A Nightmare After Christmas

It's winter in New Zealand. The dead freezing, gray, windy, wet middle of winter. So what do you do when you get a bunch of Americans in freezing cold weather? You celebrate Christmas, of course! Undeterred by the realities of the calendar, we started our New Zealand stay by celebrating Christmas in July with our fantastic American hostess, Tory, and her charming Kiwi boyfriend, Andrew. We decorated a Christmas tree, sang Christmas songs, had a fantastic home cooked dinner (LOVE you Tory!) and watched the Christmas classic "Fred Claus" which takes place partly in Chicago. It was the best Christmas I have ever celebrated... in July.

In typical reunion tour fashion, one highly successful evening means everything else starts to fall apart. We woke up early the

next morning to catch the TransCoastal train up the east coast from Christchurch to Blenheim in the Marlborough wine region.

The train runs quite literally along the rocky coast and black sand beaches of

New Zealand and has an outdoor observation deck where you can brave the whipping winds to enjoy the view. It was really stunning. Snow-capped mountains sat to the west with wispy clouds climbing them

like smoke.

The ocean roared from the east with giant waves that crashed against the rocks next to the tracks. Colonies of seals sunned themselves on the rocks and giant birds swooped overhead.

Picturesque really... and then.... THUMP.

We jolt to a stop. The train hit a car in the crossing.

Fear not, everyone was ok. Miraculously the four people in

the car were unharmed. But the train became a crime scene. Not our first, and certainly not our last, crime scene on this trip, but the first we were forced to stick around for. After two hours of sitting on the train, we were told that we would

have to get off the train and walk along the tracks to the last crossing where a bus would take us the rest of the way.

So we saw part of the New Zealand countryside on foot,

huffing it along the tracks back to the last town.

My brief but illustrious life as a hobo is memoralized to the right.

We got in to Bleinhem a

few hours late, but were

fortunately still able to get a wine tour operator to take us around the plentiful Marlborough vineyards. The region is known for its sauvingon blanc, and Clare is known for her love of sauvingnon

blanc, so it seemed a match made in heaven. And it was. The

Marlborough region contains over 100 vineyards each nestled between the mountains and proudly assembling a small collection of mostly white

wines-- sav blancs, resilings, chardonnays, and pinot gris for the most part. Unlike the

Australian vineyards which were bigger and more mass-production shops, New Zealand wine makers focus on a few varietals, conscienciously distinguish between the home-grown wines and those derived from purchased grapes, and take a lot of time to talk to visitors about how they make their wines. It was really inspiring (and marginally intoxicating).

After the tour, our guide left us off at the Picton ferry that crosses the Cook Strait to Wellington through the Marlborough Sounds. Although the sounds (geographical term, not aural perceptions) are apparently a remarkable sight during the day, it was growing dark at that point so our ability to appreciate them was limited. Instead, we decided to settle in to the movie lounge for some G-rated Hollywood imports on the three hour ride. Public transportation disaster number two: the whole boat stank like a toilet. One giant poop deck, the good ship lollypoop, a floating urinal cake-- call it what you will. It was like three hours in a porta-potty. We spilled out onto the dock in Wellington gasping for fresh air.

We checked into our hostel in Wellington exhausted, mildly nauseous, and confident that our bad fortune had surely run its course. We got some bread and cheese, enjoyed an excellent Syrah that we'd picked up at the vineyards, and called it a night. Until 5:47 a.m. When the fire alarm went off. Apparently the hostel-going population of New Zealand did not go to college with me because these people take fire alarms very seriously, as if the flames were nipping at their butts. People were running for the staircase, bolting down the stairs, and nearly trampling each other in the process. By "each other" I mean me, limping down the stairs with a still-bum knee, from the fifth floor, at six in the morning, with a dozen half-drunk kiwis on my heels. After fifteen shivering minutes outside we learned that there was not a fire (shocking) and we could all go back to sleep. A fitting conclusion to a spectacular debacle of a day. I took the elevator back up.

This is all a true story, when I make up ridiculous things that have happened to me they usually involve a clown and I always find ten dollars at the end.

A new day! Wellington is a lovely little town and after our morning coffee/ hot chocolate we set

out to enjoy it for our brief visit. Wellington is on the water so, like the rest of New Zealand, it takes its seafood really seriously.

We ate lunch at a seafood market in town that catches all of its fish the same morning they serve it. It was the best fish 'n chips we've ever had.

Public transportation was largely successful this time. Our only slight setback today was a fundamental and pervasive inability on Clare and my part to read military time-- so much so that conversations about our flight times now go something like this:

Kelly: We get in at 5 pm

Tory: Are you sure it's 5?

Kelly: Yes, 5.

Tory: Is there a 1 in front of the five?

Kelly: Uhhh, maybe, does that change something?

But we made it back to Christchurch unscathed if not exactly when expected.

Tomorrow we are off to Queenstown for Winter Festival! It will probably be another week before we can update, but take the down time to update US on what's going in your lives (please by email and not in the comments, the whole world doesn't care). Besos!

Melbourne

Sorry we are so far behind!! I got a little distracted.

There's so much to tell from our lovely time here in Melbourne. Our first few days here we were staying with our new favorite person, Robin, who reminded us that the life of a wandering minstrel, while charming, is a sacrifice of certain luxuries that we dearly miss.

Luxury one: our own bathroom. We had a huge, marble-tiled bathroom with a shower that felt like a warm waterfall. Clare went into a hygiene-induced coma in that shower and was only roused when she ran out of hot water.

Luxury two: a hair dryer. I wanted to kiss it, whisper sweet nothings into its nozzle, ask it to run away with me. There will be three days of photos with my hair down, and then no more. It was heavenly.

Luxury three: home cooked food. The night we arrived it was chilly and rainy and Robin had prepared homemade pumpkin soup and crusty bread for us. You'd think we'd never eaten before the way we attacked the pot and shoveled the food into our mouths-- a terrible first impression that Robin fortunately forgave.

We spent our first full day in Melbourne wandering around the trendy-hippy Brunswick St. which has a 90s Boys Town (pre-yuppy invasion) feel to it. It reminded me of my high school days when my idea of fashion was wearing my father's vintage 70s corduroys and a worn through t-shirt that I picked up from a resale shop on a weekend jaunt to Clark and Belmont. That little window into my past probably just blew some of your minds. We humans are devolving creatures. Anyway, we had lunch at the Veggie Bar, our new favorite vegetarian restaurant on the plant (sorry Blind Faith, you're now in second). I had a tofu burger with satay sauce on roti bread and Clare had a falafel wrap. Neither of us could speak during the meal.

After a stroll around Brunswick we took the tram down to St. Kilda's beach to watch the sunset. Clare and I are basically dating. Like with Byron Bay, I won't bother trying to explain how beautiful it was. The pictures basically say it all. We also saw some little penguins by the breakwater at St. Kilda's but they were too shy for photos.

The sky, on the other hand, was not.

That night Robin invited us to hang with some locals to watch the State of Origin game-- the big rugby game between New South Wales and Queensland. Our wonderful hosts again spoiled us with incredible home-cooked food and my very first taste of kangaroo (pizza)! It's chewy, a bit gamey, and not my favorite food ever. If that roo had just spooned with me I wouldn't have had to eat him. Lessons learned all around.

Thursday we spent the day touring vineyards in the Yarra Valley. Despite trying over 40 wines through the course of the day, we managed to learn some things about wine tasting (swirl, sniff, swish, swallow, repeat) and wine making (something about duration of skin contact and fermentation). The scenery was gorgeous and we made friends with some Irish, British and Aussies that were on the trip who shared our love of wine and our distaste for moderation.

Summary of vineyard tour:

Beginning



Middle

End

An important note worthy of its own paragraph: WE LOVE YOU ROBIN!! THANK YOU!!

Friday we had to leave our wonderful host's home and move to our (also surprisingly lovely) hostel on Flinders St. This part of town has a totally different vibe, with fun little hipster boutiques and great sandwich and coffee shops. And cupcakes! To be specific, little cupcakes. Georgetown Cupcake has got nothing on these little bits of bliss. Melbourne also takes its coffee really seriously and I have been utterly spoiled by the rich, dark espresso and perfect crema that all Melbourners expect in a cup of joe. The real adventure was figuring out how to order the coffee here. The standard cup is a "long black" which is basically a very strong Americano. A "flat white" is a latte. "Short black" is an espresso. It took a few mistries before sorting out that a "long black with a splash of milk on top" was the closest I would get to an American coffee.

Friday night we kidnapped another wandering American and we all went to the Aussie Rules "footie" game at the MCG. Educated by our errors in attending local sporting events in Japan, we decided this time we would fully embrace the event as the locals do. Clare and I got matching jerseys (Go Carlton!!) and, not to be outdone, decided to have the Carlton logo painted on our cheeks. Our compatriot one-upped us and had his entire face painted blue and white. We got in the stadium and quickly realized that nobody over the age of 10 had their faces painted. And girls apparently don't really wear jerseys here. The female fan uniform is basically a really short dress and a team scarf. Failure round two. But the game was incredibly fun despite a crushing loss to our beloved Carlton... pigeons? dingos? wombats? Honestly, they have the least inspiring team mascots you can think of over here. I think it was the toads and the cockroaches that night. How ever does one choose....

The game turned into some post-game revelry, though not (as we imagined) in bars packed with game goers celebrating a victory or drowning a sorrow. We were again the most ostentatiously spirited people in the bar. The locals would ask us who won... and why the hell we had paint on our faces. Sigh.

Saturday was largely an effort to recover from the game and prepare ourselves for our last night in Australia. We made it to the Queen Victoria Market, a vast outdoor market where people are hocking everything from fresh fruit to designer clothing at suspiciously low prices. We steered clear of the fish market and its uninviting odors-- Tokyo was enough fish market for a lifetime.

As usual, we set into Saturday evening with two simple goals: booze and karaoke. We started the evening (rather accidentally) at a karaoke bar where we were basically the only people there. A little TLC and Wham from Clare and I, followed by an inspired version of Mrs. Robinson from our American friend, got the night off to a perfect start.

Then, to brace ourselved for the impending New Zealand cold, we went to an ice bar. That's right. It's a bar. Made of ice. Sound like a really stupid idea? You are correct. Clare and I, of course, boasted that we were from Chicago, we are not afraid of a little cold. Not true. It was quite literally freezing. A few shots from an ice sculpture, a cocktail from a glass made of ice, and some eskimo photo ops later we decided we had proved our point and could move on to a warmer locale.

We ended the night in a Melbourne casino, which was basically like Vegas if all of Vegas were an off-strip, worn down, tacky room full of underage drunks and past-prime gambling addicts. After an incident at the craps table where I may have accidentally hit a nice Aussie lady in the face with dice, we decided it was time to call it a night.

Melbourne-- another success. (Success loosely defined).

Sydney

Stop three in Australia: the iconic Australian port town of Sydney. We spent our first day here strolling through the incredible botanical gardens and walking along the harbor. The houses on the harbor are built on steep hillsides overlooking the water. It's like San Francisco with a sexy accent.

And then there's the Opera House. In an effort to be culturally educated, Clare and I read a brief history and explanation of the Opera House's construction and architectural inspirations-- one of which was "copulating turtles." I swear. I couldn't make up something so absurd. And once you know that, you can never look at those crouching, clustered domes with the same reverant regard. The main theatre is eyeing the box office from behind if you know what I'm saying.

Next we took a ferry from the main Sydney port to Manly Beach, an isthmus (not to be confused with an island, mind you) famous for its surfing waves on the beach facing the open sea. The difference between the two sides of this tiny strip of land are really remarkable. The ferry ride over was still water across a harbor crowded with sailboats. Crossing over to Manly Beach (literally a one-block walk) reveals the full fury of the ocean. The wind whips across the beach there, and huge white-capped waves break over the swarms of brave surfers who flock to Manly for some of the best surfing in Sydney. An Aussie told us later that day that winter is the best surfing in Manly because the waves are bigger. Maybe so, but it was darn cold and we were never once tempted near the water.

When we got back from Manly Beach we walked around Rock Hill, which is one of the oldest neighborhoods in Sydney. We stopped to regroup at a German beer hall when it started to pour. One beer to wait it out didn't work, so Clare proposed one of her most brilliant plans of all time: a pub crawl home. But then this snag....




Clare: I left the map at the internet cafe.
Me: The only one we have that tells us where our hostel is?
Clare: Yep. That one.
Me: Hmm....
Clare: Don't worry. (Taps her forehead). Photographic memory.

So off we went to (hopefully) find our way home in the drenching rain. Stop two: a darling Irish pub in Rock Hill with a live band that invited us to sing harmonies with them. I'm sure they only meant Clare. Stop three: a wine bar on the harbor overlooking the bridge and opera house. Stop four: a chocolate themed cafe. Stop five: another Irish pub of sorts with a live band playing Irish drinking songs. Again we became band favorites and had a pint with them on their break. I tried to get Clare to jig-- I got shot down. Stop six: it was a bar... look the story gets fuzzy at a point but we definitely found our way home.

Speaking of home. We are living in the red light district. I'm not sure how this always happens to us. Our first night here, we left the hostel and turned the corner to find strip clubs, fetish shops, and working ladies abound. In a charming refusal to delineate ordinary vices from the arguably more sinister ones, the red light district in Sydney doubles as a trendy evening spot for the young and beautiful. Designer-clad youngsters line up to pay large covers at posh lounges next to Thai massage parlors where your standard backrub is not on the menu. Quick history lesson: apparently Darlinghurst Road (near our hostel) was solidified as the epicenter of Sydney's vices when American soldiers flocked here during WWII. Our legacy in Australia. You are welcome. See? This blog is not a total waste of time-- today we've learned about military indiscretion and cavorting turtles.

Tomorrow we are off to Melbourne for some relaxation in Victoria wine country. If there are any fewer than twelve screaming children on our flight, I will be in a spectacular mood. The proud American tradition of putting Xanax in baby bottles has not made its way over here, and we are suffering for it every time we fly.


'Till next time.

Crikey!!

So apparently our darling little Toyota transport from Byron Bay to Brisbane was doubling as a mobile hot zone because Clare and I arrived in Brisbane feeling a bit blah and woke up the next morning sick. We bailed on the Australian Zoo that first day in favor of a quiet day of laundry, reading, and strolling around Brisbane. It was a much-needed break. We are quickly realizing that we are not 21 this time-- and when we forget it our knees, backs, and livers remind us.

One afternoon of rest and we were ready to participate in the ancient Australian tradition of karaoke. The Australian Aboriginees actually invented karaoke as a means of passing on their creation myths to their young. That's how the song "I come from the land down under" became popular. True story.

Fortunately, we have had an excellent tour guide in Brisbane. Our friend Mark, who we met in DC on New Years Eve this past year, has showed us the best of Brisbane's night life, which mostly meant closing down The Victory every night. Though Clare and I are generally somewhat reserved, he convinced us that a lively rendition of Kelly Clarkson's "Since you Been Gone" was an appropriate and important cultural exchange. Never one to disappoint the natives, we gave it our best shot. Important note: I lost my voice in Osaka after our karaoke night there. I have not since relocated it, though it has not prevented me from croaking along. The woman who ran the karaoke at the victory takes her job very seriously. Apparently part of her job is turning off the microphone when people like me attempt to sing. So what you are witnessing in that photo is Clare entertaining the crowd and me entertaining myself. And rightly so.

As our cultural ambassador to Australia, Mark then insisted that we try the ancient ceremonial meal of the Austalians-- a lovely dish called vegemite. Vegemite is made from a by-product of the beer brewing process. It's like salty, yeasty, brown beer residue. For those of you who live by the mantra "nothing bad has ever come from beer" (I'm looking at you Mullins), I will gladly prove you wrong. We actually asked Mark's mom before we tried it what the quickest route was to the toilets should the experiment go badly. She replied "they make a less salty American-friendly vegemite... and also one with cheese in it." Not helpful. We took this picture before we bit into it. The chewing, swallowing and aftermath photos are not publishable.

After stuffing a dry toast chaser into our mouths, we set off for the Australia Zoo where we had two objectives-- hold a koala bear and feed the kangaroos. Done and done. The kangaroos in the Australian Zoo roam freely and love the humans who bring them endless food. They've got a pretty good gig going on there, though they do have to put up with people like me who want to spoon with them.

Then we held a koala.

Then I was eaten by a crocodile.

The End.

The 60s are calling, they want Byron Bay back

If you've ever toyed with abandoning personal hygeine, if you think surfing is a spiritual calling, if all of the 80s are one giant K-hole.... you belong in Byron Bay.

The sky here is just showing off. There's no sense in explaining it, I will just post some photos while you book your flights here. Byron Bay is notoriously a hippy, surfer party beach town with breathtaking ocean scenery and wild night life. In the winter (like now) it's much quieter and the "locals" (largely expat backpackers who came for a weekend and stayed for years) seem more interested in the scenery than the booze. But the entire town is stuck in the 60s. The shops peddle hemp clothing, spiritual cleansing, and organic juice drinks. The beach parking lot is crowded with vintage 70s vans with curtains over the back windows that serve as dual-function transportation and accommodation for the large population of wandering souls that have found themselves on Australia's Gold Coast.

Our first day here we took an eternal hike to the town lighthouse on the top of a mountain overlooking the bay. Sore legs aside, it was a fantastic view. During the winter months the migrating humpback whales hang out in Cape Byron and we saw a few off them wave a flipper as they passed. There are also groups of dolphins that play in the bay, darting between surfers fearlessly. Man and nature are one in Byron Bay in ways that previously only seemed plausible at Sea World.

Back in town, I decided to do as the locals do and let an ayurvedic healer have a crack at my previously undisclosed knee injury (deep breaths Mom, I'm fine). It was an interesting and painful experience, though honestly I am feeling better today.

After that, I did as the other locals do and went to the local pharmacy seeking the strongest muscle relaxants money could buy. I learned just one more way in which the American medical system makes the simple into the needlessly complex-- the pharmacists in Australia can sell you certain prescription-strength drugs after a simple consultation. My consultation consisted of limping in, her asking "you need something strong?" and me wimpering until she handed over the good stuff. It wouldn't take much acting skill to develop a trendy habit in these parts.

Our one and only night in Byron Bay was exactly what you'd expect when you crash a hippy commune-- vegetarian dinner, a spotaneous Bob Dylan sing along with random guitar players, and a beer under the stars by a fire.

Ok, one more beach shot just to rub it in. I walked along the water barefoot this morning, sipping my morning coffee and thinking I might just stay forever.

I know...

Our second day in Byron Bay we went on an eco-tour of the area to see Australia's finest wildlife in its natural environment. Our guide was a reincarnation of Steve Irwin-- he clearly loved the animals, knew everything about them, and (slightly creepily) impersonated their various calls in ways that drew them to him. We saw a ton of parrots, koala bears, kangaroos, flying foxes, whales, dolphins... all in their natural habitats. It was amazing.

Despite spending far too little time in this incredible place, we got into a rental car and headed north to Brisbane for the next leg of our journey. Clare gave me the incredibly helpful advice that if the headlights were coming directly for me, I was driving in the wrong lane. With that rule of thumb memorized, we set off.

Australian Zoo tomorrow!! I want a koala.

Sayonara

Thanks Japan. And also... sorry.

I still don't know how to say goodbye in Japanese

I'm going to try to wrap up the Japan posts before I get any further behind.

Little known fact: a herd of wild deer have overrun the ancient city of Nara and currently control its inhabitants. It's seriously the craziest thing I have ever seen. The deer are everywhere and they are completely unafraid of people. Street vendors sell deer biscuits and the deer literally chase people to get them. Other than the wild deer invasion, Nara was another day of temples and pagodas. As ready as we were to leave Tokyo earlier in the week, we were equally ready to return to a city after our days of hiking through temples. This computer is uploading pictures at a glacial pace so I can't post too many photos of Nara, but it was lovely. We'll eventually get all these pictures up.

After a day in Nara we took a quick train to Osaka-- the bustling Kansai counterpart to Tokyo. With only one night left in Japan, our singular objective was to karaoke. Clare's inner rock star required it. As with all things we attempted in Japan, it was not as easy as we originally expected. We started off in Dotombori, a wild neighborhood of endless flashing lights. Apparently the secret to popularity in Osaka is having the biggest hair possible. This applies to both men and women. Check out the studs next to Clare in that picture.

So wandering through Dotombori we decided that for our last night in Japan we should have sushi. Simple enough, there are resturants everywhere. Curiously, there are also scantily clad women everywhere, lining the streets outside the restaurants. This did not set off any alarms for us because, quite frankly, we are a little oblivious and we were on a mission for sushi. We walked into a little sushi place with no English menu, emboldened by our week in Japan to just point at the fish to order. Terrible idea. After ordering two glasses of wine, the hostess came over with a "menu" that indicated the sushi was the equivalent of $99. We promptly stood up and backed out, bowing and muttering "see mah sen" over and over. In retrospect it should have been obvious, but we were in the red light district, where sushi dinner comes with evening accompaniment. Oops. We quickly turned the corner and saw an English pub that seemed safe and ran inside. Our last meal in Japan was a tuna salad sandwich and french fries, which we ate with chopsticks. Hardly authentic, but better than accidentally hiring a Japanese prostitute. We did eventually find our way to some fantastic karaoke where we sung some of the most authentic country music Japan has ever heard in to the wee hours of the morning. Sing karaoke, check. Don't hire hookers, check. A successful evening.

We killed our last afternoon in Osaka at a baseball game--the Osaka Buffalos versus the Tokyo Sparrows. As with all of our efforts to participate in Japanese culture, we failed rather epically. Through a series of gestures, we were able purchase tickets at the gate, and they turned out to be fantastic seats. The Japanese are fanatical about their baseball. There were at least two bands in the audience and the crowd would burst into clapping and singing and waving flags. Ever the baseball enthusiast, Clare wanted to buy a noise-maker to support the Osaka Buffalos. It was only when we returned to our seats and started cheering for the home team that we noticed everyone around us was wearing Sparrows shirts and cheering for the other side. Apparently in Japan the stadium is divided in two based on who you are supporting. Clare had to hide her little clapper lest we get mauled. "A" for effort, "C" for execution.

Not ready to leave Japan without one more epic failure, we had a terrifying scramble at the airport when we learned upon checking in that we were supposed to get a visa for Australia. Who knew? Fortunately we were able to do it online at the airport, but it involved some airport sprinting not unlike the oft-told tale of the Frankfurt airport from the first tour. Basically we will always be the girls running through the airport with giant backpacks, pounding at the doors as the gates close and collapsing into our seats at the very last moment. But all is well that ends well and we made it to Australia relatively unscathed.

Byron Bay in the next episode!!