I’m not sure who’s going to do the honors, but somebody is going to have to roll me out of Australia when we leave tomorrow. Seriously. I think I’ve gained at least five pounds on our culinary tour through the country…maybe more. Today we were strolling through the St. Kilda suburb of Melbourne, a lovely, seaside borough brought to life by an old-fashioned boardwalk and amusement park, shabby chic cafes, and eastern European pastry shops. Australia is a country who, much like the United States, has been shaped by immigration, and the culinary landscape is evidence of that. St. Kilda was the domain of Russian and Polish emigres in the 1940s, and the residue is cake shops whose windows gleam with golden fruit-studded babkas and fluffy white pavlovas. I selected a boozy rum cake robed in chocolate, an all-time favorite of mine that is rarely executed well, but whose perfection was achieved today. We waddled down the road, dipping into the vintage clothing stores that dot the streets. I found Mecca at Ruby Red Dress, an exceptional shop with a great selection of vintage finds. I squeezed myself into a darling floral-print jumper from the ’80s, sucking my stomach in as I studied myself in profile in the mirror. “It will be fine by the time we get home,” I assured myself. All hope hangs on next week’s four-day, 30 kilometer hike on the Milford Track.

I threw caution to the wind four weeks ago and decided to enjoy myself as I ate my way through Australia. The wineries of Western Australia produced outstanding fare, Adelaide’s Central Market was impressive, and Melbourne’s global cuisine is unrivaled. A trip to the city’s Immigration Museum was a lesson in Australian history; Europeans poured into the country at the first part of the 1900s, opening restaurants, cafes, and bakeries that reflected their cultural heritage. We sipped lattes from Melbourne’s first espresso machine at Pellegrini’s, a cozy, Italian neighborhood restaurant whose simple menu perched above the counter. A slice of traditional almond cake, layered with airy chocolate and delicate plums, was something I couldn’t get a home. We tucked into Borscht, Vodka, and Tears one blustery evening, whose menu touted “modern Polish cuisine.” I never knew there was such a thing as modern Polish cuisine. Page upon page of vodka cocktails (I ordered one the color of blush, mixing grapefruit juice and melon vodka, a perfect balance) gave way to dressed-up classics like pierogi and Polish sausage, which we enjoyed as candles flickered all around us. We indulged on chocolate “tapas” at San Churro and real tapas at Basque, offering bite-sized portions of Spanish classics like spicy strips of chorizo and piping hot patatas bravas. I sighed in disappointment when we learned that the Fitzroy neighborhood’s Babka Bakery Cafe was closed, and laughed when I passed by a restaurant called Gluttony It’s a Sin. If that’s true, then I’m a sinner of the highest degree!

Eating my way through Melbourne was a visceral way to experience Australia’s amazing diversity. The country is proud of its multicultural make-up, but there are looming questions as to how to handle immigration into the future. It’s a vast country, comprised of only 21 million people, but most of that land is in the middle and uninhabitable. The cities that ring the country are, at least by Australian standards, packed, although even this is a point of debate. At the Immigration Museum we learned how policy has shaped the country: at one point, one in two immigrants was English. Now, Asians comprise one of the largest immigrant populations, and the city’s famed Asian cuisine is evident in this trend. It is clear that complex questions are inherent in issues of immigration. (In one particularly fun and interactive exhibit we were asked to “interview” and make decisions on different immigration cases throughout history, based on the current immigration policy of the era. The task of making decisions to accept or reject an applicant was surprisingly difficult, even in a simple museum setting. I can only imagine what it’s like to be faced with the task of ruling on people’s fates in a real-life setting.) But it’s clear that the people who have adopted Australia as their home have added a great deal to many aspects of the country, and certainly to its culinary landscape.

Until now, we’ve been out of touch with the presidential election. For those of you back home who have been inundated with election news for months, this must seem impossible. We didn’t learn until recently that Sarah Palin’s name is pronounced Pay-lin, not Paw-lin, and I think we’re the only people on the face of the earth who haven’t seen Tina Fey’s controversial impression of her on Saturday Night Live. The only news we’ve received has been through brief glances at Internet reports or snatches of stories from Americans we’ve met while traveling. But despite the paucity of news, we’ve observed intense interest in the election while traveling the world. We are constantly asked, “When is the election? Who do you think will win? Who do you want to win?” And as the election has drawn closer, we have been badgered with one question: have you cast your ballot? There is clearly a vested interest in the outcome of this election from all corners of the globe.

It felt odd to spending this historic election so far from home, and we wanted nothing more than to be with our countrymen on Election Day, which, given the monumental time difference, falls on Wednesday in Australia. A quick Google search revealed that Democrats Abroad was hosting a party at the Maori Chief Hotel in Melbourne from 10:30 am until “late.” Finger food was promised. We weren’t sure who would attend a party mid-morning on a Wednesday, and feared that we’d walk into a geriatric scene. As we approached the hotel on foot, we saw a sea of Obama ’08 shirts spilling out of a packed bar. Beer, sweat, and anticipation filled the air, and we were directed to an upstairs banquet room. CNN blasted from a large screen television, and we were immediately greeted by Sandeep, the Vice President of Democrats Abroad’s Melbourne Chapter, who was sporting an Uncle Sam Hat, an Obama T-shirt, and a blue velveteen blazer studded with Obama ’08 buttons. He said he was so excited that he couldn’t sleep last night.

We ducked our head into a small room, where partygoers palming schooners of beer were packed in like sardines. Early election results were sprinting across the screen, and a news crew filmed footage of the rabid Democrats, who were pumping their fists and chanting, “O-bam-a, O-bam-a!” We angled for a seat on the outside patio, which was also screening CNN, and settled in for a long afternoon. I immediately noticed the mix of people, from young college students to professionals to retirees. Most of them lived in Australia, and I couldn’t help but wonder how they got the time off work to attend this soirée. As I listened to the unfolding conversations, I was surprised by the number of Australians who had turned out to watch the results. Some were partnered with Americans, but many of them were there to celebrate what they hoped would be a victory.

As Florida and Iowa went to Obama, big cheers waved through the rooms. A cannon shot of victory exploded as it was announced that Obama had taken Ohio. “As Ohio goes, so goes the nation,” Wolf Blitzer reminded us. The most excited viewer was Ishmael from England, who donned skinny black jeans, a funky white shirt, and clapped at everything. I overheard him recount the story of the first time he had heard Obama speak. Ishmael was watching television in Cambodia when Senator Obama was broadcast questioning Condolezza Rica. “I saw this man, who was obviously so smart, and I thought, ‘Who is he?’ I asked my girlfriend to look him up on the Internet. And I knew. I just knew: he was something special.” It was as if he had single-handedly discovered Obama and carried him on his shoulders to the White House. Still, I couldn’t help but admire the guy’s enthusiasm.

Our BLT was delivered (how much more American can you get?), and only the West Coast votes remained to be counted, when a riot of applause swept through the rooms. Suddenly, the television screen flashed, “Obama Elected President.” Ismael was on his feet, screaming. As footage began playing of supporters in Chicago, I watched tears roll down one woman’s cheek. Another man, held in rapt attention, began to cry, his lower lip quivering. We watched McCain’s concession speech in near silence, except for the periodic heckler. When McCain referred to Senator Obama, a lone, Australian-accented voice piped up from the back, “That’s President Obama!” The troops refueled as we waited for Obama to give his acceptance speech, ordering rounds of frothy Cooper’s beer. A bottle of Dom Perignon champagne was produced, chilling in a rustic Budweiser bucket. We knew this would be the pinnacle of the day – indeed, of the last two years. It was the moment we had been waiting for.

As Obama made his way to the stage, a shiver ran up my arms. He began his speech, and electric silence took over. I carefully scanned the room, watching men and women, old and young, Americans and Australians, wipe tears from their eyes. The feeling of hope and optimism that gripped this room, thousands of miles from where the action was taking place, was palpable. I was completely moved, and soon hot tears streamed from my eyes. As Obama referenced the people abroad who were watching this election, a cheer of pride raced through the room. I finally understood, on a very real level, the impact of American politics abroad.

The crowd slowly dispersed after the speech ended, and the mood shifted to a festive party atmosphere. Australians were congratulating Americans, shaking our hands, and we all expressed our genuine hope and excitement for the years to come. It’s sometimes hard to be an American traveling overseas. We as solitary citizens are often blamed for the unpopular politics of our government, and it’s sometimes hard to hear others’ impressions of our nation. But today, as a grassroots participant in this truly global election, I am proud to be an American.

When I was a kid, I spent every weekend with my father. My parents have been divorced since I was two, and their joint custody agreement dictated that I spend non-school days with him. As it was, spending time with my father was like entering a different world where even the furniture seemed foreign.

The centerpiece of my bedroom were massive solid stained wood Ethan Allen bunk beds, laid out like an L. Despite their solid appearance, climbing on the beds revealed an unfortunate alternate reality. The entire construction would start to creek and moan, and the slightest movement of my body would amplify the beds into a terrifying wobble, belying a potential structural failure.

Picking the lower or upper bunk was the toughest choice. On one hand, I could sleep on the bottom and risk getting the top half of my body crushed by 500 pounds of oak. On the other, I could take my chances on the top, riding the giant bed down, perhaps only suffering spinal injuries and a lifetime of physical therapy.

***

Undoubtedly one the biggest disappointments of this trip has been having to prearrange accommodations much of the time, as we’ve been traveling much of the world during high season. I was, however, completely confident that we would visit Australia during shoulder season, and would have our choice of prime rooms.

My first inkling of my faulty thinking came in the form of a tall, frizzy-haired Aussie man we met while hiking in 100 degree weather in Cappadocia. He had the air of a slacker who drank his fair share of beer and enjoyed the ladies. As we walked, he proclaimed that, if we were lucky, the greatest party in Australia, the Melbourne Cup, could coincide with our visit and we’d be wise to book ahead. The most famous horse race in Australia, the Melbourne Cup apparently surpasses even the Kentucky Derby in its popularity, warranting a public holiday. It may have been the dehydration, but I quickly removed this thought from my mind.

Two weeks before arriving to Melbourne, we started to hear lots of press about the Melbourne Cup. I asked Liz if the big event would take place during our visit. Yep. Alarm bells went off in my head, and I immediately contacted several hostels and hotels. My dream of having our pick of rooms quickly evaporated as place after place informed us they had already been completely booked for quite a while. Then, the well-regarded Claremont Hotel informed us that they had a private double room available with bunk beds but shared bathroom during our desired dates. Panicked, I quickly snapped it up.

“It won’t be so bad,” Liz and I reassured each other. She quickly claimed the bottom bunk upon check in, relegating me to six nights of high-altitude sleeping. The bed itself must be a model Ikea sells direct to hostels and university dormitories. It has a minimalist, mass-produced appearance, with thin, black painted steel bars which give the feeling of a hospital bed. My bunk lets out an ear-splitting, prolonged creak each time I lay down or get up, and a coil pokes my hip when I try to sleep on my side. The ladder to the top bunk has two small hooks holding it in place, and climbing must be an exact science, or it will pivot from the top and crash loudly back into the bed frame. Each trip up and down makes me lament the loss of the pliable bones I once had as a child, making bunk bed sleeping possible.

Getting older (I am in my 30s, after all) has gifted me something else: the need to pee at least once during the night. If I’ve had a few drinks, double that number. Once trivial, the process of going to the bathroom has lengthened to a 10-minute ordeal. The process goes something like this:

1. Sit up in bed as quickly as possible to minimize the god awful creaking sound.
2. Slide body to the end of the bed and hang my legs over the edge, taking care not to castrate myself on the metal “footboard.”
3. Slowly lower myself down the ladder, taking care not to bang ladder against the bed frame or, worse, fall and break bones.
4. Rummage through clothes to find something presentable for my public appearance in the hallway.
5. Slip on flip flops, taking care not to step on the trick floorboard, which also makes a god awful creaking sound.
6. Go to bathroom, making sure not to close our room door too loudly, waking up the entire floor.
7. Reenter room, taking care to avoid the trick floorboard, while disrobing.
8. Make the perilous journey back up the ladder, slide the upper half of my body on the bed, legs flailing helplessly in the air.
9. Mentally prepare for god awful creaking sound #2, flipping my body around and quickly laying back down.
10. Ponder the absurdity of this process for an additional 10 minutes.

This was not our first experience with bunk beds. In Fremantle (see Backpacker Hell post), we also landed a bunk bed room at the Old Firestation hostel. Our saving grace was that the bottom bunk mattress was sized for two people. But many of our hostel rooms have come with two twin beds, separated by a small nightstand. Experiencing this very Ward and June Cleaver-esque sleeping arrangement is certainly not conducive to modern marriage. “Good night, Ozzie,” Liz calls through the darkened room. “Good night, Harriet.”

When we were in Bhutan, we asked our guide, Dorji, if McDonald’s had arrived in Thimphu, the capital city, yet. “Oh yes,” said Dorji, gravely. “It is the only place in town where you can buy hamburgers. Would you like to see?” I wondered if the hamburgers would be cloaked in chiles and cheese, and if the Playland would be festooned with merry-go-rounds fashioned after prayer wheels. Or maybe the Happy Meals would come with a McBuddha action figure. Instead, we arrived at a small place called The Swiss Bakery, what amounted to a chalet-style cafe, with no iconic golden arches in sight. Inside, we could choose from a menu that consisted of dodgy-looking pastries, coffee and tea, and hamburgers. It dawned on us that, in Dorji’s mind, McDonald’s wasn’t a brand name but an institution synonymous with hamburgers. And since the Swiss Bakery was the only one serving up patties in this neck of the woods, it might as well have been McDonald’s.

We couldn’t bear to let him down, so we ordered a desiccated chocolate cake and settled down at a booth, the only thing that bore any resemblance to a real McDonald’s. Within minutes a Bhutanese woman breezed in the door with a pack of school-aged children dancing in her wake. Her English was impeccable, with a slight British inflection, and the children’s language abilities were equally impressive. These were Bhutanese of a certain class, the ones who go abroad to study and return to cushy government positions. Dorji had told us that they have a propensity towards all things Western, so we weren’t surprised when she ordered a round of hamburgers for everyone. The arrived wrapped in limp plastic steaming with condensation; the whirring of the microwave in the background moments earlier gave a clue as to their heat source. An emaciated patty was sandwiched between a bakery-style bun; there were no vegetables.

As the kids doused their hamburgers in ketchup, they chatted in English. The woman, obviously the mother of the girl dressed in pink, suddenly turned toward me and asked me where I was from. Within moments, the woman, talking a million miles a minute, revealed that she had recently appeared in a Bhutanese film, Travellers and Magicians. Although she worked professionally at the Bank of Bhutan and had never acted a day in her life, she landed a role in the film, and even went to Los Angeles for the premiere, where she was given “the red carpet treatment.” She even got to ride in a limousine. Deki was eager to know if we had seen the film; I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I’d never even heard of it. “Well,” she sighed, “it was back to Bhutan for me. No more limousines. Just my little red car.” She jotted down the name of the movie and her email address as Dorji approached our table. They spoke a few minutes in Bhutanese, and suddenly she was off.

We watched her make her way out to her little red car as the children piled in. “She was in a Bhutanese movie,” we told Dorji. “I know,” he said, “she told me.” He had never heard of it either.

* * *

Yesterday we found ourselves at the Australian Centre for the Moving Image in Melbourne, a must-see for anyone with an interest in film. Home to a number of exhibitions pertaining to the cinematic world, it also contains a number of theatres that play host to a rotating series of independent films and thematically exciting film festivals. An image of Buddha on a poster caught me eye as we passed by. “It’s a Buddhist Film Festival!” I said. Maikael studied the poster, looking at the list of films that were being screened. “Look what’s playing!” he cried. Travellers and Magicians. We glanced at the dates of the week-long festival: it was ending today. “What are the odds that this film is playing today?” we asked ourselves. Miraculously, its one and only screening of the festival was in a few hours.

The film was the embodiment of Bhutan, and everything was immediately familiar, like a giant memory blowing into my mind. Sweeping scenery, flapping prayer flags, dried chiles, terraced rice fields, gray ghos and colorful kiras, balls of rice, Indian trucks filled with hitchhikers, monks, magic, mystery, and folklore. The opening scene showed three men yelping as they scored an archery victory, and we smiled broadly, remembering the day we watched the Prince of Bhutan play in the national archery semifinals. This audience tittered when one character warned another about ghosts on the highway at night. Unless you’d been to Bhutan, you’d never know that warning was no joke.

The storyline revolves around a government worker who is dying to leave Bhutan for America, and when an opportunity arises he tries to make his way to Thimphu, a journey that takes days from his tiny village and is thwarted at every opportunity. The government worker meets a monk along his journey, and when he tells the monk he is leaving for America, his “dreamland,” the monk warns him against chasing empty dreams. The monk shares a fable with the government worker to illustrate his point, which becomes a parallel storyline.

I squealed when Deki’s unmistakable face appeared on the screen, the starring woman in the alternate storyline. Leaning across my seat I whispered to Maikael, “Can you believe we met that woman?” She was a pretty good actress for a government worker, and we found it ironic that she was starring in a film about the dangers of chasing Western ideals. The film was as much about Buddhism as it was about Bhutan: just as I experienced when I visited, the two things are inextricably bound together. Bhutan is struggling mightily with the encroachment of the Western world; most people used to be relatively happy with their lot, but with television in most homes, people see there is more to want. Buddhists believe the only path to happiness is to desire less.

So there we were, watching a Bhutanese film starring a Bhutanese woman we knew in a movie theatre in Australia, on the only day at the only time it was showing at a one-week film festival. It was all a little too bizarre, and I knew the Bhutanese would say it was no coincidence. We were meant to see that film.

At the end of the screening, a graduate student of Buddhist philosophy, visiting from Sydney, was on hand on answer questions about the film. He wasn’t Bhutanese, but with his shorn head and long, gray robe I guessed he was Buddhist. Someone asked him to give his interpretation of the film, and he stated that the central theme was a struggle between accepting our lot in life and aspiring for something greater. “At the end of the day, do we remain content with what we have, or crazily chase after our dreams? Which is better?” He explained that he wasn’t there to say which one was right, and that Buddhists believe that you have to inquire and question and struggle with yourself to find the right answer; the reason, he explained, why the ending to the film was intentionally left open-ended. “You have to give meaning to your own life,” he insisted.

This Buddhist man had unwittingly summed up the central struggle of not only the film but my own life. For years I have wondered if I should accept the fact that my life didn’t turn out as I had planned and continue with the status quo that I had set for myself, or if I should try to aim for something that’s more in line with who I am as a person. The greatest thing I’m struggling with now is that I don’t have a dream to “crazily chase after.” In the past, I have tried to solve the big questions of my life through occupational means, convinced that choosing a new career would be the key. In fact, I’m fighting not to fall into the same trap again, as new career ideas are percolating in the background.

That night, I had the most vivid dream. I dreamed that I was a substitute teacher for a small, mixed classroom of elementary and middle school children. When I took over the class we were working on an art project that I was helping the kids to finish. As I stepped into this role, largely unprepared, I felt immediately comfortable and at east, as if I had been a teacher my whole life. Suddenly, I found myself in a conversation with my “dream self,” who I can only guess is my subconscious, that great ruler of the dream world. This has never happened to me before.

I asked my “dream self” what this meant. “Does this mean I should be a school teacher?” I asked. “No,” she responded, confident and clear, “it’s a symbol. You will be a type of teacher, but not in a traditional way, or the way you think.” In fact, I have always regarded my role as a counselor as a teacher more than anything. In the dream I was teaching art, and my “dream self” somehow seemed to know that what I would teach people would have to do with creativity.

I’m not sure what the dream means, but I can only guess that seeing that movie unlocked something in me. I am vowing to make a conscious effort to avoid immediately jumping into a new career or endeavor when I return from this trip, to begin a quiet search for the different ways that being a teacher might manifest itself in my life. The astrologer in India told me that I would come into contact with many spiritual people during this year, and so far that is holding true. The path I’m on is invisible at the moment, but I feel my feet are treading on something, real and true.

Today is Halloween, and I’m really bummed to be missing out. Not only is it my favorite holiday, but it falls on a Friday night this year, making it a particularly sad year to be gone: we undoubtedly would have held a big bash. Halloween isn’t a big deal in Australia which surprises me, given the fact that it’s an excuse to party (not that the Australians need one). So I won’t see any sweet kids dressed as black cats, witches, scarecrows, or devils. I can’t pass candy out at the door as the young ones shriek, “Trick or treat!” There won’t be any pumpkins winking at me as I drive through the twilight neighborhoods. And I won’t get to wear a costume, which has always been my favorite part of Halloween; an opportunity to be someone other than who you are. Since this trip has turned into a quest to (re)discover who I am, maybe it’s not a bad thing that I’m missing out on dressing up.

Since there won’t be any sweets to gnaw on tonight, I’ve discovered a new vice: iced coffee in a carton. Ben and Colleen introduced me to this saccharine, caffeine-crazy drink, which can be procured in any grocery store, restaurant, or cafe. In South Australia, iced coffee is wildly popular, outselling Coca-Cola! Rather than spending a princely sum for a dressed up concoction at Starbucks, I can enjoy the same beverage for a fraction of the price. And with summer just around the corner – at least in the Southern Hemisphere – it’s the perfect sweet treat. It’s no substitute for good old fashioned Halloween candy (why do the little packets always taste better?), but it comes pretty close!

Adelaide is an underrated city. Most international visitors head for straight for Sydney, or maybe Melbourne, never making it this far. I swear I’m not working for the tourist bureau, but believe me when I say that Adelaide offers something for everyone. It’s a lovely city to walk around; old Victorian buildings, outfitted with frilly wrought-iron balconies, sit affably alongside their modern counterparts, creating a dynamic cityscape. The Torrens River cuts an elegant swath through the town paralleled by miles of lanes, shaded by mature, arched trees, to bike or jog down. One afternoon we sat by the river and watched groups of young men in crew teams silhouetted against the late afternoon sky, as a gigantic, snowy pelican swooped down to perch on the dock.

The city center boasts a vibrant core that seems to be buzzing at all hours of the day. The excellent public transportation system is usually packed, ferrying passengers to hip restaurants with world-class, global cuisine. Adelaide is a foody’s dream. Leafy pedestrian malls offer local shops and boutiques to browse through. One edge of town is ringed by Glenelg, a soft, white-sand beach that locals can escape to. With its breezy shops and towering palm trees, it feels like a laid-back southern California beach town.

Adelaide has a thriving arts scene, hosting the world’s second largest fringe theatre festival, second only to Edinburgh’s. A huge arts complex rests alongside the river, providing multiple performing venues in one space, hosting shows from all over the world; Adelaide has more arts festivals per year than you can shake a stick at. Add to this a number of universities which gives Adelaide an open, intellectual feel that is always exciting and fun.

Just outside of town is the award-winning Cleland Wildlife Park which houses an amazing array of Australian native species, from toothy Tasmanian devils to towering emus. Here you can hand-feed kangaroos and snuggle a koala, something I never dreamed I’d do in my lifetime.

The amazing thing to me is all of this is happening in a city of one million people, the size of Albuquerque.

My hands-down favorite activity in Adelaide was visiting the Central Market. We spent a full morning cruising through the fruit and vegetable stalls in a cool industrial building, boasting locally-grown produce from South Australia. We scavenged the market for dinner, choosing bright spring greens (a novelty in October), slender haricort verts, finger-sized asparagus, crunchy peas, and sweet little cherry tomatoes. We dipped into one of many cheese shops, selecting soft, white mounds of Barossa Valley cheese and toothsome, veined Tasmanian blue to accompany our recent wine purchases. Then we selected briny, burgundy, tear-dropped olives and heaps of dewy fruit to enjoy as an aperitif to what was amounting to a real feast. Next it was on to the pasta store for fresh fettuccine. Famished from all the shopping, we sat down at rustic tables for lunch: Maikael chose homemade Russian piergois dressed with sour cream and fronds of dill, served up by a real Babuskha who was busy dissecting massive heads of cabbage. I settled for an outstandingly fresh baguette sandwich. I was surprised, but delighted, to learn that the European style of a la carte shopping is thriving in Australia.

If I’ve learned anything on this trip it’s to share what I have, even, as is at present, it isn’t much. So we brought our bounty home to enjoy with our hosts, Ben and Colleen. They have helped us to have a great South Australia experience, and most nights have ended in shared bottles of wine, laughing, talking, and furious rounds of Guitar Hero. There has also been a fair amount of razzing about which side of the road is the proper one to drive on, and how to pronounce “basil.” Ben feigned mock horror when he discovered that Maikael hadn’t been using his turn signal to negotiate roundabouts. We’ve been given an education in Australian lexicon, which is not British English but a whole new vocabulary: it’s not just lorries and lifts and crisps. I know that bogans are holligans, tea is dinner, and that tall poppies are fierce overachievers. But clobbering, spuds, and hicksville have the same meanings for them and us, and I am reminded once again that most of us in this world are more similar than different.

Until today, I was a Verjuice virgin.

If you don’t know what Verjuice is, don’t feel bad. But if you’re an Australian who has any interest in the culinary arts, chances are good that, not only do you know what Verjuice is, you stock a bottle in your kitchen cabinet and swear to its magical properties. As far as I can tell, Verjuice is like Vegemite: a distinctly Australian concoction that makes Aussie’s hearts sing. The closest American equivalent is Rachel Ray’s ubiquitous EVOO.

One of our goals in visiting Adelaide was to make a day-trip into the Barossa Valley, recently rated as one of the top 10 wine growing regions in the world and only an hour’s drive from the city. The Valley produces many excellent wines, but is renowned for its shiraz. To prepare ourselves, we made a pre-trip stop at the National Wine Center in Adelaide, a modern building adjoining the marvelous Botanical Gardens. Here visitors can learn about the entire wine production process and gain an appreciation for just how difficult it is to create a decent bottle of wine. Through an interactive computer program, we were able to make our own vintage, based on answering a series of questions regarding what affects the wine making process, from soil type and temperature to how the grapes are picked and stored. In one section of the exhibit we could “talk” with chefs who are renowned for pairing food and wine, and I listened with interest as Maggie Beer waxed poetic about eating and drinking locally. “This is the kind of thing I should be doing,” I thought, as I chuckled to myself at the irony of her last name.

We awoke to blue glass skies and perfect temperatures and made our way to the Barossa, crossing swooping saffron hills zig-zagged with bottle-green vineyards. The environment here is hot and dry, and the arid landscape reminds me of what I think Tuscany probably looks like: lots of wheat fields growing up beautiful mounds of hills with a solemn gnarly tree perched atop. Our first stop was for Danish at the Apex Bakery in the town of Tanunda, the heart of the Valley, a safe bet given Barossa’s rich German heritage. The region’s first vintners came from Germany, escaping religious persecution: beautiful, petite Lutheran churches sit proudly in the town square of each little town you pass.

Fortified, we spent the morning tasting wines from the iconic Chateau Tanunda, Charles Melton, and Rockford, moving on in the afternoon to Langmeil, Peter Lehmann, and Yaluma, buying a few bottles along the way. As our stomachs began to grumble at mid-day, we perused the lunch suggestions from the concierge at the National Wine Center. My eye immediately fell upon Maggie Beer’s Farm Store. “Hey, isn’t that the chef who we saw talking yesterday at the Wine Center?” I asked Maikael. Beer is one of Barossa’s most famous chefs, who began the movement of eating regionally, and I felt like I needed to see her operation in action.

Maggie’s Farm Store sits alongside a lovely green lake filled with turtles bobbing there heads along the surface of the water. A sign advertising a 2 o’clock cooking demonstration greeted us at the door. “Learn how Maggie uses her signature ingredients (Verjuice!) to create her signature dishes.” “What the hell is Verjuice?” I thought. The store is a foodie’s dream, chock-full of gourmet foods labeled in pretty packages. Diners can choose a picnic lunch of their choosing to enjoy on the outside patio overlooking the little lake, and each comes with a suggested wine pairing. This is exactly what the Margaret River wine valley had been lacking; a concerted effort to pair local food and wine using the best of seasonal ingredients. We chose our lunches, which were packed in a charming woven basket: inventive vegetable pates, fresh-baked rolls, and savory tabbouleh salads, dressed with a fresh sprig of rosemary that I couldn’t help but twirl between my fingers. I was completely content, much how I imagine most people feel when they commune with nature or encounter something beautiful.

At 2 o’clock we were herded into a packed room for the cooking demonstration. I was hoping The Woman Herself would be conducting the class, but instead a vivacious blond woman, who Maikael referred to as The Minion, glided into the room. She explained that Maggie has her own cooking show on ABC, the equivalent of PBS, and that we were sitting on the set of the show, which was modeled after Maggie’s own home kitchen. Everyone nodded enthusiastically; we were clearly the only ones not in the know about Maggie Beer. It dawned on me that Maggie Beer is the Australian equivalent of our Julia Child or Jacques Pepin, and I wondered if Maggie’s kitchen would be torn down and resurrected in Australia’s version of the Smithsonian Museum, just as Julia’s had.

Soon we moved onto the elusive Verjuice. “Do you all know what Verjuice is?” quipped The Minion. Everyone nodded again, smiling, as Maikael and I exchanged befuddled looks. Verjuice, she explained for our benefit, is an acidic juice, much like lemon juice, that is derived from unfermented young Riesling grapes. Maggie created it when she had an overabundance of grapes, and then began using it as a base for drinks, and then finally as a stand-in for lemon juice in her cooking. And thus the Verjuice Revolution was born. She even has an entire cookbook dedicated to the topic, Cooking with Verjuice. Small plastic cups were passed around with the mystical juice, and everyone held it to their lips as if they were cradling holy chalices, sipping delicately. Everyone nodded in rapture.

The demonstration, which I later learned from Maggie’s website was officially called a “Verjuice Workshop,” showed every possible use of the elixir, from roasting fennel to sauteeing mushrooms. As samples were passed around, people swore it tasted better because of the Verjuice. The Minion was obviously preaching to the choir. When a bottle of green tomato pasta sauce was uncorked, a woman from the back row piped up, extolling its virtues. “It was a winner at my last dinner party. A real winner!”

After the demonstration, people stopped to snap photos of the kitchen-cum-television set; even me, who had never seen the show. I was smitten.

As we strolled out of the shop after enjoying a cup of Vanilla Bean and Elderflower Ice Cream (elderflower!), I paused at the front door to read about the history of the this space. What started as a simple retreat from city life in Sydney and a passion for local food had grown into a mini media empire. In between it had been the home of the Pheasant Farm Restaurant for over 15 years. What struck me was this woman’s ability to grow and adapt with the times, while consistently keeping good, local food as its core focus. That’s what the Barossa Wine Valley is all about.

I’ve been thinking more and more about incorporating food and writing (and travel?) into a future career. I recently had a vivid dream that an editor stumbled across my website and admonished me for not writing more about food. It seemed like a divine message from the great beyond. While I have zero training or experience in the culinary arts, when my heart sings over learning about something as simple as unfermented grape juice, I wonder if I’m not on the right track.

We’ve driven hundreds of kilometers through Australia in the last week and a half, which I feel qualifies me to comment on its highways and byways. Most notably, there seems to be a major campaign aimed at halting tired drivers from taking to the roads; the modus operandi is to scare you silly. Australians tend to be straight-shooters, and their sobering signs are no exception. “Drowsy Drivers Die,” is my personal favorite, not only for its alliteration but for its cut-to-the-chase message. “Survive this Drive” is nice for its poetry, but “For Safety’s Sake, Take a Break,” is a little clunky. Rather than crowding the roadway with statistics relating to road-related injuries, the Australians employ a straightforward pictograph system. Red coffins mounted on white sticks mean an injury occurred at that very site; black coffins stand for, well, I think you can guess…Perhaps a life-saving campaign should be undertaken for the kangaroos, whose carcasses litter the sides of the roadway. (I have yet to see a living kangaroo in the wild, but I’ve seen plenty of dead ones.)

I’m happy to say that Australia boasts the cleanest public restrooms that I have ever had the pleasure of using, which makes driving with a full bladder a true delight. But the bathrooms don’t make up for some of the worst radio stations known to man. No matter what city we’re in, the morning radio program always includes a five-minute segment from a really bad stand-up comic. What was undoubtedly bad is person is really bad over the airwaves. When not listening to strange R&B songs I’ve never heard (do you know I’m in Chains? – me neither), we can tune into The Queen of Clean, who spends an entire hour taking calls from distressed listeners who have sullied some article or another, miraculously offering sure-fire tips for quick and effective removal.

But what Australia really excels at is naming its roadways. There is no shortage of regal-sounding thoroughfares: Princes Highway, Great Northern Highway, Kings Highway, Great Southern Highway. We decided to traverse the grandest of them all, the Great Ocean Road. Stretching from Torquay to Warrnambool, the strip of asphalt hugs the ocean, offering incomparable views of Australia’s stunning southern coastline. Or so we were told. I’ve grown leery of recommendations of scenic drives. I am often assured it’s worth the extra hours that are inevitably involved, and I’m usually disappointed. I figured we’d see a few beaches and that would be that.

After flying from Perth to Melbourne, we spent the night in Geelong, sounding like a Chinese tea, and begun our journey bright and early the next day. By the time we reached Anglesea, not 30 minutes into the drive, I was already gasping – literally gasping – at the views. While I’m not much of a nature person, I am a sucker for water. Great arcs of brilliant turquoise lapped against pristine white beaches. We watched schoolchildren paddling furiously in the sparkling waves, learning to surf at 10 am on a Thursday morning. In Aireys Inlet we saw Split Point Lighthouse, the most perfect specimen you can imagine. A whitewashed tower with little niched windows, it wore a red woolen cap with a weather vane perched atop, exactly what a lighthouse should be.

Further down the coast, the road jutted upward, offering stunning views of the coastline below. Alternating between harsh waves crashing against black rock and cool water caressing soft sand, both were equally impressive. At times wiry forests of gum trees, looking like something out of Dr. Seuss, stretched to the beach, with furry koala bears perched precariously in the limbs, munching on sweet leaves. Sometimes soft green hills tumbled into the surf, as spring lambs meandered in the blades of grass.

We lunched in charming Lorne, one of many buffed-up beach towns that dot the Great Ocean Road. Despite the diminutive size of these hamlets, the food is typically inventive and high-quality: it’s as if the hippest restaurants were plucked from major metropolitan areas in the US and randomly sprinkled throughout Australia. In tiny Port Fairy you are just as likely to see an upmarket bakery serving artisan bread as a rough and tumble cafe. After lunch, the road turned inland, taking us through winding forests, seaside vistas, sun-dappled vineyards, and mossy perches teeming with lambs. Scarlet and amethyst birds dodged through the canopy overhead.

As dusk fell, we reached the Twelve Apostles, a grouping of rock formations just off the Southern Ocean coastline which, after years of erosion, now number only six. It was the number one site that was recommended to us on the Great Ocean Road, and as we rounded the bend just after Princetown, it was clear why. I gasped as I saw the first rock, glowing wheat-colored in the late afternoon sun. We parked at the Visitors’ Center and beelined to the coast, where the other Apostles sat proudly. White waves crashed at their feet as a fine veil of mist floated between the great masses of rock. Those water views get me every time.

As we drove out of Port Campbell National Park, I noticed a sign for Blow Hole Thunder Cave. While it would make an excellent name for quite a number of different things (I’ll let your imagination run wild with that for a moment), I could only guess that it was the name for some sort of crevasse in the rock where water spouts up. Of all the names – crazy and sane, grand and small – that I encountered driving through Australia, this was by far my favorite, and we drove into the waning day giggling like schoolgirls.

The Great Ocean Road ends unceremoniously just before Warnambool, joining forces with the Princes Highway, and it was over as quickly as it had begun. We continued the 550 kilometers to Adelaide early the next day, our port of call for the next week. We passed hoards of “utes,” a classier version of an El Camino that is inexplicably popular here, on a rather uneventful stretch of road that curved inland. Then we reached a turnoff for the town of Lamaroo. Now that’s a great road.

When you embark on a journey of this magnitude, you quickly learn your travel preferences. What I’ve learned about myself as a traveler in three continuous months of travel would have taken me years to figure out under normal conditions. For example, I’ve learned that I’m not really into the outdoors, unless it involves flat, short walks in cool temperatures. I am fascinated by places that retain their indigenous culture in the face of the modern world, and I adore good food and wine. I hate hot and humid weather. Maikael prefers ancient sites and physically challenging conditions, enjoys natural beauty, and doesn’t mind the heat. I imagine that all of these realizations will inform our future decisions about where we travel, and what we’ll do when we get there.

Western Australia was the perfect location for us, providing experiences and sites to suit us both. We decided to travel to this largely untouristed part of Australia after reading Bill Bryon’s In a Sunburned Country, an account of his travels across this vast country. We were enchanted by his descriptions of the tall tree forests that this region is renowned for. Great stands of karri, marri, jarrah, and tingle trees dominate the landscape, the only place in the world where these trees grow (the only trees bigger than a karri are California redwoods). We based ourselves in Pemberton, a drowsy logging town whose main street boasts the requisite tearoom, butcher shop, and IGA grocery store, but not much else. The area is an arborist’s dream, with clutches of national parks hugging the perimeter of town. Rolling green hills stretch as far as the eye can see, resembling nothing of the dusty red bush that most of us associate with Australia.

On our first day we drove the Karri Explorer loop, taking us through dense forests of native trees. I was surprised that we were driving through eucalyptus trees (known here as gum trees), whose canopy looked nothing like the sage-colored wafer leafs favored by hungry koalas that I usually associate with the species. The karris shed their bark each year, leaving mounds of leathery strips at their base, revealing a smooth, silvery trunk. They are beautiful, and their spicy perfume is unmistakable as you pick your way through the undergrowth, which looks like something out of a prehistoric tableau. A lush carpet of verdant tropical plants blankets the feet of these grand trees; I kept expecting a dinosaur to come ambling out of the forest at any moment. Instead, we hear nothing but silence and the melody of brilliant birds: green cockatoos striped red and blue dash through the canopy, as electric blue wrens flutter through the undergrowth.

Admittedly, my favorite part of the Explorer loop was the interpretive information along the way. By tuning our radio to a certain station, we could listen to stories about these great forests, including a storytelling session from a phenomenal Aboriginal storyteller. While the official history goes that the Aborigines preferred the coastal areas for their abundance of food sources, the storyteller says that they avoided these forests due to a belief that evil spirits lurked in the dark depths. When I’m not listening to the radio I can read boards from the fictional diary of the fictional forest ranger, who I can only describe as a very sensitive man who enjoys long walks through the trees and tuneful bird calls.

After familiarizing ourselves with the region, we spent our second day taking walks through Warren and Bedelup National Parks. It is springtime here, and the forest is awash in a riot of wildflowers that create the most spectacular smells. Fresia grows wild, a heavily perfumed scent that hangs heavy in the air. Everything is clear and bright. Sunlight pierces the dense canopy, fingers of light combing through the silvery leaves, casting delicate shadows over the landscape. Maikael decided to climb the imposing Bicentennial Tree, chosen during the commemoration of 200 years of European influence in Australia for its incomparable views from the top of the valley below. There are a series of fire lookout trees in these deep woods, where rangers can mount a spiral “staircase” of spindly metal rods rammed into the tree’s trunk, culminating in a lookout platform, to spot potential bush fires. They are also open to tourists to climb, which Maikael bravely attempted, ascending 75 meters (about 225 feet) above the leafy canopy without the assistance of any ropes, guides, or safety helmets. A group of elderly Australian tourists from Adelaide congregated at the base, marveling at Maikael’s monkey-like prowess and making him a minor celebrity in these woods.

The coup de grace of our time in the trees was journeying to Walpole for the famous Tree Top Walk. Built in the clutches of a great tingle forest, the Walk is designed to bring visitors into the canopy through a series of walkways created to simulate life in the treetops — they even sway in the breeze. The tingles only grow in a 6,000 hectare area, and their lifespan is roughly 400 years. First they grow tall and then wide, and despite their massive size (upward of 75 meters), their roots only grow a meter long and a meter deep from their base. Walking amongst the trees on the boardwalk below, I noticed the ragged licorice bark colored by an obvious wildfire; I was surprised to learn that the wildfire had raged through the area not last year but in 1937. The spindly upper branches were also caused by the fire, which swept through the canopy at a greater rate than underfoot, wiping out the vegetation permanently.

While the trees are lovely, I am, again, most interested in the construction of the Walk. There was once a tingle tree so large that a car could be parked in the base of its trunk. (Prisoners being transported through the area also camped overnight in the shelter of these huge trunks.) Due to the constant trampling of its shallow root system, the tree eventually fell, highlighting the need for a low-impact way to enjoy the trees. The Walk was fabricated off-site and then constructed using no cranes or helicopters to avoid damage to the delicate forest.

Still, I am not much of a tree person. Lucky for me, the region is also known for its exceptional food and wine. Between Margaret River and the Pemberton area, we spent hours dipping in and out of wineries, sampling the local fare. The area is famous for its chardonnays and cabernets, and we tried sips of delicious vintages. We quickly learned that the best food and ambiance was to be had at local wineries, which is where we ate most of our meals. Local spring lamb, succulent duck, marron (a type of freshwater crayfish), trout, truffles, and cheese dominated the menu, along with farm-fresh fruits and vegetables. I nearly fainted at the chicken fettuccine, the poultry having been smoked on-site. I ate a salad so fresh that it tasted as if had marched off the fields moments earlier: crisp troops of lettuce, bright batallions of crunchy carrots, squadrons of garden-fresh sage and thyme. Many a country road ended in cideries, avocado or apple stands, and herb farms boasting lavender and rosemary scones with local cream and jam for afternoon tea. And all of this to be enjoyed in the sunny gardens and shady vineyards.

Trees or no, I was in heaven.

We are well into our Western Australia tour, having begun in Fremantle, a hip suburb of Perth, then winding our way south through the wine valleys and tall tree forests that the southwest region is famous for. As I walked around Fremantle that first day, I was struck by a feeling of familiarity that I couldn’t quite place. The tidy mom and pop storefronts, an historic city hall, a small park, shopping arcades around each corner. Then it hit me: I had walked into 1950s Main Street USA. Not an exact version, but an alternate reality. It’s as if Ward and June Cleaver moved out and the hipsters moved in, leaving the buildings behind. The town isn’t trapped in time; there are trendy hair salons, chic boutiques, and more upmarket coffee shops and juice stands than you can shake a stick at. But I got a glimpse into what the communities of the US would look like today had the megastores never encroached. I finally understood what my dad has been nostalgic for my whole life.

On our first night in town we ventured out for dinner at 8 pm, expecting this trendy town to be abuzz. Instead, the streets were completely deserted, the full moon casting a spooky glow over the Gold Rush-era buildings. Where were all the people? We breezed into a local fish and chips restaurant and were shocked to learn that they were closed. The rest of the town had followed suit, and we were left with one choice, a hip brewery that didn’t seem to be closing its doors anytime soon.

The next day we headed south, weaving our way through towns with names like Yallingup, Mandurah, and Cowaramup. We stopped for a fish and chips lunch at a cozy dockside restaurant in Bunbury (we were getting our fish and chips one way or another), and discovered the same charming town planning. A bakery, cafes, banks, a hardware store, and a bookstore lined the short blocks, nestled between stores selling trinkets and souvenirs. We worked our way south along the coast, passing rolling green pastures dotted with herds of lazy sheep and huge stands of wild calla lilies. Sometimes the backdrop was celery stick trees growing out of great hills; other times the cerulean ocean loomed in the distance. Were it not for the palm trees and Birds of Paradise lining the roadsides, I could have sworn I was in the UK.

We stopped for coffee at a beachside cafe; it was 4:15 pm, and they had already closed for the day. Undeterred, we walked down the faded boardwalk, taking in the sweeping sandy beach that disappeared into the aquamarine water. We reached our day’s destination, Margaret River, around dusk. The heart of a major wine producing region, the golden light fell softly over lush fields of grapevines. We zoomed down country lanes, shaded by tall trees who arched their great backs over the roadway, kicking up heaps of dust in our wake. Known for superb food and wine, we ambled around town in search of a great dinner. We were bowled over: most entrees ran $25 – $30, and most restaurants were closing their doors by 7pm. Even the grocery store was shutting up shop.

By the time we made it to Pemberton a few days later, we had grown wiser about business hours. Most shops are open 9-5. Wineries and attractions close by 4. Bars don’t stay open much past 8 or 9. “Why do things close so early?” we kept asking the locals. No one seems to think these hours are unusual, and some grow defensive at the suggestion that there’s something wrong with this way of doing business. “It’s not Europe, you know,” one woman bristled. The prevailing attitude seems to be, why do you need to be out past 6? You should be at home eating dinner! Of course that’s hard for a tourist to do, but I guess that’s the point: these are truly small, everyday towns, not tourist havens. Everyone plans their day around store hours, which is what we’re learning to do.

It’s easy to glorify the quaintness of these small towns while, in the same breath, criticizing their hours of operation. I’m beginning to understand that the limited hours are what helps to keep them quaint. Most are family-run businesses, whose staff is extremely limited. They need a break to. While I can moan about the one grocery store closing at 7pm, I am delighted when I step foot in its doors. Despite its diminutive size, nearly all the produce is locally grown. Instead of shrink wrapped packages of funghi, crinkly paper bags simply marked “mushrooms” fill the stands. Bins of local walnuts abut the aisles. Everything in the meat and cheese case is local, and the lion’s share of dairy product is from Margaret River. This, I am happy to say, is the flip side of staying small.