Great Ocean Road

I rented a car and left Melbourne, headed down the Great Ocean Road for the 12 Apostles, a series of rock formations (or examples of negative space left in the wake of erosion?) jutting out of the sea just off the coast.
Initially, I was a tad dismayed to be given a Toyota Avalon instead of the fiery Falcone I was expecting, but I found myself unable to complain when I discovered the tape player (a hold-over from the Communist regime that occupied Australia between the years of 1979 to1989), which enabled me to rock myPod.

Off I sped. As wise women (and the few men who are wise as well) say, it is the journey rather than the destination that brings us to nirvana. While this wisdom might not ring true on a long flight, it certainly played out today.

I was smart enough to consult the map before pulling out into the odd (yet grid-like) traffic patterns of Melbourne, and lucky enough to find the highway by following the directions scrawled on my palm.

I drove through Geelong and on to Torquay, the “Gateway to the Great Ocean Road”. Before too long the road opened up to the coast, and I found myself driving alongside the crystal clear cerulean ocean, which, in the manner of all things Australian to tell little white lies, exuded a deceptive air of warmth strictly through its coloring.

I drove through Eucalyptus groves and over and around cliffs, in a landscape very much reminiscent of California’s Pacific Coast Highway (or Highway One, or Cabrillo Highway, whatever you want to call it) to the south and the north of San Francisco.

My trusty chariot kept the pace

(Just kidding – this is the real deal)

while I did everything in my might to keep the blessed thing on the road.

I came to a small town called Lorne and, running on little more than a blueberry muffin from Hudson’s Coffee ( the Melbourne equivalent of Starbucks – even though they have Starbucks here – for their numerous locations and homogenous atmosphere and standard fare) I stopped for lunch. Reading the paper, I was delighted to find that Bush is falling once more under (and into, let’s hope) fire. Anyway, I had lunch.

Moving on, I tripped along the same coastal road toward Apollo Bay, stopping here and again for the obligatory photo opps. Apollo Bay, I'd read, had been dubbed “Paradise” by none other than Rudyard Kipling. I’ll admit, the town is quite nice, although I’m sure a good deal of development has occurred between his time and ours. But it is nice. Particularly for the fact that its main street bridges the gap between green rolling hills and blue rolling waves.

The two come together in a melee of fish and chip shacks, ice cream parlors, and surf shops. I grabbed one more cup of coffee for the road, and drove on up the hill out of town.

Now, regardless of what the guidebooks say (they’re somewhat partial to oceanfront spread while I, a child of the Green Mountains, find hillside expanses equally breath-taking and mouth-watering) the Great Ocean Road beyond Apollo Bay is on par with the most scenic of drives I have ever made. The road curves up the mountain, inland, passing through green dells and pastures full of feeding cattle, horses, and sheep.

At times the scenery brought to my mind memories of Pescadero; at others it forced recollection of West Marin, in the areas around Bodega, Bolinas, and basically anywhere between the 101 and the Ocean.




A prisoner of two disparate desires: that to, a.) stop and document photographically anything deemed even the slightest bit worthy by its utter beauty (pun very much intended)

and, b.) my need to keep up the pace in order to reach the 12 Apostles by sundown (which falls early here in the Spring in the Southern Hemisphere, and fell tonight at exactly 6:19 pm), I found myself snapping photos as often as I found fit to stop,

and also running roadside to shave seconds off of my trip time.

I found several towns I would happily call home for the rest of my life, or at least for the foreseeable future, among them Glenaire and the two hamlets beyond to the West.

Just past Lavers Hill (the birthplace of Rod?) I came upon a crew crusading to cross a crux of cows across the road.

At this point I was humming along and had stopped so many times prior that I fought the urge to turn around and take a better look for about 10 kilometers. Finally, unable to resist any more, I pulled a U-ey (highly frowned upon in most of the country). Absentmindedly, I pulled into the right-hand lane, before righting (well, lefting, actually) myself, unintentionally flaunting the frequent signage warning the tourist-rife crowd of passersby to lean to the lefty while driving.

This error was quickly righted by any and all of the life-loving cells in my body.
What, exactly, made me turn around? Well, as is often the case, the perfection of the picture captured by my eyes and strored in my brain . . . stuck, and wouldn’t leave me be. As anyone who knows me can attest, I feel the need to document things, sometimes so much so that it grows annoying for those in my company.
But imagine, if you will: A dual-file line of cattle, side by side, a good 200 yards long, easily 500 hundred strong, trampling over green pastures toward the barn, the background a series of rolling hummocks falling off to the surreally blue sea. And imagine: a crook in the line, the cows one by one cornering from one line to the next. Oi vey, the framing would have been perfect. In addition, it dawned on me, through reverse reasoning, that while I could easily Google-image or elsewise draw up images of the 12 Apostles many times over superior to any I might be hoping to take, this shot was mine, and was surely not to be so easily found again. But alas, when I returned, the magnificence of the scene was much diminished, the degree of the able was greatly flattened, and most of the cows were out of sight just over the crest of the hill. So I shot what I could and headed back in the direction of Port Campbell.

Enough about those silly cows and the photo that got away.

Before long I was parking at the Visitor’s Centre for the Apostles, walking down with all of the other yahoos / lookie-loos to shoot some photos, and to ooh and aah before returning to the relative comfort of my vehicle.
The sun was just about to set behind a large cloud that stretched, in every shade of greyscale, to a point just above the horizon. So I hot-footed it.

The Apostles (I failed to make a head count, so I can’t in good conscience verify that there were, indeed, twelve – although since I’ve heard that the numerical label, like many Australian names, is a misnomer) were, indeed, striking, to say the least.

I played around with photographing their splendor from a number of different
snapping off as many photos as possible before the false sunset.

Well, the sun set, if only in a very phony fashion, and I headed back to my ride, pitying as I went the people I passed who were just on their way out to the lookout.

I stopped by the Gibson steps, stepping down to the beach, where I played around with some long-exposure photos. With the results coming up marginal at best,

I tromped back up the cliffs and headed back to Apollo Bay, taken by music and that mood (all too infrequent, these days) which strikes and makes me want to be the best damn driver I can be, even if and when imbibing a beer.

So here I sit, gnocchi with pine nuts, pesto, spinach, kalamatas and ricotta banging on the doors of my intestine like six siblings fighting for the bathroom before school, while Shiraz graces my gullet, happy to have writ, and even happier to have taken a drive today. Ta!

Can You Feel the Melbourne?

Melbourne is a great city. You can almost smell the culture on the air. The first day there, I headed down toward the National Gallery of Victoria to check out the Picasso / Dora Maar exhibition. It took me a while to get there, as I found myself a bit side-tracked by everything screaming out to be photographed.

First there was the cathedral, that prompted me to pull my camera from my pack.

And Flinders Station, a very European-looking train station and central hub

and the buildings surrounding it.

There was Federation Square,

home to the Australian Centre for the Moving Image

There was the river,

separating downtown

from the southern suburbs and beaches.

I finally made it to the Gallery

and went in to check out the Picasso Exhibition.

The most interesting thing I found was film shot by Man Ray documenting the group consisting Picasso/Man Ray/Dora Maar and others at play while on a beach vacation. It's great to be able to see these larger-than-life figures brought down to a more casual level in an informal setting, just hanging out with friends and being goofy.

I also checked out an exhibition of photographs called "American Beauty: Photographs of the American Social Landscape, 1930s–1970s", showcasing selected works of well-known photographers, including Robert Frank, André Kertész, and Lee Friedlander. The work of these three photographers impressed me, and I was comforted to see works of Friedlanders that resembled some of my more abstract photos.
On my way out of the Gallery I met some very nice museum people

who let me take pictures of the statues in the foyer.

I headed back toward downtown, snapping some statues

on the way.

I happened upon an outdoor exhibition called "Earth From Above",

an amazing body of work shot and presented by Yann Arthus Bertrand, coupling photos shot from helicopters with statistics on ecology and our world. An amazing collection.
I stopped for a late lunch in Federation Square

before heading in to check out the largest wall of TV screens in the world at the ACMI. The screens were stacked seven-high, and stretched for a good two hundred feet.


Heading back to the hotel, I came upon some cool alleys

and public art, including this stencil:

My brain hurt, so I had a glass of wine. And then another...






.

To Bon-Di For

To Bon-di For

Having lost my trusty tour guide, drinking buddy, and friend to the wiles of the workforce, I headed down to Bondi Beach to meet some friends and have a go at surfing. The instructions were clear, and yet somehow vague: they were at North Bondi. It truly is a different world without a mobile phone. I flagged a cab and uttered the destination. Arriving, I headed down to the packed sand, over the crowded beach toward the largest pod of surfers. Squinting like a bat just given sight, I surveyed the distant wet-suited bodies for a familiar face, back, or bum. I had just about given up when I came across Mason, a guy I’d met last night, and one of the blokes I was to rendezvous with. Having found the pack, I went a rented a wetsuit and board, along with Saul, my friend Tina’s son.

Saul made straight for the top of the lineup. I hung back a bit, having been conditioned by years of surfing in Santa Cruz, to sit back and take the scraps as they rolled in and were passed on by the better surfers. Saul laughed at the fact that I had a wetsuit on (but, come on, the water was 17.5 Celsius / 64 Fahrenheit, just barely warmer than the chill of the Northern California Pacific coast, and I am not one to mess with the shivers when I’m trying to act coordinated) until about ten minutes in when he started to numb up, shortly exiting the water for the sunny beach.

I stayed out for a while, had a go at a few waves. Nearly got run over by a hardcore body surfer with a front rudder in hand. Almost ran over a couple of foam-top surfers. Took a short break. Went out again. Eventually my friend Catherine showed up, followed shortly by Saul and Mason. Mason had just started offering us pointers when a very loud siren started screaming from the beach. Shark alert, Mason told us, but damned if he felt like going in. Catherine, Saul, and I were well up the beach before he even considered getting out of the water, a move prompted by the stern warnings of lifeguards on jet skis.

A helicopter showed up, and made a rather large production out of searching the shallow waters with the lifeguards. Eventually they left, and everyone took to the water again. And I mean everyone, 300 strong.

Exciting? Yes. A bit of a let down for my absent beach buddy, who I’m sure would have paid good money to see me get maimed or fully eaten by a shark? No doubt. But it was a good bit of fun, even if I never even got to see a damn shark.

BackBlogged

I must admit I’m feeling a bit back-blogged right now. Since I last wrote, we’ve been from Noosa to Byron Bay, down to Sydney, and up to the Blue Mountains. The kids have left me all by my onesies, so off I go. Headed to Melbourne tomorrow, where I hope to catch up on some writing and the cataloguing of photos. Until then, thanks for checking in. A few highlights from the last couple of weeks: living like a king in Byron Bay; getting out of Nimbin alive; surviving the drive to Sydney; getting my ass kicked up, down, left, right, and center by Catherine in backgammon; some very fun nights filled with music, dancing, kite-flying and billiards with fun friends in Sydney; rock climbing in the Blue Mountains with Maya and Tim; a sunset water taxi ride through Sydney Harbor, complete with champagne, and followed shortly by oysters, more champagne, strawberries, yet more champagne, whipped cream, and yes, you guessed it, more champagne; and a fuggin’ fabulous time at Spearhead last night with Catherine. More to come soon. Until then, hold on to your knickers, and for the love of God, go ahead and do something I wouldn’t do…

Feeling Manly

Sydney, 09/21

We dropped Maya and Tim off at the airport today. It felt odd to part after three weeks, a bit like sending the parents off back home while staying on vacation, and I told Catherine as much. “Let’s go get drunk,” was her well-timed and much-needed response. So we did.


We stopped to run an errand or two on the way down to the water,

then took the ferry from Circular Quay out to Manly, taking in the sights of Sydney Harbor.


Disembarking at the wharf, we stopped for a drink and some sushi, arriving at the beach at the height of the golden hour. Kids played

Old men fished and young blokes surfed.

We sat in the sand and watched seagulls scavenge in the golden glow of the setting sun.

We opted to take a water taxi back to Sydney instead of the ferry, and stopped on the way back to the wharf for a small bottle of champagne.

The taxi came and met us at the bar. The ride was amazing.

We had a swell driver (pun intended)

who, at Catherine’s request, took us out and under the Harbor Bridge

by Luna Park

so that we could enjoy the spectacular view of the city lit up at night,

from the Bridge to the Opera House,

giving us time to finish the bottle

and feel the wind in our hair (hee hee).

Aussies rock my world, and on the best of nights, my boat.

Back at the mooring, we headed straight for the Oyster Bar,

right next to the Opera House (the scene of our first night’s welcome to Sydney), and enjoyed oysters and (more) champage.

Sated, at least so far as food was concerned, we left downtown, which now looked a bit like this:

and caught a cab back to the house, stopping on the way for yet another bottle of champagne and the added accoutrements of strawberries and whipped cream.

You should have seen the look on Dorothy’s (Catherine’s mum) face when Catherine told her to close her eyes and open her mouth. I don’t think I’d ever heard such words uttered by one family member to another (except for that one time in Kentucky). Daughter rewarded mother with a large globbing mouthful of whipped cream.

At this point, needless to say, we were seeing stars.

However, as the French surely have a knack for their bubbles, we awoke the next morning feeling refreshed and ready for a day at the beach, even if still just a tad bit pissed.