Kangaroos, Wallabies, Emus, Oh My!

The view from our KI rental home

Yesterday my two closest friends both departed Adelaide for holidays with their respective families.   Chocolate does not taste as good today.  I'm fighting sadness with memories of happier times.

Time has flown since I last wrote.  I was hunkered under a pile of academic work for a while, and then, relieved of that duty, have been indulging in a bit of travel, filling the rest of time with work of the money-earning kind.  I've had two spectacular trips in the past 3 weeks, one to the Coonawarra, and another to Kangaroo Island.  Let's do a brief rundown of each!

The Coonawarra is a iron-board flat strip of land about 80 miles from the sea on the Limestone Coast.  It is famous for its Cabernet Sauvignon, a varietal which (in my old age) I am coming to appreciate as the king of grapes.  Distinctive though it is, a good Cabernet displays a singularly wide range of aromas and nuances as it gracefully, elegantly ages.  Just like a well-raised person, it is neither subject to fashion nor pleasurable to fools.  Its best expressions require proper oaking and diligent care, and only in very specific spots (Bordeaux, Coonawarra, Stellenbosch, arguably Napa) does it ripen to the sort of perfection that results in a strong, velvety, developed, and thought-provoking wine.

There are many wines that get me excited: muscled & sexy Barolo, pensive & earthy Pinot Noir, outgoing & dynamic Grenache... (this is just my homage to reds)... zesty & gritty Zinfandel... But Cabernet Sauvignon... heavens, this isn't just a wine you want to take home to mom.  It's a wine you adore and want all for yourself, even as you want to share its joy with the world.  It's a wine for now if impatience strikes, and it's a wine to cellar for 35 years and enjoy in old age.  It only improves with age.  In every bottle is the opportunity to learn more, grow into a deeper appreciation, and be inexpressibly happy with the tutorial.  By my rough estimate, one really good Cabernet is worth ten bottles of lesser stuff, yet it does not need to be pricey nor flashy nor hip to earn its respect as a noble grape.  In fact, what I liked most about the Coonawarra is the close-knit community and the sense that the winemakers there are just winemakers, the viticulturalists are just farmers with a specific passion.  The terroir is perfect for Cab Sav, and so that's what they make, humbly as that.  And, boy, what they make is brilliant.

Sparing everyone the details of the itinerary (I recognize that most people aren't as nerdy as I am about wine), suffice to say we tasted a whole heap of good wine, and were really impressed in particular by the vintage wine available for sale.  Any day you're drinking wine older than yourself... that's a good day.
The company was pretty spectacular too.  Six of us piled into my roommate's big red Holden station wagon (affectionately called "Ed"), and with the exception of a flat tire on the return drive, we tooled around the region in real style and passable comfort.  We rented a cute little beach house on the coast, and basically spent four days cooking one another good food and drinking good wine.  Hedonism?  Bring it on.

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Remarkable Rocks

This past week I went to Kangaroo Island with three friends for a much quieter and calmer getaway.  Aptly named, the 90-mile long island is home to lots of native and extremely cute Australian wildlife.  We saw many wallabies, one big bounding kangaroo, sea lions, seals, and birds by the score.  The major disappointment was the platypus, who would not emerge from his watery haunt to show us his beak and webbed feet.  I suppose I'll have to go to the zoo... because I'll be bummed if I leave this place without seeing the world's most bizarre mammal.

Remarkable Danger!!

A return trip to KI is definitely in order.  We checked off the tourist must-sees, including the Remarkable Rocks (see right... complete with obligatory fear-mongering sign), Admiral's Arch, and the sheep dairy.  We had an awesome, butter-filled lunch at the Marron farm... marron are Australia's delicious little answer to Louisiana crayfish and Maine lobster.  We tasted some small-production gin and liqueurs at the tiny island distillery.  Wish I'd taken a picture of the copper still.  We checked out Clifford's Bee-and-Honey operation, which I found utterly fascinating.  KI is home to the world's only remaining pure strain of Ligurian bees, which makes it biologically special and important because Ligurian bees are prized for quality honey and a good temperament... It is now on my list to learn more about bees... absolutely fascinating creatures.

The evenings in KI passed in good company, eating good food (probably eating way too much, honestly), and then staying up late chatting about life and plans.  My friends might say I've been inexhaustibly talkative on the subject of "life" recently.  Lots to think about, lots of logistics and hopes and dreams to sort through.  It's nice to feel as if I'm on the right track, however hard it is to stomach the reality that not everything is within my control.  One lives in hope, and continues to work hard.

That's a nice thing about this summer.  I'm here, at the massive sacrifice of family time and traditions and comfort, in order to work... Working hard keeps the mind busy... and it's hard to do much heavy lifting with fingers crossed.  So I'll just keep my head down and keep posting the good news! 

me, worried,  in a rock

Whirlwind Americana

Just because I don't travel enough, I figured I'd spend my July "winter" vacation zipping through as many States as possible. Here are some highlights:

After the 4th in West Virginia, we drove north through Southern Ohio, Indiana (corn! more corn!), Chicago, and a torrential rainstorm to arrive in Milwaukee. Immediately upon arrival I was swept into the arms of Midwestern hospitality as my good friend Will and his devilishly funny girlfriend Kelly took us to the Brewer's game by way of some hardcore tailgating. Miller Park, the Brewer's home field, has got to be the cleanest, prettiest stadium in Major League Baseball. Its stadium seating rises at such a pitch that even in the nosebleed sections, you're looking right down at the field. They serve craft beers alongside the requisite lager. And everyone is just so darn polite.
We were humming along nicely when Billy disappeared to the restroom and returned with blood splattered across his clothes. The bathroom stall apparently has some sharp edges and one jumped out and bit him hard across his knuckles, gouging out a quarter-size chunk of thumb and sending us promptly to first aid. Billy protested at length, but the female voice prevailed, and we carted him off to the emergency room for seven very necessary stitches. I imagine he'd have still been bleeding a week later without them. For my part, it was intriguing to compare the first-world sterility of that simple procedure with my knee situation in Vietnam.
Milwaukee is also home to a number of Billy's family members, so a couple very pleasant meals were devoted to meeting and visiting with them... all lovely, interesting people.

Between Milwaukee and Cleveland, we stopped off at the rollercoaster capitol of the world, Cedar Point. Since the 1970s, the park has been home to some of the biggest, fastest rides in the world, and it is constantly innovating and updating its offerings. Of special note: Millennium Force, which is a deliciously fast, traditional coaster (no upside-downs) that reaches 94 mph during a 310 foot, 80 degree initial plummet, and whizzes along a sprawling track for another two minutes after that. Power Tower shoots you 240 feet into the air (or you can drop, whichever suits your fancy), and it is impossible to refrain from screaming. And the absolutely killer Dragster picks up 120 mph in a matter of seconds and... oh... just click the link and check it out...



Will and Kelly joined us for the amusement park adventure, which is important to note because Will was designated driver and--on his own insistence--designated car key holder. When we got up to that cheek-flattening Millennium Force speed, the track took a searing righthand turn, and a tiny little Honda key was liberated from its pocket home. Off it flew into the mire of God-knows-where, and we realized very shortly after the ride ended that we were in a bit of a bind.

I must compliment the Cedar Point staff and their set-up for stranded motorists. They have a rather polite security detail that happily golfcarts around the parking lot as the park closes, and they are equipped and willing to pop open cars (upon proper identification, of course) as needed. If necessary, they will contact a 24 hour locksmith who can create a replica key (there's a fee for that), and you can motor on your merry way, almost as if you'd never been so optimistic as to put your key in a pocket without a zipper... and then get on a rollercoaster that goes nearly 100 miles per hour... (love you, Will).

Back in our cars, we motored on our way to Cleveland, where we spent a rather relaxing week checking in on family and old haunts. It's always taps into a special sort of nostalgia to be in Ohio in summer.

Almost Heaven, West Virginia

We drove south from Cleveland on the Fourth of July and arrived at the Greenbrier in time for cocktails. Perfect timing.

Man do I love the Independence Day. It's a holiday dedicated to celebrating democracy through liberal use of grills, summery beverages, and explosives. There's minimal pressure, only a sense that fun should be had. For one brilliant hot day, America comes together to have some sort of barbeque, cool off in whatever way is available, and wait for the sky to light up in ecstasy. Forget turkeys and gifts; this is my idea of a fiesta. Even during my summer in India, I celebrated the 4th in Kodaikanal with a strawberry, vanilla, and blueberry ice cream cone by the lake. Of course, I was joined in succession by a well-fed cow and a gaunt beggar, and vowed that I would never again spend my favorite holiday out of the US. By extravagant contrast, BBQ ribs, a couple G&Ts, nice wine, and the Greenbrier fireworks (accompanied by the Charleston Pops Orchestra) rounded out a delightful evening.

In fact, the entire vacation in the West Virginia mountains has been delightful, restful. The weather has been stunning, with soaring hot temperatures that are absolute relief from winter Down Under. We've gone shooting clay pigeons (watch out, Annie Oakley), played tennis, and had some lovely spa treating. The whole place is gearing up to host its first PGA tournament next week, so the grounds are teeming with extra workers bent on transforming the landscape. I was impressed on my 7:30am run through the golf course to see so many guys out planting begonias by every tee.

The sun is setting late, and light lingers until 10pm. We've got a nice dinner planned, and then maybe we'll go check out the casino that just opened up at the main hotel... or maybe we'll just take a nice long stroll around the gardens. Summer is a welcome treat.

En Amerique!

It's ironic. I left Cleveland in the dead of winter, thrilled to the core at the prospect of basking in the warm Australian sun. Two months later, Adelaide weather teetered towards the brink of chilly, and when I left on July 1 I had to scrape frost off my car to get to the airport. I've been salaciously dreaming about warm sunshine for weeks, and now I come back to Cleveland to get it!

Do not let anyone tell you otherwise; the flight across the Pacific is brutally long. I highly recommend Virgin Airlines for their attentive service (even in economy! Singapore Air, take note!) and fantastic in-flight entertainment. But even the full first seasons of Glee and Modern Family, plus a partial viewing of Chariots of Fire (not a great plane movie) cannot stifle the fact that Australia-America is a long time to be sitting vertical at 30,000 feet. I went into the flight with severe post-exam sleep deprivation, and by the time I crawled into bed at 2am last night, I had been awake or napping in that sleep-like haze that happens on planes for 30 solid hours.

It will be good to see friends and family. I'm mostly looking forward to a month of reflection. Adelaide has been rather unkind to me and my bank account. I think there have been some lessons along the way, but it's hard to see things when you're scrambling to keep them out of your face. Hopefully too, it should be a fun time. I'll be in Cleveland, Chicago, Milwaukee, New York, and Jacksonville. If you're somewhere along that road, drop me a line and let's try to catch up.

Home Soon

Last week I completed a 100-page report on the state of the U.S. on-premise wine market. Yesterday I handed in 15 pages worth of philosophizing on the economic morality of tort law. The day after tomorrow, I have a three hour accounting exam, which I pray to pass. Twenty hours after that, I sit for an exam covering the global wine industries. By conservative estimate, I have produced roughly 200 pages of academic writing since March. My grades are looking okay, but I wonder what all those hours in front of my computer really add up to. The degree is the goal.

The truth is, I've been using the stress of academics as an excuse not to take care of more important things. It's been a long time since I called home. I haven't spoken to my brother in a month. Facebook, that glorious stalker's tool, offers a daily news feed about old friends and schoolmates who are getting married, getting pets, getting coffee with one another.

It's not so exciting on this side of the world. Winter is upon us and the house has no central heating. The hot water bottle and I have become quite close. I look forward to being in the States in 10 short days... I can't spend the 4th of July abroad. And I think it will feel very good, very balancing, just to be a little nearer to the people I think of so often, across the span of time and ocean and latitude.

The Frantically Planned and Hastily Executed Roadtrip

Last Saturday morning, we piled into a rental car: my Columbian bodyguard Manuel, my gorgeous sweetheart roommate Kerry, and me. I had taken the weekend off from work, and we were out to make an epic of it. I've been in Australia for four months and I haven't traveled more than 50 kms from my house. So at noon we headed south on Princes Highway towards Melbourne, and this is what (some of what) transpired:

Beyond the Adelaide Hills, the countryside is sparse and rolling. Every half hour or so we encountered signs, and slowed from 110 km/hr to 60 km/hr to accommodate someone's idea of a town. Maybe an intersection, maybe a house or two. At Tallem Bend, Duke's Highway heads sharply east, but we stayed on Princes Highway, hugging the coast and headed for the limestone cliffs of the Great Ocean Road.

Three hours into the trip, we stopped at a gas station in Meningie, "Australia's #1 Medium Size Town 2008," population 1,500. Admittedly, the BP served up the best meat pie I've ever had (best... and third...). Aside from the lovely woman at the gas station, we saw one other living creature:



Back on the road, we told dumb stories to keep the driver awake, perhaps learned more about each other than we originally intended to share... you know how roadtrips can be... and eventually rolled into the booming metropolis of Mount Gambier. At 7pm on a Saturday night, the central pub was fully dead. So we checked out the famous sinkhole in the center of town, then left.

We spent Saturday night in a Comfort Inn in Warrnambool, and thank heavens we arrived at 9:30, because the innkeeper was locking her door when we arrived, and clucked disapprovingly at the notion of traveling after dark. She even cut us a deal on the room and gave us three beds for the price of two... "Not that you need three beds," she said. I am not sure what she was implying. Dinner was surprisingly fantastic Italian fare served up at a spot called Bojangles. Great Shiraz from a Victoria winery called Pizzini.

Sunday morning dawned and we were already on the road. The Great Ocean Road beckoned, and the soft colors of early morning suit her well:


When I have more time to spare, there are at least 5 quaint coastal towns, 15 adorable brunch cafes, and 9 crazy cool surf breaks I want to check out along the Great Ocean Road. If the weather were warmer, there's a chance I'd still be sunbathing on one of those cliff-enclosed beaches. Sadly, this was a quick-and-dirty adventure... we were in Melbourne by midday.

Melbourne! What a cool town! They have sweet public art:


They have an Eiffel Tower (white... can you see it?):



They have an underground gym in a converted storehouse along the river:


They sell wine in their luxury clothing stores:


They have an amazing open air market, complete with the appropriately named "American Donuts" bus:


And, crucially, you can get a good curry at 9pm on a Sunday! I was in love. Kerry and I spent two days reveling in the the amenities that a big city can provide, and I -predictably- started planning my next move. Can I get a summer internship in Melbourne? What sort of income would it take to set up shop in a central penthouse? Surely Melbourne can't top New York and London's costs of livings... and it was every bit as cool, edgy, livable, and lively as those two great towns. And a river and gardens and theater and art and.... why can't I just stay in one place?

ANZAC Gambling

All of Australia held a moment of silence Sunday morning for ANZAC Day, which honors the country's veterans and fallen soldiers. There was a beautiful dawn service at the war memorial downtown, and most Aussies celebrated the day with commemorative brunches and copious booze. In true Down Under fashion, the national holiday extends through the Monday workday, allowing everyone to take full advantage of ANZAC Day barbecues and bar specials.

I spent Sunday night with some new friends playing that traditional Aussie game, Texas Hold 'Em. Winner takes all, and I won! I credit a year and a half of sailing with card sharks whose nightly entertainment consisted of Whist, gin rummy, and cribbage. I must also thank dumb luck and a fortuitous pair of 10s at 2:30 in the morning. Regardless, I walked away with the money to pay off the damnable quarantine officers who stand between me and my personal belongings when and if the boxes ever arrive. Word from the freight shippers is my stuff will be in Adelaide tomorrow noon. I am far too beleaguered by the long wait to hope this forecast is true.

In other news, I have found potentially useful inroads to the Adelaide mafia network. There's this phenomenally wealthy regular at the restaurant where I work; we'll call him Blaine. He drives around in a 7-series BMW and, according to gossip, paid cash for a Mercedes to placate his wife when she found out about one of the mistresses. Blaine keeps separate houses for wife and mistresses. He has also run up a several-thousand dollar tab at the restaurant, and my boss is pretty irritated with the situation. I wondered at first why we keep serving Blaine, tolerating his smarmy requests for lap dances and endless need for whiskey and cokes. I didn't appreciate how he gets away with bringing his weekly girlfriends to our cozy neighborhood establishment. I sat down for a cocktail with Blaine on Friday night, out of boredom and amusement. Now the world is just a little less hazy.

Blaine makes all his money betting on horse races. He is -I'm told- Australia's wealthiest "punter," possibly in every non-football sense of the word. No surprise that he has access to some serious muscle, specifically in the form of a big guy named "Johnny." And of course he's familiar with the regional criminal hierarchy. He can, off the cuff, name the leaders of the "families" in Adelaide's suburbs, and I'll wager he's got special friends, lady and otherwise, in every major town on the continent. He wears a heavy gold ring with a massive diamond horseshoe and a horse head where the Superbowl insignia ought to be. I can think of a couple locals who would look good with that logo imprinted in their foreheads.

Not that I would wish for that sort of thing.

Happy Easter!

I wish lots of chocolate and bunny love to everyone on this beautiful Easter Sunday. It's is a highly secularized holiday in Australia, notable for public holidays on both Friday and Monday. Shops have been closed since Thursday, and many people left town to enjoy the final warm weekend before cooler fall weather sets in. Yes, it does get cold here.

I went to an Episcopalian Eucharist this morning, just to soak in the meditative calm that is generally associated with churches on their most popular day of the year. No less than three babies were hurriedly carried, screaming, from the sanctuary. But the hymns were lovely and reminded me of home. I should start going to church more regularly.

The roomies and I were treated to brunch of lovely blintzes with strawberries, cooked by resident Chef Jeff, and the Easter bunny did leave behind chocolate eggs and hot cross buns. After the feeding, we trundled off to the beach in my gorgeous little car, and joined the throngs of Australians enjoying the sunny day. I laid back and promptly fell asleep.

Last night was a long and fun one. I was the female escort for my three Columbian friends at a salsa dance party downtown, and for reasons I cannot fully explain, I chose to wear strappy stilettos. By eleven, my feet were numb with pain, and pain isn't particularly conducive to quick, sultry dance steps. I managed to catch the heel of one shoe on the straps of another, and took a nasty fall smack on my knee. It's a lovely bruise to accompany the motorcycle gash. Just another battle wound, really. I tried to pretend I wasn't fazed, and thankfully my partner and friend just kept on twirling me like I was a rockstar. I do love dancing.

At some point rather late in the evening, I consented to dance with a burly Asian-slash-Australian-looking dude with long curly hair pulled back in a bush of a ponytail and giant biceps bursting forth from a tight sleeveless-tee. I don't know why it surprised me that manhandled me in a way that would have qualified as abuse in most Westernized countries. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he dances, and I suspect this guy makes crude demands of hapless young girls when he gets into more private settings. Note, he wasn't the uncomfortably sensual type, or one of those guys who "oops" touches you provocatively. He simply drove me forcefully past where I was able to follow his lead, and kept throwing me around, laughing as if it was good fun. It was like rape on the dance floor. In lieu of being vocally rude, which I probably should have been, all I could do was survive the song, desperately looking towards my Columbian men in hopes they would recognize my distress and step in. They were preoccupied with blondes.

Then, the real kicker, the brute dropped me! He shoved me into this treacherously low dip, and rather than feeling his mammoth arms scoop me back up to a standing position, I felt the smack of my horizontal body against the wood floor. It was surprisingly painless, but I did struggle to think of a more embarrassing moment as the crowd around me stopped dancing to ogle, giggle, and ask if I was alright. No one asked the thug if he was alright in the head. He wanted to keep dancing, and just kept on laughing maniacally as if it were all good fun to chuck a girl on the ground. I don't know if he actually meant to do it, but the dance continued as viciously as the first half, and I tried to pretend I didn't want to spit in his face. When the song ended I scrambled quickly back to the Columbians. For the rest of the night, I danced only with Manuel, who leads as if I'm a delicate and gorgeous thing to show off. He's the sort of partner that makes a girl look good. Somewhat more enjoyable than watching the disco ball as if it were the moon among stars and I reclining in a country field.

I suppose it takes all types to make the world go round, but maybe we as a humanity could do with fewer men who like to harm small animals for fun. Long live the bunnies. Long live the Christian ethic. Merry Easter to all.