Gone Walkabout:
A Canadian in the Antipodes

Andréa's Web Log

Thursday, September 2nd

I’m home!!! Wahoo!!!! I’m home!!!! There’s nothing like a good bout of travel to make you appreciate your home and the ruts & grooves of your own life. There’s also nothing better to prove to you that people are intrinsically good…it tends to bring out the best in people, everyone loves to lend a helping hand and our travels through Australia were no exception.

And after the unspeakable horrors (but don’t worry, I’ll fill you in on the gory details in a moment) of the flight home, I can say with joy that we’ve arrived home safe and sound! Ahh…what a wonderful moment it is to walk through your front door and see your own home. A sentiment obviously shared by our cats, who wasted none of the usual energy on ignoring us for the first few days. No, they were so thrilled to see us again, they lavished attention on us and sought our complete and undivided affection and attention (which of course Aidan was happy to give, except as a toddler his kind of affection isn’t really what the cats are after). It was, in all, a very happy and rewarding experience.

I will admit that for the first couple of days, we were in a kind of surreal daze (not necessarily jet-lag induced). Just the kind of “I can’t believe that we’re back again” kind of amazed feeling and shock at being able to do all the things that you want to do.

Like making peanut butter toast for breakfast. Or sleeping in your own bed. Finding your toothbrush in the spot where you usually leave it in the bathroom. Or curling up on the couch, the one that has a gravitational pull of its own and sucks in your ass (I’m going to use this word as many times as possible before I have to give it up for polite Canadian society) as you walk by, with the music playing to read a book. Taking a walk through the forest by our house. Seeing friends and family again. It’s the little things that make life gratifying and rewarding, and believe me, we’re making the most of it.

We were, I’ll admit, a little wonderous of the pleasant odour that seemed to follow us everywhere we went…until we realized it was us and we finally smelled clean again, of soap and laundry detergent. Not that we didn’t do laundry or shower in Australia, it’s just that everything took on the smell of the inside of our suitcases. Australian’s politeness must rival that of Canada’s, since no one commented on our ripening pong while we were there. Really, that’s a kindness in and of itself.

But what of the flight home? Well…since you asked, I’ll give you one last flight story for the road ;0)

United Airlines' love of profit-making takes on many forms, the least desirable of which is overbooking their flights while simultaneously understaffing them. Yes, folks, booked in chattle section (however United refers to it) we were squished into an impossibly small area, no air, too much heat and not enough food. You could tell we were in the cattle class by the sounds of the cow lowing in the back end of the plane, or maybe that was our stewardess. Not to be mean, but what the hell, I can always give it a go, this woman was what I would term “a piece of work”. Yep, typical popular myth has it that the heavy-set and robust types should be somewhat jovial. Well let me tell you, she disabused us all of that notion, and abused is not too strenuous a word here. This was a woman clearly in the throes of mid-life angst, hating her job and anyone that makes her do it. And why not? I mean really, if I were forced to wear a uniform, straining at the seams, making me look like a poorly-dressed, polyester pin-striped stuffed sausage, matronly shoes and the middle aged hair-do (you know the one I’m talking about, don’t pretend you don’t) I might get grumpy too. But not that grumpy! Her disenchantment knew no bounds, and the man sitting across the aisle was about to feel it. Standing up (to avoid that deep vein thrombosis we now know so much about!) he politely asks her for another glass of water. (You could practically hear the gentle Dickensonian sounds of pleading in his voice “Please ma’am, if it isn’t too much, could I please have another cup of water. Please?!?!) Evil Angst Lady rounds on him savagely, icy meanness flying from her eyes and responds with an uncalled-for hostility “When I see you’re finally sitting in your seat I’ll come back to you.” At this point, children and adults alike started crying and holding onto each other. “When will this end?!?! Mommy, make the scary lady go away!!!!” But hey, there’s nothing like a little fear to make you bond.

With little more to occupy our time than engage in glaring contests with our neighbour over who gets more foot room, we bleakly resorted to taking bets on who would feel Evil Angst Lady’s wrath next, in between trying to focus on what was optimistically called the “in-flight entertainment”, a pathetic Hollywood drivel fest called “13 Going on 30”, ever so convincingly portrayed by some 22-year old actress without the good grace to agree to having a makeup artist apply some crow’s feet for even the slightest bit of realism. I have no clue as to what it was about, but I can strongly recommend that you don’t waste your time renting it.

Four hours later, when our meal (this is a euphemistic term folks) arrived, cold, wilted and shrivelled, the male counterpart to Evil Angst Lady cheerlessly asked us in due course “Chicken or beef?” To which I unwittingly responded (and really, I should have known being in cattle class) “what is the chicken dish?” To which he, ever so helpfully, replied that a chicken is a type of bird and makes little pecking motions and clucking sounds just to make sure I’ll clue in. At this point I started to wonder what would happen if someone’s head accidentally got stuck through a window.

But still in all, we made it folks. All of us. Some without our humour, some without marriages intact (marital in row 54, seats d and e, “Why did you make Evil One come over here?!?!” “Because I wanted a blanket that didn’t smell of vomit!” “Well, you KNOW she isn’t going to help!”), but still we made it. And really, isn’t that what this great big world is all about?

I hope you’ve enjoyed my adventures as much as I have enjoyed sharing them. Possibly a couple of literary licenses were taken, and if you recognise yourself here you should know that I mean my comments in the nicest possible way. Except for Evil Angst Lady.

Tuesday, August 31st

By now, you’re either deeply interested in my inane ramblings, have a commitment to the blogisphere as a whole or simply have nothing better to do than read whatever it is I have to write in order to have read this far.

If you’ve read this far out of sheer boredom I say “read on!”. What the hell, hasn’t hurt you so far. If you’re actually interested in my writings, then thanks for the vote of confidence. But, if you’re a die-hard committed to blogging, and bloggers in general, and the impact on who gets to create, organise and disseminate information in today’s disenchanted and disenfranchised info-consumer culture, I say “ya takes yer chances”. Why? Well, clearly you’re in no danger of seeing any in-depth analysis of world politics here, or reading anything for that matter that would give mainstream hard-copy media a run for its money.

At best you’ll hear me musing “What have I learned? What have I learned….let me see now…nope, knew that before….nope, that too….wow, now that’s something…”

Let’s see, I’ve gleaned little nuggets of information like: 15 billion dollars are lost each year in Australia to gambling, and fully 12% of NSW’s revenue raised through slot machines, lotteries, horse and dog races and the like. An interesting statement on the Australian psyche.

Or I can share with you such fascinating things like Paul has inadvertently (or so he claims) taught our son to swear as evidenced by Aidan’s quiet muttering of “shit, shit” under his breath when he can’t get something to work, clearly knowing that it has something to do with being frustrated and things not quite going the way you want them to. (No, it is *not* okay for good Canadian children to use that word.)

But I think what you really need to know about what I learned from this trip is that Australians are just Canadians down under, with better weather, sunnier smiles and a warmer disposition. Travel through Australia is “travel light”—a non-threatening version of travel where all your basic needs will be met, you’ll see interesting sights, and it seems pretty much the same as home. In fact, it was a bit of a stretch to continue to find differences to point out, gratuitous use of fried eggery in Aussie cuisine notwithstanding.

What you will notice, should you come here, is that you are automatically embraced by a congenial, lively lot…people with robust good humour and the best of intentions and I hope you’ll enjoy your experiences here as much as I have.

Monday, August 30th

So many things to talk about…where shall we start today? I know! Let’s talk about frat boys and airlines! Goody, this ought to be a ripe topic.

As you know, I have a deep appreciation for Qantas Airlines. The same, unfortunately, cannot be said for their competitor, Virgin Blue which, sadly, is owned by the world’s ultimate frat boy, Richard Branson. And how would I know that he’s a frat boy? Well, aside from being a pommie, which we all know leads to unhealthy amounts of frattish behaviour (aka laddism), there are several indicators for the average flyer on one of his airlines.

The first thing you’ll notice as you walk down the hallway leading to your plane is pictures of flight attendants in bunny suits sitting on pilots laps, goofy looking middle aged men wearing even goofier smiles and bunny ears. At least they have the good grace to look duly ashamed that they’re wearing bunny ears. But by then the damage is done and the message is clear: You’ve entered the party ship now folks! And the message will be reinforced at least 2 more times (at take off and landing) that you’ve taken the plane where the crew has other interests besides flight. And just in case you’re wondering, no, it isn’t normal to start to clap for your crew once they safely land you at your destination. Really, it’s not. (Remember the joke about what you call the doctor that graduated with just 51%? Doctor! Well apparently the same is true for pilots. One should not be able to see perplexed looks and “I know this stick does something” thoughts flashing across the face of the person who’s about to hurtle you 30,000 feet in the air.)

But let’s continue. You now enter the ship. Yes, the craft with some blonde beauty gracing the nose, banner proudly proclaiming that you’re on the Adelaide Angel or Byron Bay Beauty or whatever, with a personal greeting from Ricardo himself, wishing you a happy voyage. And the worst part is that you’ll try to be happy with your $39 flight, honestly, you will. You won’t be able to keep yourself from making the effort, it’s just that you’ll fail miserably. And let me tell you why.

It will start with the stewardesses. And yes, they’re all stewardesses. Not a cabin crew or flight supervisor in their midst; a man would be positively unthinkable on your frat boy flight. No, these self proclaimed “lovelies”, none of which can pronounce the letter “a” at the end of a word (leading to claims of “Hi, I’m the lovely Belinder” or the “The lovely Amander is in the back of the cabin”), maintain they’re there to assist you on your flight *and* make it ***the most fun possible***. Then they will cheerfully explain that you need to buy your own damn peanuts and that the funds you give them should be correct, because you just know there isn’t enough change to go around. Whew! We must be having fun now. Nope, wait a minute… then they’ll also happily announce that they would be sincerely delighted to assist you with stepping outside should you need a smoke mid-flight (and let me assure you, many a non-smoker would be happy to take up the habit if they were a frequent flyer on this airline). And yet, you just know it’s going to get better from here. The lovely Belinder or Amander or whoever, will then try to sell you a copy of billionaire Branson’s autobiography (just in case he encounters cash flow problems should you not buy enough peanuts), ever so wittily called “Losing my Virginity”. The selling points you ask? Well, the lovelies have taken a poll it seems and they’ve determined that the book is “inspirational”, and besides that it’s discounted. Jesus, save me now.

No, there is absolutely no hope for Britain’s leading laddie or his airline. Still need further proof? Okay, here’s a gem. Seems that it would be “fun” (remember that’s our keyword folks) to have urinals shaped like women’s lips, well lipsticked for the occasion (I know about these because I saw them in a picture). Scrapped only as a result of protests that they were just too tasteless, even for the most loutish of frat boys in Australia, I can practically hear dear Dickie’s lament “ohh…but they were soo….witty”. Sigh. No Dick, no they were not.

Monday, August 30th

Well, hello there stranger… It’s been a while, but I can explain. I always can ;0)

The last time you heard from me I was all morose and melancholy, aching to be home again so that I wouldn’t have to go out to yet another restaurant (since when did eating out become a chore rather than a treat?) and wake up in another strange bed. But a lot has happened since then…

First comes Adelaide. A beautiful little city filled with gingerbread-trimmed houses that gives Victoria a run for its money, Adelaide is all sleepy seaside and downtown bustle. Apparently built with walkability in mind, the city is laid out in quadrants, and it’s very easy to get to know your own little section. It’s also the city you would go to if you were going to visit the Barossa valley…you know, where all the fabulous wineries are. Alas, none of our booksellers seem to combine what would be an apparently natural combination of wine and books, so I didn’t get a chance to visit it. But there is always the National Wine Centre to content yourself with here, although I didn’t visit that either….

Why? Well, let me tell you.

As you know, our booksellers are an incredibly friendly lot and have been an invaluable source of information. For example, they filled me in on local terms of endearment, like in Adelaide “asshole” is apparently quite an acceptable thing to call a person, and no, before you even ask, it was NOT applied to me. And, beautiful though this city is, there isn’t much going on, except for the bacterial party flourishing in the water, which strangely, no one was helpful enough to tell me about in advance. I’ll assume that the average citizen of Adelaide has internal organs built of steel and probably overlooked the fact that nobody else in this world needs to have them built as such, and leave it at that.

I can now say that I’ve foiled the jaws of death, but it took me the first couple of days in Melbourne to recover. And what of Melbourne? At first glance it’s just another big city, suffering from the grey blandness and smoggish sprawl that afflicts all big cities. But it’s more than that. Melbourne prides itself on being the cultural and power centre of Australia. With a wealth of museums, libraries, and other points of interest (check out the gaol where Ned Kelly was hung), it’s easy to see where they get this pride from. Interestingly it’s also where most of Australia’s prime ministers come from. But this isn’t what makes the area spectacular. Nope, that honour goes to the Mornington Peninsula. A more breathtaking and spectacular scene you cannot begin to imagine and it’s really one of those places you need to see to believe. Home to Arthur’s Seat, which overlooks the horseshoe shape made between the Peninsula and Melbourne, this is where I met with about 20 or so of our booksellers to discuss all sorts of aspects of the online book industry. A diverse and stimulating crowd, let me assure you! Melbourne is also the place where I had my second home-cooked meal, a lovely lunch set around Nan Albinsky’s table, a vibrant and lively woman who has lived many interesting adventures and was gracious enough to share them with me (a perfect stranger!) out of the kindness of her heart. What can I say?? This is the type of thing you will find in Australia—the kindness of our booksellers knows no bounds.

Thursday, August 19th

Okay boys and girls, it’s time we had the talk. You know, the one about the most delicate of topics, the touchiest of all; the one discussion we all wish we could avoid but sadly can’t. I can only hope that this doesn’t make you revert to some teenage angst, you know, when you rolled your eyes at your parents and secretly thought “Please don’t let this be embarrassing…. Oh Jesus, tell me she didn’t just say that?!??! Sure as hell isn’t what we call it at school….?!?!?”

That’s right. We’re going to talk about what separates the boys from the men. You got it; men’s egos and what drives them. Or to be more precise, what they’re driving here in OZ. What the heck, I figure I’ve given you enough feedback into the insight of Oz femininity (what with boots and powder rooms and all), and I have ample evidence on this topic to make a pretty thorough overview, so let’s be intrepid explorers here and delve into the last frontier.

Strange how the ultimate symbol of Australian manhood is North America’s joke. And in every city you will find the same, no matter where you look. The all-pervasive ute (utility vehicle) as it is known here, is more derisively and better known as the “El Camino” back home. Eliciting machismo approval and rivalry here in Australia, it’s hard for me to imagine a less inspiring vehicle for proclaiming one’s manhood. And yet…. from 15 to 50 every male here harbours a secret desire to feel the powerful throb of the Ute on open road. They’ll discuss, with rapture, the comparative size and ability of their engines, ad nauseum. And yes, for those North American readers who may be wondering, they’re every bit as awful as they were back in the 70’s; there’s been no improvement, none.

And one other thing I’ve unfortunately noticed (or rather, witnessed) about Australian men. You won’t find this among the younger set much, but if you’re at all slightly corpulent and sagging, it’s a pretty safe bet that you’ve not only got a Speedo in a drawer somewhere, but you’ll also probably feel “secure enough in your masculinity” to inflict the sight on others. Yes, with great, hairy thighs rolling, furry and pendulous belly drooping ever downwards in search of support it will never get, the spandex strains at its seams, pulling gracelessly across an ass (remember, it isn’t a dirty word here folks) that would be much better served by a pair of boardies. Sadly, I can now say “I’ve seen it all”. If I can offer one helpful piece of advice, it would be this: never feel that comfortable, never. Sure as heck not in public anyways.

Interestingly, while in Byron Bay, a conference urging men to renounce their inner masculinity and embrace their feminine mystique was in full swing at the hotel I was staying at. As the conference leader, wearing a flamingo pink polo shirt, organized the troops, I could feel their need to escape to the safety of their utes and rearrange their Speedo wedgies, secure in the knowledge that they really are men after all. To the participants: it was all a lie…you’re already all the man you’ll ever need to be, or could be at least, if you would just ditch the ute and the spandex swimmers.

Men of Australia, liberate your souls and reclaim your masculinity. Drive a normal car, we don’t care if it’s a rusted-out piece of crap, really, we don’t. And do us all a favour; a public service if you will: burn your banana slings. Thank you.

Tuesday, August 17th

Being that I'm in Canberra, there isn’t much to write. I don’t say that unkindly, but as a a capital city of a country, it is surprisingly quiet and uninhabited. Home to the National Museum, National Archives, National Government, heck, you name it - if it’s national it’s here - the entire city is man-made, from the lake to the concentric circles the layout is based upon. You would think that the town would be bustling, with all that governmental activity; alas, no. It’s not.

So just what's a girl to do on a frigid Tuesday evening alone in a town that's asleep at the wheel? Well, since I've finished my latest book (Mutants: On the form, varieties & errors of the human body, an excellent book providing a wonderful history of teratology and detailing a plethora of genetic foibles. I would strongly recommend it if you have any interest in that which serves to connect us but also makes us all unique.) I’ve turned to TV. And what a desperate admission that is.

To underscore the point of how little is going on, the top of the news report, besides the fabulous performance of Australia in the Olympics, was the introduction of the Canberra Meter Maid by the mayor.

Canberra’s new legions of Rita’s, looking like a goth version of Bridezilla, and a yet a much better clothed version than her Melbourne counterpart (who doesn’t have clothes…well, okay a bikini that barely counts) has a job to do, but certainly not much of one. Her sole duty is to run around in a rather tatty looking black lace dress inserting money into parking meters so unsuspecting motorists, running late from their bureaucratic meetings, don’t get ticketed. Just why Canberra wants to give up this sure-fire revenue generator is unclear, but evidently the Mayor is *very* pleased at this turn of events if the salacious grin on his face is anything to go by. The newscaster, a handsome young man, clearly wants us to know how important this bit of ground breaking news is for Canberra. We know this as his steely-eyed glare is softened only by the stunning use of eyebrows to convey his message.

And yet on to clearly less important things. Things that don’t make top billing. Things like Canada. Received with the same joy as finding the last clean pair of underwear at the bottom of my suitcase after a month on the road, yes that’s right, I’ve finally heard mention of Canada in the news. What a relief to hear something about my home and native land. And guess what it was that we did to make news?!?! We let people get married. Yep, imagine that. Much ado was made about the Australian Courts not upholding Canadian-made gay marriages, but as far as mention about home goes, it will have to do. (BTW, I *do* miss all the excitement. The day I left for Canberra there was a big demonstration in Sydney protesting their back-asswards government’s decision.)

I wish I could say that Australian TV gets better from here. But wouldn’t you know it, they had to go and show a re-run of Blondie’s recent performance in Melbourne. And a more uninspired performance you couldn’t begin to imagine. With the laces of her corset straining to keep her robust form in place, Blondie staggered across the stage, slurring her lines and dazedly pushing the hair out of her face. Her expression, a leer that I could only assume was Paxil-induced, held firmly in place, she hopefully held out the mike to the crowd, in a desperate attempt to inspire a rage of musical frenzy. As the crowd looked back in stunned silence, Melbourne’s aging bottled-blonde goddess officially fell off her pedestal. Call me, Blondie, call me.

Monday, August 16th

Who am I? It’s not a small question, and it’s one that I’m given to ruminating on as I sit in yet another beige hotel room (this time in Canberra), where the toilet paper roll mysteriously folds itself into little triangular tips every time I turn my back. There’s nothing that says “anonymity” with quite the same force as that.

In the absence of Paul and Aidan, you would think that there is great freedom to explore the boundaries of my personality. But there isn’t. In fact, for me, the reverse is true.

And it isn’t just them I miss. I’m surprised by the people that I think about, wonder how they’re doing and miss. Not just my friends (although I miss them too), I miss the people that I run into in the grocery store, or the newspaper boy, or the mailman (yes, ours is a man otherwise I would have said woman), or my neighbors. These, and others, are people I don’t see everyday maybe, but who have a powerful impact on my life.

Like the supporting cast of a play, these are the people that give my life substance and background, the context of my daily existence. And without them, I’m finding that I’m limited to interacting with people in some very limited roles. Exhibitor. Tourist. Hotel “guest”. Restaurant patron. Cabbie victim. This isn’t to say that I haven’t had meaningful dialogue with some of them; take Farmer Bob for instance. It’s just that I miss my life, and what *my* roles mean to me, the ones that I’ve taken such loving care to create and nurture. But here I’m never in one place long enough to nurture any of the relationships I otherwise would, to follow up on and watch that they’re finding their place in this world.

I miss the smell of my cats’ sun-warmed fur, the quiet and contented hum of our refrigerator in the middle of the night, my daily hike through Mt. Doug with Aidan in my arms or toddling by my side, telling me about the trees and the fungus he’s found, the pattern and the rhythm that makes my life uniquely mine.

Sorry folks, I wish I could bring you up today. Maybe tell you something witty about Canberra, the city of ever-widening concentric circles, the one made to end the squabble between Sydney and Melbourne over who would get to be the capitol, but it just isn’t there today…

Sunday, August 15th

I’m sorry to do this to you, but just for a moment, play along with me.

Try to picture some rather portly, middle-aged men skipping around in brightly-coloured leotards with flowers on their heads singing “And they were blue, ba-da-ba-ba, and red, ba-da-ba-ba, and yellow, ba-da-ba-ba and purple too! And they were blue, ba-da-ba-ba, and red, ba-da-ba-ba, and yellow, ba-da-ba-ba and purple too!” All the while grinning their shockingly earnest smiles at us. Frightening? Well no, far from it actually.

Australian children’s TV programming is surprisingly sophisticated, which is interesting given that the rest of their TV diet consists of various forms of footy dueling it out in their blood-smeared tunics with the highlights being replayed continuously in what should pass for news. (And let me be quite frank here: their news coverage, once you get past the football, is every bit as good as the BBC or CBC. Journalistic integrity is something they pride themselves on here and quite rightly so.) But back to the point at hand… kid’s TV.

Aussies have an interesting communal phenomena going on. Every evening at precisely 7:30 a short film plays, bidding children a good night after they’ve said their prayers and brushed their teeth, with the little bear enacting this drama engaging in none of the melodrama that so frequently seems to crop up in our household at bedtime. And another short film of the same nature is played right before it’s time to go to school. Shown precisely how their society expects them to behave, you’ll find, with the exception of sharing playground equipment, Australian kids to be surprisingly placid and well-behaved. To the extent that Paul and I both wondered if the good milk producers were slippin’ a little something extra into the day’s dairy requirement. I swear to you, children here (from newborn to age 6 practically) will actually sit, ***in their strollers***, and contentedly occupy themselves for hours on end, while their parents sit and enjoy a civilized meal and a glass of wine. Which is probably why kids (much like dogs in Europe) are allowed into the pubs here. I’m sure if we Canadians could get our offspring to “sit still and be quiet” for longer than 2 seconds they would be allowed into pubs too. It also probably has something to do with the birth rate here in Australia (although they do seem to be implementing some social policies to encourage folks to get their baby-makin’ machinery in gear). But hell, who wouldn’t have a half-dozen or so running around if you could actually sit down with your partner and have a meal **to yourself** with no dramatics going on in the background?

Saturday, August 14th

Okay, so there is something that confuses me about Sydney, or rather its residents. All around this cosmopolitan city, you’ll find the most astounding fashion statement, incongruous in the sophisticated setting. Looking like an unfortunate error in cross-breeding between a human and a woolly mammoth, you’ll find young women sporting short skirts with the hairiest damn legs you’ve ever seen. And I’m not talking the au naturel kind either. No, these are deliberately applied fur-things, and I’m not sure what effect they’re trying to achieve. Looking like a scary, Jane Fonda-induced Flashdance flashback, the women run around in leg warmers made of what looks to be hides of bears, much less fortunate than themselves. I can just imagine the poor Grizzlies, fleshy white legs, bare to the kneecaps, shivering in the fishing streams.

Every bit as wrong as the little white f-me boots worn by all the “popular” girls in rural communities across BC in the late 80’s, these are sure to suffer the same fate. Every young woman will most certainly deny ownership of such, until that one fateful evening when they’ve had too many glasses, and then, feeling the security and confidence that only the grape can inculcate, they’ll confess.

Go ahead, fill me in folks. I’m dyin’ to know just what the appeal is.

Friday, August 13th

It’s official. I’m a Looky-Loo. No, not Lou. L-O-O. I have become, at a rather premature age, a connoisseur of “la toilette”. Formerly the domain of little old ladies wearing starched lavender dresses and smelling of talcum powder, the Looky-Loo is able to case a joint in 5 seconds or less and detail the exact location and method to arrive at the nearest bathroom. A surprisingly handy skill when travelling through a large city, especially with a toddler in tow (or in the case of the Lavender Ladies, if there are any slight weaknesses too delicate to discuss further here). Here in Sydney, I’ve finally seen the pinnacle of toiletry, the fin de siecle of flushable elegance. Located in the QVB (Queen Victoria Building), home of all the shops the rich and famous actually shop in when in town, there is a masterpiece of what the Aussies call a “dunny” (okay, those are usually outside, but what the heck). Made entirely of marble, it’s like being encased in your own personal, light-filled mausoleum. Not usually something you would welcome, but for the elegance. With a shallow (1/8”) trough for a sink, tapering off at one end where the water mysteriously vanishes, silken soap; and lush towelettes to ensure hands aren’t chafed, this Johnny-on-the-spot means business. There’s velvet-covered chaise lounges for the weary to revive themselves on, or at least to wait while noses are finished being powdered.

I know, get to the good bit, you’re saying. Okay, so the actual cubicle itself is more of the marble mausoleum thing with the throne taking pride of place. But what makes this interesting is that the doors have little electrical sensors to lock and unlock, which a valet helpfully shows you how to do. “Please ma’am, wave your hand past this sensor to shut the door and this one to open. Yes, just like that ma’am….Yes, that’s right….Okay, you can enjoy opening and closing the door if you like.” There is fun to be had in Sydney, and not all of it will cost you exorbitant sums of money. Just take a visit to the QVB!

But the QVB is far from all that Sydney has to offer. Truly one of the great cities to visit, Sydney offers a variety of museums, tours and vibrant cultural communities that would appeal to just about anyone. And travel here with a toddler is a joy. With lots of parks and activities to appeal to families, having a little one here is much easier than other places we’ve been.

Take a trip to the Aquarium for instance. Could there be a better place to experience the peaceful strains of a Saint Saen or Antonin Dvorcak piano and violin concerto than the Sydney Aquarium? As we walked through the tunnels, the sharks and fish lazily swimming above and underneath us, we were serenaded by the gentle sounds of some of the best 19th-century Romantic composers, whether to calm the beasts or us, I’m not sure. Like the best of a ballet, the fish put on a spectacular performance, flashing their bright colours; dipping and flashing through the depths. Even the most ungainly and prehistoric-looking creatures take on an elegance and gracefulness that just isn’t possible on land.

Or head to Bondi beach and watch the surfers (or better yet, join them) as they tackle waves. There are countless things to do in this city, and not all of them tourist traps either. If you are going to visit Australia, make sure you plan for ample time in this city.

Thursday, August 12th

Sweet home Alabama, where the skies are so blue…..Sweet home Alabama, Lord I’m comin’ home to you…

Oh wait, this isn’t Alabama. This is Katoomba. But still, it *is* a home-coming of sorts, and the skies *are* an intense cerulean blue. This pretty little bustling frontier town, in the midst of the Blue Mountains, is home to Mr. Pickwick’s Books, and I’m here with Paul and Aidan to take a break from “it all”, meaning I guess, either the rigors of travel or my aunt’s untrained beasts.

And just why are they called the Blue Mountains? Well, let me astound (or bore) you with my newfound knowledge. Covered in eucalyptus which gives off a thick vapour, the mountains are usually shrouded in a thick blue haze. (Thankfully I’ve finally come across a haze in Australia which is *not* man-made.) This haze is very unstable though, and as a result, massive forest fires can be started at the slightest provocation. I’m sure everyone remembers the fires of a couple of years ago, but just in case we didn’t, the charred evidence is there to remind us as we wind our way through the beautiful countryside. And beautiful isn’t an adequate word. Spectacular maybe? Home of the Three Sisters rock formation and some of the most awesome glacial valleys to be seen anywhere, the Blue Mountains attract more than 4 million visitors a year. Peaceful and tranquil, natural and unspoiled, the mountains will remain that way now that they are a world heritage site.

Reaching Guy and Mel’s home, we are immediately embraced by the generous and welcoming bosom of this family. Seated around the kitchen table with their family and friends, eating my first home-cooked meal in three weeks (better than anything that could be found in a 5-star, Michelin-approved restaurant), offering respite in the midst of a hectic schedule, we were, at once, both feted and treated like family.

I will admit to a brief moment of pause when told about the tiger snakes and funnel web spiders, both of which are deadly, and can be found in their back yard. One just can’t help but wonder about a nation of people who live with some of the deadliest creepy-crawlies known to human kind, who love to nosh on Nobby’s nuts, smoke their lungs out and throw fried eggs on every other type of food they make. But, as my son has taught me, the thrill is in the spill and sometimes you just have to go with it.

Paul, always one to take one for the team, even if the team isn’t his own but Abebooks, stayed up with our hosts until 3 in the morning, smoking, drinking single malt, playing pool, solving the world’s problems and probably engaging in all the vices that I won’t let him get into at home. Yes ABE, Paul acquitted you well, even as I turned in at an unseemly 11:30. Guy, the next round’s on me.

Wednesday, August 11th

Where will this end?!?! And for that matter, where will I end?!? Please don’t say Newcastle.

Australia’s largest non-city city, Newcastle is a series of loosely strung together coal-mining hamlets. Although it boasts some beautiful countryside, and almost all the kangaroos we’ve seen so far, there’s nothing going on here. Nothin’. Nada. Zilch. Even Singleton, almost 2 hours up the road with only 21,000 people, boasts a bookfair, albeit a small one, put on by the good folks at Lifeline.

So basically I could end today’s blog entry right here. But… I won’t. Nope, you won’t get off that lucky.

I thought we would quickly revisit the whole topic of cab drivers. Yes, I know, a favourite of everybody! But this is important. Really. Newcastle has, by far and away, the best cabbies I’ve met. For the love of God, there had to be something good here, and with a little observation, I’ve found it. Hailed with hearty shouts of “How ya going, love?!?!” and robust good humour, I’ve met the true soul of Newcastle.

Let’s take Farmer Bob, for instance. As I hop into his cab, heading for “Lime”, the surprisingly upscale, foodie’s dream come true (which means it will be out of business in Newcastle within the next couple of weeks… the culinary taste delights out here are somewhat less refined and consist mainly of throwing every type of vegetative matter, including beets and pineapple, onto a burger and then topping the whole mess off with a fried egg. Yummy!), Farmer Bob fills me in on his life. And what a life it is! With a wrecked marriage in the background and a teenaged son come to live with him, Farmer Bob has started his life again. But what would take him away from the farm he loves so much, and bring him to, of all the places he could go, Newcastle? A woman…ahh…what else?!?! A real “wild one” in his words (no, just in case you were wondering, I did *not* ask - it just wasn’t necessary), it is l’amour. True and abiding. He is self-effacing and honestly somewhat perplexed by what a high-flying accountant, with a taste for international travel and a penchant for extreme sports, would be doing with a down home cab-driver. But then he starts really talking. About what he does on his off time, and how a farm really should be run, and why permaculture means so much to him and what he’s learned from it. Scholarly and sensitive, intelligent yet unassuming, he is a good, honest, kind-hearted person; the kind you’re likely to meet here in Newcastle, and he believes that Wild-Child is the answer to his prayers.

Farmer Bob, wherever you are, I’m with you mate…grab your chance with Wild-Child; drive off into your sunset (or at least back to the farm you love so much) and live happily ever after!

Tuesday, August 10th

Okay, so it seems that I may have been a little harsh in my initial review of Brisbane. Crushed by the recent turn-down by the ABC to do a bookseller feature and reeling from the change of pace from Byron Bay (where a shark attack happened the day after I left - I missed all the excitement!), my normally rose-coloured glasses may have been a little off-tint.

With the prospect of another bookseller evening ahead of me, I got ready and looked outside my window. And on reflection I decided: it really is a cosmopolitan, sophisticated litte town; with the architecture reflecting a more European flavour than is found in other parts of Australia. Fond of open air cafes and shopping centres, with the river as a guiding focus, the people here are a blend of west-coast outdoorsy, east-coast business-y and just as friendly as any I've met so far. Maybe that, along with the obvious pleasure they take in being outside enjoying the sights and each other, is what they mean by being such a liveable place.

As I met the booksellers that evening, I realized that these folks were *savvy*! Good business sense, witty and insightful, these were all booksellers that cared about the Australian book market, no matter how diverse their opinions or what type of business they ran. Touching on everything from world politics to their own free trade discussions, they made connections on how the book industry would be affected and how this in turn would impact on their businesses. In all, it was an excellent evening, and I'm glad to have had the opportunity to meet each of them.

The next day as I wandered in search of breakfast, I wondered how it was that the people here all seemed so...well... skinny. It couldn't possibly be the cuisine. No, the regional fare seems to be to bread and deep-fry everything. And I'm not talking a corn-dog or two or even fish. No, picture vegetables and **fruit** being submitted to the ultimate culinary indignity. As the proprietors proudly display what should only be a shameful admission of inability, patrons line up (yes, even Aussies will queue, you just have to be liberal in the application of the word) for a good grease-slickin'. And so I think "What the hell, when in Rome..." and order some fries with my egg. (BTW, since when did spaghetti become breakfast fare? You'll see it advertised all over town and I'm not quite sure if I should fill them in). Anyhow, as I order the fries, the waitress asks, in all seriousness, "Would you like chicken salt with that?" Not one to ask "wtf," I look at her askance and say, "Um...no. No, thank you." Let's face it folks. You really don't want to ingest anything that involves chicken salt, whether you know what it is or not.

As I sip on a coffee, to help ease down the slick of grease, I clue in. The haze of the past couple of days isn't just the bleary head of the weary traveller, roaming from town to town like an outcast pilgrim. No, that haze is smoke. Lots of it. The people here are skinny not because of exercise or good genes... nope, it's pure smoke. Pack after endless, throat-clogging, chest-constricting pack. In their relentless drive to reach ever higher in their careers, they have retreated to the only easily accessible stress reliever that won't get them fired on their half-hour lunch breaks. Poor saps....

Monday, August 2nd

I’ve done it. I’ve arrived in Brisbane, the city touted as Australia’s most liveable city. Not a remarkable feat really, just good to know that I’ve actually had an uneventful trip anywhere at this point.

Winding our way into the city, my first impression is that it looks a lot like Calgary, only with much, much better architecture. With a beautiful river weaving its way through the city, it's an upmarket kind of town, and I can imagine that this would be the type of place to attract the up and coming of Queensland. But with the ominous signs of “Pray now or pay later” menacingly displayed at the local Presbyterian parish as a backdrop, I can’t help but think “right, this may be a bit of a hard-nosed crew.” And the warning signs don’t ease up either. Checking into my hotel, into room 911, I think “Great, why don’t they just check me into room 13 on the 13th floor of the Hotel California?!?!” Whatever, I’m sure things will work out fine, just fine. I’ll keep my fingers crossed all the same though, thank you.

As we wander the streets to get a feel for the town and maybe forage for food - a quest you would think would be relatively easy in the middle of a major city - two things become readily apparent. The first thing I notice is that Brisbane becomes a ghost town by 7 PM. Yes, closed up tighter than a bull’s ass in fly season (a phrase I can use now that we all know that word isn’t dirty) I imagine it’s like wandering downtown Manhattan or Vancouver post-Apocalypse. Not a single person did we come across in the central business district, and places you would expect to be open like Starbucks and McDonalds are closed; the sound of our own footsteps echo off the building facades. It’s left me with an eerie, creepy feeling.

The second thing I notice is that “most liveable” does not equate to most accessible. Anyone using a wheelchair or pushing a baby stroller is right out of luck in this town. There are at least a thousand and one steps here, and unlike Paris, none of them seem to be leading anywhere you’d actually want to be. So what exactly makes this city so liveable then? The river? The architecture? The scenery? The culture? We can definitely rule out the scintillating night-life... It’s a mystery and I’m on a quest to find out.

The next day, in my efforts to locate booksellers and to spam the city with bookmarks, I notice. A sea of black suits scurry about, all racing to reach their own personal level of mediocrity before the day is out. Maybe for them, liveable means a beautiful little town where the job pickin’s are good, regardless of the funereal atmosphere.

Sunday, August 1st

Ahh, children. We can learn so much from them….

Take for example, what I now know about the word “ass.” I took a brief moment to enjoy the beach and playground at Byron Bay with my son Aidan, and was treated to a rare insight. As Aidan joyfully and exuberantly sailed down the slide, with a “yeah, baby!!” and much applause of self-affirmation for each slide successfully completed, a little girl of about 6 was not having the same luck. No, built like a linebacker, this unfortunately hefty child (which, btw, is a rarity here in Australia, the MTV/X-Box phenomenon doesn’t seem to have hit here) wasn’t quite able to make it down the slides with the same stunning ease exhibited by Aidan. And it wasn’t just due to her weight either. Dressed in a very short skirt, that might have fit better when she was say 3 or 4, her chubby butt and thighs were definitely not acting like greased lightning on the playground. As her biker-dude father, a man who looked as if he shot, killed and stitched together the hides he was wearing, looked on, he called out to her: “Well it would work better if you pulled your skirt over your ass!!” To which his daughter, in all earnestness replied, “But Daddy, my skirt won't fit over my ass, will it?!?” (Insert a small womanly sigh here…how many times have we all thought, “this would be fine if it would just fit over my ass”?) Anyhow, I now know that the word “ass” isn’t a dirty word here in Australia, for either kids or adults.

And that wasn’t the only lesson I learned! No, there’s much to teach me I’m afraid…

As Aidan raced to reach the stairs to climb up to the slides, the other children jostled and jockeyed for position in front of him…Yes, folks, we had encountered “Aussie-rules sliding”. With a look of sheer concern and affront on his face, arms upraised, palms out, saying “no, no, no, no, no” to voice his displeasure, he had no clue what to do in this new, no-rules environment. Already trained to be a good little Canadian, Aidan knows, at just 18 months, that all Canadians must - are absolutely and positively compelled - to queue at the slightest hint that there may be more than one person that wants to do the same thing. His sense of fairplay shaken, he made the next rational decision left; he left the playground to go eat sand. The message was clear: Life’s tough in the penal colonies, kid and you’re going to have to toughen up if you’re going to make it here….

The next morning, as I listened to the sounds of the party-goers next door retching their way into the new day, I realized that it was time for me to get ready to leave Byron Bay. Making a mental list of all the things that make its atmosphere unique, like litter-free streets, boys on milk carts strapped to skateboards racing down the street, dolphins riding the waves in the dusk, sand so fine that it squeaks beneath your feet, tangle-haired youth embracing life and each other passionately, I know that I’ll miss the pace and energy of it…No sleepy little town, this is a place where the party is always in full swing, ready for another reveller and I’m sad to say goodbye.

So long for now,

Andrea

Thursday, July 29th

So I’ve left Auckland, and am heading for the beautiful shores of Byron Bay, where the writer’s festival is set to lure readers and writers alike. As I boarded another Qantas flight, I could feel the hope that I would finally be warm welling up. This flight was bound to be different, thankfully, as it was nearly empty. Aisle after empty aisle beckoned to the weary, “come sprawl.” And so I did, but not for long. With a polite shake of my shoulder, the steward requested that I sit and watch their “important” videos. "But safety is *your* job," I mentally whined. Whatever, I propped my eyes open and made an attempt to look interested. Until they showed the deep-vein thrombosis video. A video that I could only imagine had its origins in the erotica expo, this video was a paean to the foot fetishist, demonstrating every wide and tight angle shot of women’s feet known, toes flexing, arches arching, and heels rotating in black stilletos, lacking only bad sound effects and crappy music, this video went on and on about the perils of …well, it’s hard to know what it was about really. I was laughing too hard. And wouldn’t you know it, in the only other seats occupied on this plane, there was a very dignified (code for “uptight”) family sitting in front of me. Most likely wondering why there was a crazy woman laughing behind them…damned ferriners anyways….

As we finally touched down in Ballina, a half hour’s drive from Byron Bay, the sweet warm breeze ruffled the palm trees, making them jostle gently against each other, happily fluffing their fronds. Yes, I was warm again. Warm enough to remove the three layers of wool I’d been wearing continuously since arriving in Auckland, and to dare to break out the sandals lying forlornly and forsaken at the bottom of my bag.

Our shuttle bus driver - let’s call him Billabong Billy: a real local-yokel, earnest and friendly - provided us with an endless stream of conversation. As we made our way to Byron Bay, he pointed out all the local sights of interest and gave us some interesting background: more than a million visitors come to this little town of 15 thousand each year, to catch the sun and surf, and maybe rub shoulders with the literati.

So you can imagine that tourists are well-looked after here. Mostly a haven for backpackers and aging hippies, you’ll find more pregnant teens, barefoot surfies, and sunken-chested alternative lifestyle advocates than on Saltspring. Advertising a surprising array of services (just when did hydro-colon therapy become a selling point for anything, I’d like to know?!?!) this fecund bit of heaven offers everything a hippie-at-heart needs. Laundromats, internet cafes, travel agencies and backpacker hostels: the main drag is lined with ‘em.

And then you notice. No, that’s not fog that’s rolling in off the water. That pungent, sweet smell can only be one thing. And that one thing creates a need; a powerful and overwhelming urge. (Or so I’ve been told; I’ve never inhaled.) All over the town, to cater to this craving, you’ll find… 24-hour bake shops for the baked.

Yes, looking for a cream-filled at 3 AM? This is your place! Got a bit of a hankerin’ for a large pepperoni-and-cheese at sunrise? Look no further! Need to fill the void with the ubiquitous pie that every Ozzie craves? It’s just one stop down the line.

As the town’s night life staggers off to bed, the serious surfies (not to be confused with the party surfies) come out to play. And that’s what this town is all about… play. Come join us!

Tuesday, July 28th

So today I thought we would talk about taxi drivers. What the heck, I’ve certainly got enough fuel for the fodder by now, and I’m sure this is something we all have experience with. So, raise your hand if you love ‘em, couldn’t live without ‘em. Right. Now raise your hand if you secretly harbour a deep-seated mistrust of them, and would prefer a ride on the last stinking cattle car out of Calcutta rather than place your life in the hands of the average taxi driver. Hmmhhmm, just as I thought. No, you can’t pretend to be Swiss on this one. There is no neutral territory here.

Since there is no viable public transit to speak of here in Auckland, I was forced to take taxis to and from the conference centre, and as a result, I have now officially declared open season on the venerable profession of being a cabbie. Oh sure, maybe in London it practically takes a university degree to become one, but I’ve noticed that here in Auckland the standards are a wee bit more relaxed. I bet you’re wondering what kind of evidence I have for this claim.

Well, glad you asked. Let me tell you...

As I stepped into a cab one morning and said “North Shore Events Centre please” I should have clued in immediately that this would be no ordinary ride. No, the cabbie’s blank stare coupled with simultaneously flooring it so that I couldn’t escape should have tipped me off. As we raced down the road he says “Where is it? Where is it?” “Where’s what?” I think to myself. Surely he can’t mean the Event Centre? Alas no, to my dismay, out come the radio and repeated, rapid-fire requests on where to go. As the impatient dispatcher gives a street name, the cabbie breaks out in a sweat. Oh dear, this can’t be good, I think. So he turns around in his seat (yes, we were still driving, and no, his hands weren’t on the wheel) and says “Where is it?!?!?” At this point, I’m thinking we’ll reach our destination, it’ll just be our *final* destination. Thoughts on which hymns would be sung filled my mind. A Closer Walk With Thee, maybe? Wonder how that would sound done as a scat? I hope they do something amusing with it, but are you allowed to do that with a hymn? Really, the strangest thoughts go through your head as you’re about to die. But in any event, I digress… At this point, I none-too-gently suggest that he keep his eyes on the road and hands on the wheel. And then I start protesting, “But I’m Canadian, I have no idea where I am!!” To which he shouts, “Well look it up!” and waves his map book at me. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I think. “You heard the dispatcher,” he says, lobbing the book at my head as I sit cowering in the back seat, “look up the street name.” So, like all obedient, mild-mannered, well-brought-up Canadians, I did as I was told.

As I staggered out of the cab I thought briefly about asking for a discount given that I’d just done his job for him, but the cabbie’s withering glare made me think better of it. $30 for a life lesson is cheap, all things considered.

Sunday, July 25th

It’s been said that just as each city has its own feel, each city has a unique smell and distinct sound, something that weary travellers either revel in or despise, and the homesick long for. Take for example the smell of Victoria; for me it is the sweet perfume of evergreens combined with the bracing tang of ocean brine. This would be in stark contrast to the smell of Auckland however, as here the smell is of the ubiquitous cologne young men douse on themselves, in an attempt to lure an unsuspecting mate. Why they would choose a scent so sweet as to cause immediate nasal distress, and the urge to gouge out your own eyeballs in an attempt to relieve yourself of the pain caused by the headache induced by it, is questionable, but hey, such is the case. And the sounds…in the Southern Highlands of Australia it is the sound of parrots cavorting in the trees, calling in another day…while in most parts of Turkey it is the sound of the population waking up and hacking out the contents of their lungs, blackened by the endless tobacco consumed over the course of the day. In Auckland? Here it is the ceaseless grind of cars and freight trucks….

No, this city has other charms, and you’d be wrong if you thought I didn’t like it. Its charm is in its people, a kind and dependable group, respectful and reserved, but happy and friendly, warm and sincere when they do choose to open up. And it doesn’t take long - the smallest smile or raised eyebrow will get their attention and wham-o!! they’re there to help you. With unfailing kindness and hospitality, I’ve been taken under the wing of booksellers, conference staff, and even other exhibitors at the Bookseller Conference. And I’m not just talking a helpful point in the right direction, I’m talking about full-fledged, drive-me-to-another-part-of-town-to-find-the-right-computer-part, find-the-part-for-me, help-me-set-it-up kind of help. Or the staff who waits outside with me to make sure the taxi really does arrive to pick me up and that I’m okay in the meantime. I would love to pass this off as the power of my newly-painted, bright pink toes to seduce co-operation from the unwilling, but there is too much sincerity here for that.

There is one other thing that you will notice about your average Kiwi that isn’t well publicized. Their passion for all things bungee-related is impressive. Yes, there’s the folks flinging themselves outside my hotel room window, 250 feet down, at all hours of the day, and then the reverse bungee!!! Well, now that’s something else. Placed strategically around the city lest they have to go too far to fill their need, are reverse bungee stations. Either strapped to a seat or in a harness, the fearless (or witless, your choice) are flung from the embracing safety of Earth’s bosom, and heaved into the air, to sproing up and down, up and down. All over the city, tearful lamentations of “but Mommy, I really will be good this time” are cheerfully ignored by parents.

Yes, maybe it’s all that bungee jumping that puts life into perspective for the Kiwis. Because not a lot seems to phase them and they certainly are the most laidback crew I’ve met in a long time. (And really, as a west coast girl, that’s saying something!)

Take for example meeting up with my friend Wendy. (You might remember Wendy from Abebooks…she used to work with us a long time ago and was one of the people that first trained me when I arrived.) Wendy took me to visit the offices she now works in; justifiably proud of the beautiful view of the harbour outside her window. As we toured the office, alarms started to ring. Dooop, dooop, bling, bling, bling! Dooop, dooop, doop, bling, bling, bling!!!! Resisting the urge to hurl myself down the stairs and assume the fetal position, I thought to myself “For the love of Christ, how am I going to explain *this* one?!?!” First quarantined, then jailed?!?! I could only picture having to call Abebooks management and explain to them just why they needed to bail me out…I’ll admit to making a couple of CLM’s in my life (career limiting moves) but this would probably be considered a topper. Lovely, just freakin’ lovely….

And then I realized….the uniformed “security” officer strategically positioned downstairs at the front desk, was not only *not* sprinting up the stairs to find out what the matter was, he couldn’t even be bothered to pick up the phone and call. Was this laziness or just another part of the laid back attitude? Either way, I didn’t care so long as I remained shackle-less.

The next evening, with the sweet breath of freedom still in my head, I made my way to a restaurant for dinner. Up a poorly lit stairwell, steps creaking, I found an unlikely place for some excellent Mexican food and good conversation. Anticipating a meal alone, I brought my book (The Da Vinci Code…I know, I’m the last person to have read it, what else is new?) and was immediately flocked by wait staff wanting to discuss it. Books really do bring people together, and I couldn’t help but reflect on the May-December relationship of a couple of Abebooks booksellers in Australia. As surely as it alters the terrain of your imagination, a book’s power to erase the ephemeral concepts of time and age, youth and beauty is exposed. Brought together under the common love of literature, their 35-year age gap disappeared. So, booksellers and book lovers unite! And tomorrow, under the banner of the NZ Booksellers Association, we will ;0)

Cheers,

Andrea

Friday, July 23rd

Hi there,

I've left the busy little town of beautiful Bowral and the Southern Highlands region and headed to Auckland. Already I'm beginning to miss the gentle pace and self-important bustle of a little town made good. Bowral is where the well-to-do of Sydney go on the weekends, to find the peace and solice of the rolling countryside (and vineyards), as well as to spend their hard-earned money on country estates and in the boutique shops. It is very much like Victoria, and makes me both miss home and feel at home at the same time. The people here are unfailingly friendly, and enjoy a good chinwag over coffee at the drop of a hat. Walking in unannounced, I met Leigh Gavin of Ron Abbey's Bookshop and she treated me with the typical warmth and hospitality that I'm coming to know is a part of the Australian psyche. BTW, if you ever get the chance, Ron Abbey's is a lovely little shop (okay, not so little!) that features books you can tell are lovingly selected...one of those gems that makes you immediately want to sit in an aisle and read. I got the sense that buyjng a book here would be like taking home a beloved pet

All good things must come to end though, so I was off to Auckland very early, by train, plane and automobile - in that order. Travel by train has to be one of the best things about being on the road. It's more than just an opportunity to see the countryside; it's a chance to find out what is happening in the lives of locals. Okay, so you have to keep your ears open (I refuse to call it eavesdropping) but, whatever... In this case, I was treated to the life events of 5 teenaged school girls, and I have to say that it's reassuring to know that things haven't changed a bit in the last 15 - okay, let's make it 20 - years or so since I was their age. Sex, drugs and rock & roll still reign and I was treated to firsthand accounts of who was sleeping with whose boyfriend, which boy was cutest in class, why a girl just shouldn't date so-and-so, and where this weekend's party was going to be. Quite frankly, I practically needed a nap just listening to them.

As I boarded the plane, I immediately became aware that Qantas is a step ahead of other airlines. While most airlines have cabin crew, Qantas has Customer Service Managers and Supervisors **on flight**, and interestingly, more than half of them are male. (Which is really another story in itself; remind me to come back to that)...Another good way to tell whether you're on a better-heeled airline is their food. I'm no foodie, but I can tell you that the sight of the salad served with lunch almost brought me to tears. Crisp, perky lettuce leaves springing happily from the bowl, large round slices of cucumber with enough pride left to give an outraged crunch when bit, and a saucy little cherry tomato, revelling in its own red perfection, are something you don't come across often. More likely you'll find some sadly wilted and disgraced greenery refusing to call itself lettuce, shamefully hiding the distorted remains of its vegetable friends. But wait, there's more. Actual glasses, made of real glass, to hold your drink. But what's this?!?! The man across the aisle, shame on him!!! Shame!!! He's refusing to eat his salad in favour of the ice cream bar... I feel like writing to the town of Kent (that's where he and his wife are from, I saw him writing it on his entry card) and exposing him for the sugar hound he undoubtedly is. That will teach him to be so high and mighty with his kids: "eat your vegetables, or no pud". Mmmm-hhhmmmm, I'm on to you.

And yet, this isn't the most compelling tale of the flight. No, that award would have to go to the couple sitting directly across from me. I'll call her Dido (for her unfortunately readily apparent love of that artist) and him Nasti-Rasti, for his badly interpreted rendition of dreadlocks.

Dido boarded the flight in a "happy" mood, which was clearly the product of liberal alcoholic consumption. While the passengers found their seats and stowed their gear, Dido didn't just sing along with the music playing quietly in the background. No, she gave a full-fledged, impassioned performance, just for our benefit. Imagine how lucky we all felt! Yes, as if singing at the top of her lungs to music (which let's face it, we're all sick of by now, no matter how you may have felt about it when you first heard it) wasn't enough, there was hair to be tossed about and gyrations to be made to demonstrate just how much she clearly enjoyed the songs. We now all know that "I'm in love, and always will be" is a deeply meaningful expression for her...

Nasti-Rasti turned his head bleakly towards the window and made the only decision that could be made...better to join his mate than spurn her....so bring on the JD, the more, the better; the faster, the better.

Yep, by the end of it Nasti-Rasti is air-drumming along and shouting "Rock on!!! Whoo-hoo, rock on!!" To which, Dido only too happily complied. And so we did. Rock on that is....Until the First Class Flight Attendant, a stern woman firmly ensconced in middle age, whose tightly bound perm made it clear to all that there was no humour to be wrung from her, whose savage glare leveled Dido and Nasti-Rasti to quietness for all of 5 minutes, appeared from the upper classes, wafting a horrible blend of ill-humour and efficiency. We all gave a shudder and a small prayer of thanks that our crew were the good ol' boys, congenial and affable, mild mannered and boyishly energetic. Joking with the men on the flight that if they bought something from the duty free catalogue, the buxom model on the cover would come along with it. And then they would laugh, as if they'd made an astoundingly funny witticism which could only be appreciated by prolonged and heartly laughter. God love 'em, they were the only things, besides that salad, which made the flight bearable.

And then we reached Auckland. Kia Ora!!

I would love to be able to stop here and say that my journey through customs was uneventful. And yet, that would be lying. Happily I was allowed entry into New Zealand, and went to claim my luggage. But only one of my bags was slowly twisting it's way towards me on the conveyor belt. I waited, and waited, and waited some more. Until I heard the ominous sound of "Excuse me ma'am, is this your bag?" and looked up to see 3 uniformed customs officers with a sniffer dog (very cute, btw; they're beagles and I'm going to try to convince Paul to get one when we return) and my other bag. "Ummm, yes, can I help you?" "You wouldn't happen to have any fruit in this case would you?" At which point I think, "Oh, sh*t.....I packed a banana in my bag at 6 AM thinking I would get a chance to eat it before now... What do I do?!?! What do I do?!?!" So of course, I confess, like an informant whose only other option is a pair of cement boots. I sob, "I packed at 6 AM. I forgot about it!" "May we search your bags ma'am? We need to look for all banned items, seeds, rhizomes, that type of thing." Feeling humiliated, they opened my bags, and removed the offending banana, and slapped a huge yellow "Quarantined" sticker on my bag. As I bent down and patted the dog, saying "good doggy, good job doggy" the sternest of the lot said, "You better give the dog a good pat and reward it, it just saved you a $200 fine." And no, just in case you are wondering, they did not find any other fruit.

Revelling in my good luck (which a number of Kiwis have pointed out since arriving), I headed out into the wet, wintery gloaming to grab a shuttle bus to my hotel. Things will look brighter in the morning, I think to myself.

As I wake up and head out to scout around the area, things suddenly start to make sense. On my entry card, I put that the purpose of my visit was a "tradeshow/conference". Which is perfectly true. So I wondered a little why I received so many interested looks and questions from the customs officials. Using it as an opportunity to chat to them about Abebooks, I thought nothing of it. Well, the smirks I kind of wondered about, but then, they could have been having troubles figuring out my accent. Anyhow, on my walkabout, rounding corner after corner, things become blindingly clear in short order. Yep, the 2004 Erotica Expo is being very prominently advertised here as "Giving you more in 2004". Being held at the same time, it's certainly much better advertised than the booksellers' conference and I would imagine with a much catchier caption. I wouldn't know as I haven't actually seen any bookseller conference advertising as yet. At this point, I'm desperate to regain my equilibrium, so I take a short walk up the hill to a park overlooking the city, and feed the birds. Sitting in the sunshine and watching the magnolias come into blossom for the second time this year (the first was spring in Victoria), with the little sparrows bouncing around at my feet, I felt restored and much more able to appreciate the humour in the situation. So they want more in 2004 do they?!?! I'm sure that Abebooks will rise to meet the expectations of our booksellers ;0)

In any event, the first bookseller evening is about to take place tonight, and I'm excited to meet all the booksellers who've written to say they'll be here. I'm off to make sure that the preparations have been made and will be writing again soon.

Signing off for now,
Andrea

Sunday, July 18th

As mentioned before, my aunt's version of children is dogs. Lots of 'em. In fact, five, to be precise. She's a nurse for a living, but lives to show her dogs: curly-coated retrievers (and one Clumber spaniel, named Clifford, which she has because she thinks it looks like her. I'm not sure how she got that impression, as Clumbers look like little more than a sawed-off Newfie, but whatever...) Curly-coated retrievers are about the size of a small horse, and five of them in a little thousand-square-foot cottage, plus one toddler and three adults is a bit much, to put it nicely. In any event, Gracie, the biggest of them, got a little territorial and put one of the others into the hospital overnight, so she got sent back to the breeders, who live out in Berrima.

Berrima (close to Bowral) is a l-o-n-g drive to make with a toddler and a rather smelly dog in the back. The scenery is much like the Caribou/Chilcotin region, except with gum trees on the horizon. Saw lots of kangaroos, parrots and pink mullahs (sp?) and one dead wombat. Apparently wombats are the bane of the farmers' existences out here and they'll take any occasion to shoot one. Oh, and the other thing we got to see was snow. Quite frankly, I wasn't prepared for snow, or the bitter cold that rips through the hills and valleys around here, and am finding that my summer/early autumn clothes from Canada are absolutely no match for the weather. But whatever - the hospitality of Australians is unparalleled and they've all made considerable efforts to make sure we're well looked after. It's a rare event to find yourself in the company of an Australian that doesn't open up and chatter away as if you're their long-lost best friend, so am enjoying myself! Really, I've learned what the waiters and waitresses do on their off time for their "real jobs," why they live in the suburb they do, where their kids go to school, and on it goes...there's really no topic that's taboo, as far as I can tell.

Saturday, July 17th

I'd love to tell you what I did with this day, but it seems to be in a bit of a fog. I know that we drove around and saw the local sites, but not much seemed to register besides the 14 hours of sleep that I eventually got. One thing I did take special note of though was the drive-through beer and wine store. I had Paul get out and take pictures of it as I'm sure that this is the one thing, if anything, that will get my brother on a plane to see his aunt. Is this the mark of a civilized society or has it fallen to the ceaseless charms of debauchery? Really, it's a question to ponder over another beer.

Friday, July 16th

Finally arrived in Sydney. We had a lengthy delay in San Francisco because planes aren't allowed to land at Sydney before 6 in the morning. The sun hadn't yet risen, but the excitement was there nonetheless. My aunt, Marilyn, who's lived in Australia for the past 30 years, met us at the airport, and treated us to the royal welcome. It means so much to her that we've come, and brought Aidan too. Her version of children is the 4-legged variety, so Aidan is a bit of a mystery/novelty for her. Unfortunately toddlers don't sit or stay on command, much as you might want them too!

Anyhow, on starts our journey to Newcastle (about 2 hours outside of Sydney), where Marilyn lives. She has a lovely old coal miner's cottage in Wallsend, a nice leafy-type/suburb-type of town. Apparently coal mining is still a major player in the local economy and is the source of their electricity supply. No hydro here! Which is rather important, as it's bloody freezing. Yes, that's right, freezing. And by the way, cute little coal miner's shacks aren't the best built places. About a dozen years or so ago, there was a small earthquake in the area, and it shook things up a bit. All the floorboards, which Marilyn assumed were tongue-and-groove, turned out not to be...you can literally see the ground outside and the sky up above where the floor and the walls don't meet as well as they should. There's been a drought here for a long time, but just in time, the skies open up, the thunder and lightning crash, and an awesome display of torrential rain was had. Nothing like huddling for warmth to bring a family together. ;)

Andréa's Schedule

If you are a bookseller and would like to make an appointment with Andréa to discuss selling on Abebooks, please click here.

Sydney, NSW

July 16 - Arrive
Aug 13 - Bookseller Event
Aug 30 - Bookseller Event

Auckland, New Zealand

July 23 - Bookseller Event
July 24 - 28 - Bookseller Conference

Byron Bay, NSW

July 29 - Aug 1 - Byron Bay Writers Festival

Brisbane, QLD

Aug 2 -3

Newcastle, NSW

Aug 6 - Bookseller Event

Singleton, NSW

Aug 4 - 7 - Lifeline Bookfair

Blackheath, NSW

Aug 8 - Bookseller Event (The Gardiner's Inn, 1 pm - 3 pm)

Canberra, NSW

Aug 14 - 17 - APA Event

Adelaide, SA

Aug 20 - Bookseller Event

Melbourne, VIC

Aug 27 - Bookseller Event

Sept 1- Home