Previously: I went to the Blue Mountains, Hunter Valley, and Newcastle. Then, I dicked around in Melbourne.

The morning started when I wandered into some heathen drinking ritual in the common room of the hostel. It was early yet for a Sunday morning so while I can’t be completely certain do to the language barrier and their heavily slurred speech, I think that the four young men gathered on the third floor were still on their Saturday night. They hailed from some Pacific Island but the scene spread out before me on the way back from the shower looked like the Nepalese bar where Marion Ravenwood drank the sherpa into unconsciousness in Raiders of the Lost Ark. These guys had an unlabelled bottle of some viscous fluid that looked like the leavings from an overdue oil change. They would pour shots for their opponent who would slam the shot and then get up to perform some manner of outlandish jig before repeating the whole process for the other guy. The point seemed to be to see who could maintain the dance while on the brink of unconsciousness. The rules were arcane but their hospitality was outstanding and they kindly offered me a slot in the game. I had some sightseeing to do, but far be it from me to turn down a potentially lethal shot of an unknown liquor. I even attempted the dance, and if I may say so my awkward flailing wasn’t far off the mark from whatever it was supposed to look like. The liquor was horrible, like a blend of liquorish schnapps, sambucca, and distilled ass-water. I politely declined to continue after one round, partially because of the foulness of the drink and partially because I could see the end of the road they were on and it probably involved a stomach pump.

Once I was done not really learning anything about a culture I could not even identify, I set back out into Melbourne. I ambled about the city center ogling the Parliament House and various chapels.

Then I bought a Sunday Saver all day Metcard and took the Poor Bastard’s Tour, criss-crossing the city on several different routes and vehicles. My trip took me deep into several suburbs.

I took a stroll through Beacon Cove and dodged the numerous piles of dog crap on the sidewalk to enjoy a view of the beach. I required sustenance so I paid far too much money for far too much Fish and far too many Chips. I could have drawn a nice bath from the amount of grease that congealed in the bottom of the box, were I inclined to reheat it. (I was not).

I got back on the tram and went for a ride. One of things I love about cities is the feeling that they are living organisms, and that by riding their transport I am injecting myself into their bloodstream. You also get to see locals in their natural environment. I did some people-watching until I passed by the awesomely-named Batman Park, on Batman Avenue.

Upon visiting, I have to say that the execution is lacking a bit. Batman is just the name of the area and the park is just a regular park with no connection to the comic book character.

When I got over my disappointment I headed back to the city center and hung around Speaker’s Corner in front of the State Library and listened to the different madmen give speeches of varying levels of coherence. Much of the discourse was about religion. Australia seems very Catholic to me, and there frequent exchanges between Catholic speakers and Protestants in the crowd, and vice versa. No one was rioting or marching or anything, but somewhere between calling Kevin Rudd a tool of the apocalypse and Augustine a pervert, I had to wonder if any of these speakers ever expected to convince the crowd of anything or just liked to hear themselves blather. I was content to sip my coffee and enjoy the madness for a bit.

I moved on to Chinatown, which is more of a street than a neighborhood.

There were a bunch of restaurants but it lacked the expanse and grandeur of some of the bigger ones like New York or San Francisco. There were lanterns, though. I like lanterns.

Later that night I had a few schooners at the Imperial before wandering through Southgate on the far side of the Yarra River. There were more eateries crowded together in one place than I have ever seen, but I wasn’t hungry. I walked a meandering path that had me crossing and recrossing the neon-lit pathways that run down the bank and across the several pedestrian bridges. I was slowly hypnotizing myself with the reflection of the city lights on the river water and I started to feel like this was the true face of the city. Every time I start to get tired of city life, I look at the buildings at night and change my mind.

My reverie didn’t last long. I came across a nice, old-fashioned brouhaha. It seems that the Australian inter-collegiate Games were in town. Students in their school colors from across the country were taking to the streets after the opening ceremonies. Several of them showed their school spirit with a vigorous brawl that involved several small-ish looking felllas wailing on a (less) several small(er)-ish looking fellas. My eyes began to well up from the touching display of sportsmanship and camaraderie, so I hopped on a train to the North end of town and walked in circles for a while until I made myself tired enough to go to sleep. If there is a sadder or more perfect metaphor for my life thus far, I am afraid to know what it is.

Next: Mussels, Industry, and the Lord’s Nuggets.

Linking and driving, only without the driving.

Linking and driving, only without the driving.

Previously: I met Three Sisters, made navigational errors, and angered lifeguards.

I spent some time after the New South Wales exploration recovering in Sydney. (I mostly got distracted with petty annoyances like school and all its classes and papers and studying). But it wasn’t long before I shook off the stillness and hit the open road again. This time, I pointed myself south. First stop: Melbourne, the crown jewel of the state of Victoria.

I came in on the overnight Greyhound. I left Sydney at 8:00 p.m. and rode all night.  I effectively combined the transport with one night’s accommodation, a move which my wallet applauded but my back greeted with sharp, stabbing pain. On the plus side, I learned a little something about the demographics of bus travel in Australia. It seems to attract a disproportionate number of mullets and Germans. My seatmate was about 5′0 and he ate at least 15 oranges on the 12 hour trip. It was uncanny. The man was some sort of pint-sized citrus vampire. I asked him about it, and all he said was that he enjoyed the smell. He was also something of a history buff, and we had a nice little chat about de Tocqueville as we rounded Canberra (he was reading a Penguin edition of Democracy in America). After exhausting our conversational middle ground, I tried to catch what sleep I could wedged into the narrow confines of a barely-reclining bus seat.

Boots hit Melbourne pavement at 8:00 a.m. with the whole day ahead of me. I did a few laps around the bus station and after my initial recon I slipped into the crowded shade of Degraves Street. It is a Parisian enclave of cafes and restaurants stuffed into a small alley and crowded with hungry tourists. I ordered a coffee and eggs florentine at the funkiest cafe I could find. Doc Martens and colored hair were de riguer for the waitstaff, and I watched as the elderly tourists at other tables commented to each other about the kids today.

After breakfast I found my hostel. Since I was flying solo on this little excursion, I could return to my cheap-ass roots without taking the sensibilities of the Visiting Girlfriend into consideration. I stayed at a place on Elizabeth St., which approached the Platonic ideal of the hostel. It was neither the most dirty nor the cleanest. It was so middle of the road in terms of cleanliness, comfort, decor and everything else that it seemed to be the distillation of “hostel-ness” in physical form. It was also a wretched hive of scum and villainy, its halls brimming with the all the unsavory hippies and drunk-at-11:00 a.m. roustabouts I was looking forward to reacquainting myself with.

After settling in and coming to grips with the fact that I would have to sleep on the top bunk (despite the danger this posed to the poor soul who would be stuck below me in the rickety contraption) I set out for Federation Square.

This tourist destination is a gleaming modern nightmare of a waterfront complex. It is usually touristy I am sure, but on this day it was taken over by teeming throngs of face-painted Aussie-Rules Football fans who had swarmed into Melbourne for the Grand Final.

I picked my way through the sea of brown jerseys on my way to south across the Prince’s Bridge. It was here on the far side of the Yarra River that I really noticed the European flavor of Melbourne. I had started to see it with the alley-side cafes. But as I spent more time in Melbourne the general classicality of the architecture combined with the river and the ubiquitous trains, trams, and street cars to make me see the city as some kind of mash-up of Portland and every European city I have ever visited.

As I walked through the Botanical Gardens, I pondered the fact that comparing everything I saw to something else I have seen was not a useful mindset to have when traveling but I wasn’t sure how to overcome it. I kept thinking about this as I emerged in Prahana Market, a bustling suburban shrine to retail. I bought nothing, so I kept walking until my feet were tired and I needed a rest.

I settled down at a bar called Mother’s Milk and watched the heavily coiffed and over-dressed clientele filter in and out as they took to the streetfront to smoke. Most people were still watching the grand final and the bar did not have televisions, so this little patch of Melbourne was sparsely populated for a few hours. I sat with a jug of beer and enjoyed the barely-hidden contempt in which the bartender held most of his customers. He knew them all and wasn’t above talking shit when they left earshot. We talked about the lack of tipping in the country and whether or not he felt he was well-paid. (He felt he was not).

I got a little drunker than I originally intended, and so of course I left him a generous tip as I soldiered on to catch a double feature at The Astor, which is my new favorite movie theatre. It is beautiful and massive, an art deco return to the heyday of cinema when there were lush velvet curtains everywhere and balconies and the ushers all wore bowties. The retro feel was awesome and for $12 AUD I got to take in two movies (The Savages and The Orphanage) with a bottle of James Boag’s in hand. There was even an intermission between the films when everyone went out to the foyer and talked about the what they had just seen.

After the double feature, I had enough time to check out another bar before catching the late train back to my hostel. But the crowd was full of angry supporters of whichever team had lost the football match that afternoon and I felt a little too much drunken hostility in the air to really enjoy myself so I cut it short. I had more time in Melbourne, after all…

Previously: I made a rapid descent and several wrong turns as I tried to get out of Sydney for a few days.

On the third and final day of my New South Wales odyssey, I left the soothing landscapes of the Hunter Valley for the seaside charms of Newcastle. But not before eating breakfast at a place called Oscar’s, where I had the single greatest french toast experience of my life. It was nigh-transcendental, and like all experiences that transform one’s spirit it is difficult for me to verbalize exactly what went on when that waitress set down the plate in front of me. Suffice it to say, there was cream and strawberries and a small pond of maple syrup but my mere words can’t do justice to the near-orgasmic quality of their combination.

The Visiting Girlfriend and I drank coffee and enjoyed the surroundings as my breakfast excitement subsided. Afterwards, we left the Hunter Valley in the rearview and made haste to Newcastle which is much less industrial and metal-focused than its British counterpart but didn’t have its own brand of beer. I spent most of the day dicking around various beaches and parks. I would have done more exploring of the rock formations on the beach but for the annoying reprimands that kept coming over the staticky loudspeakers from the lifeguards (or as I like to call them “Haters Who Are Threatened by My Awesome High-Tide Jagged Rock Climbing Skills”).

They also took some timeout from chastising me to yell at a bunch of goods who engaged in some seriosuly perilous grab-assing on the edge of a rocky pool. There were also a bunch of dudes playing rugby nearby, and at least half of them were wearing speedos. This sartorial choice created a homoeritic undercurrent that juxtaposed nicely with the masculinity of their sport.

Nobby’s Head struck me as appropriately named and simultaneously unique and exactly like every other jetty I have ever seen.

It was sticking out in the middle of the bay, and was breaking some serious waves on the ocean side. There was a desolate looking lighthouse, which reignited my childhood fantasy of living in one. The idea of having a perfectly circular room has always been a source of delight for me. I am also continually impressed with the defensibility of lighthouses. I think a tower would be harder for invaders to breach than a regular house. Alas, my suggestion of setting up residence in a lighthouse was never seriously taken into consideration by my parents. No doubt this had something to do with the dearth of good lighthouses in central Florida.

Satisfied that we had seen the requisite sights, we checked into our well-appointed if curiously modular hotel. It was like being on a cruise ship, small but cozy. From the outside, though, it looked like it was made out of legos. Perfectly constructed of blocks resting on top of other blocks with a porthole set into each room.

A quick change of clothes later I found myself at Queen’s Wharf, a smallish dining and drinking complex on the harbor that bore a fairly strong resemblance to Port Canaveral in Florida, the land where I was born and raised before becoming the peripatetic vagabond I am today.

It was here that I discovered the common Australian practice of giving people a little card with your number when they open their tabs at the bar. It is a practice I wholeheartedly approve of, as it cuts out the uncertainty of having to mouth your last name to a distracted bartender over the din of the band/jukebox/general murmur.

After beer, we went for dinner at a place called Scratchley’s. The dining room extended over the water and after I was done eating the continuous lapping of the waves inspired me to capture the experience in a haiku:

Expensive seafood

Irish coffee with desert

brings contented smile

Having satisfied my inner poet, I began to reflect on my experiences so far. I haven’t been traveling like this in a few years. Sure I take weekend trips from here to there and I get to cover more ground than many people but I have been largely stationary for some time. An extended journey like this brings with it any number of logistical headaches and requires a certain ability to adjust on the fly. I don’t think I’m quite as adventurous as I once was, when I waded into every back alley and small town I heard of unsure where or if I would have a bed for the night. These days I prefer a bit more stability. I can’t say I’ve outgrown my thirst for adventure, but there is a definite urge to be more in control of my fate as I go. The idea of not having all my flights, hotel, and car rental sorted out well-ahead of time scares the hell outta me. This is a development that 20 year old Sean would have laughed at as he slept in a train station with his backpack for a pillow and a half-empty bottle of Aberlour cradled in his arms like a beloved stuffed animal.

I’m still hungry for the nomad experience, but the doubt that I am up to the task would only continue over time as I became more and more alone on the open road…