodents mesmerized by the pied peddling pipers (try saying that five times fast) to attract the foot traffic back from would-be competitors.



With cheeses and bolognas hanging from the walls, and meats spread out in glass cases, breads and other wares along back shelves, the market is one of those rare wonders that takes you back in time. It is fashioned among older buildings with hints of their age in the cracks that almost make you feel like you’re walking through a Charles Dickens book, but with better health standards and more fashionable clothing.



One challenge I encountered early on was the conversion between pounds and kilograms (which is about 2.2 kilos per pound), which really threw me off when I was buying meat and vegetables. Not only did I have to consider price differences because of the currency, I had to endure the aggravation of figuring out how much I needed to buy in kilos, and if I was really getting a deal. It sounds easy enough, until vendors are pressing you to say what you want, and you have no idea what to say. However, once I got the hang of it, I loved to go, and to figure out how to get the best deal of all.



I can’t say that I am ready to give up supermarket shopping altogether, but I can say that I will miss the market when I leave. I’ve always wanted to live in a city where I could go shopping for fresh foods and turn them into culinary masterpieces. Now I’ve at least found a place to find the food….

Queen's Botanic Gardens

Just a short walk from the central business district are the Queen's Botanic Gardens, a free public garden that covers a large area near the Yarra River.





Plants from all over Australia, as well as Asia, Europe and the Americas find a home here, including a huge oak tree tribute to the Americas. Cacti local to only the Americas also are on exhibit, though I would imagine they are over-watered in Victoria.



Rainforests apparently abound in eastern Australia, from Victoria to New South Wales to Queensland, as I found several footpaths exploring the fauna of the rainforests of these areas. Strange, given that we usually equate Australia with the Outback, which is much more arid than the eastern coast.

Our tour found us near a large pond where various birds paddled along, while others traipsed across grassy areas until a young woman chased them off so they flew off across the water like they were posing for a picture.



We also explored a bamboo forest, a fern gully, and the cactus garden I mentioned before. Add to that the strange palms and eucalyptus varieties.