Kindness of Strangers

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

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.

Friday, October 24, 2008

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.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

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.

Sunday, October 19, 2008

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.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

We’ve stayed in our fair share of hostels on this trip, which have surprised us in their variety. In many cases we’ve stayed in historical homes in quiet hamlets, and have chatted with retired couples, families, and middle-aged travelers. But it was only a matter of time until we stayed at a real backpacker’s youth hostel. You know the kind I’m talking about: a congregation of shirtless twenty-somethings (at least the dudes) on journeys of enlightenment, who employ self-rolled cigarettes, techno music, joints, and beer as the trusty tools of their trade?

This was the scene that greeted Elizabeth and I upon check in at the Old Firestation Backpackers hostel in Fremantle, a quirky and artistic suburb of Perth. We had just survived a three and a half hour overnight flight from Bali, followed by a few hours of sleep in the airport terminal, and finally negotiating our rental car on unknown streets. As a former fire station, the building has a beautiful, historic air, with a surprising number of nooks and crannies that would make M.C. Escher proud. We quickly checked in, dumped our luggage, and headed into the town.

Our time in the downtown, reminiscent of Main Street USA, was productive enough. Half-drunk due to lack of sleep, we exchanged some books, purchased toiletries, Elizabeth bought a new T-shirt (she hated the shirt she was wearing so much, having served its baggy purpose through the Middle East, she had the store throw it away), and got haircuts. My lack of mental facilities peaked at lunchtime, when I took minutes to decide whether I wanted bread with my pasta dish. We made a beeline back to our room for a bit of sleep.

Waking up, we couldn’t help but notice the faint sound of CCR’s “Bad Moon Rising” and the sound of clinking glass penetrating our walls. Leaving for dinner, we saw a small group of men gathered at a large picnic table, conveniently placed outside our door. Surely, we thought, they will be gone by the time we get back.

Upon returning, the small group had morphed into a brigade training for alcohol nuclear war. The music had reached a fever pitch, with European techno blasting from a karaoke machine. Two men were engaged in a fierce drunken battle of table tennis. We were outnumbered, so we stealthily entered our room and got ready for bed. Elizabeth, clearly disgusted, exclaimed, “I’m too cute for the Old Firestation,” and then jammed her iPod headphones in her ears, cranked up the volume, and promptly went to sleep. Taking her lead, I grabbed some earplugs, fell asleep immediately, woke up realizing I had never inserted the earplugs, put them in my ears, and fell asleep again.

You may never guess it, but I enjoyed blissful sleep that night. Even twenty-something backpackers have their limits, I suppose, and they finally retired to bed in the late hours of the night. I was so exhausted, it didn’t matter anyway. The morning was overcast and eerily quiet, except for the random squawk of a seagull. I stepped outside the room, and saw a vision of the post-apocalypse with copious empty bottles littering the table and floor. The only signs of life were the clean-cut and responsible-looking ones who we had never laid eyes on before.

I made my way to an oddly placed bathroom entitled “The Philosopher’s Shower.” Inside, someone had painted an “Under the Sea” theme, replete with mermaids and a variety of colorful fish, but the centerpiece was that of a pair of enormous black-rimmed “Philosopher’s” spectacles, much like I imagine those described on that billboard in the Great Gatsby. Like many public restrooms, former guests had obviously spent time in this bathroom and pondered the world only to scribe their wisdom on the wall. Comments ranged from the inane, “Check out ya big ride!”, to the surprisingly deep, “I have pondered the world’s problems and I concede…I am at a loss.”

Elizabeth could not wait to check out, and we quickly packed so we could start our big drive south. Handing our keys over to the Italian desk clerk, he asked how our stay was. I was surprised to find that this was a hard question for me to answer. In truth, there were a few other guests in the over 30 crowd, and the 20 year olds I talked with were uniformly nice and interesting people. I muttered something about it being a bit noisy, but that earplugs helped. He looked truly apologetic, but I quickly asked how he likes the hostel life.

“I love it!,” he quickly responded. “I live in a beach side apartment,” he conceded, “but our guests regularly live here from six months up to two years. We even had a guy who lived here for three years! Personally, I wouldn’t want to live in any other place in the world.” He spoke with such conviction, how could I not believe him?

Friday, October 17, 2008

I was sitting in the Perth airport, having just spent two hours sleeping in the fetal position on a row of a leatherette chairs. The drool at the corners of my mouth had barely formed a crust when a woman in an Indiana Jones-esque hat appeared in front of me.

“Good morning!”, she said. “Have you just arrived? Do you know where you’re going?”

My internal radar immediately began blinking. “Oh god,” I thought, “here we go.”

I smiled. “No, I’m fine. I’m just waiting for my husband. He’s getting something to eat upstairs.” A bald-faced lie, but self-preservation was the key.

“Do you know how you’re getting from the airport to your next destination?”

I suddenly noticed a stack of leaflets in her hand. She was clearly from a transportation company and was going to try to sell me a seat on her Day Tours of Perth bus. Some things never change, I thought.

“No, we’re good. We’ve hired a car. We’re not even staying in Perth. We’re picking the car up in Bayswater, actually, and then we’re driving down south. To Margaret River. So, yeah, we’re all set.”

“Brilliant. It’s just that sometimes people arrive at the airport and they don’t know where they’re heading or how to get there, and I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

It was then that I noticed the pin on her shirt, identifying her as a representative of the Western Australia Tourism Board. She hadn’t been trying to sell me anything; she was genuinely trying to help. I have grown so accustomed to vendors approaching me that I’m immediately suspicious of anyone who appears innocent and concerned for my well-being.

“Welcome to Australia – and to Perth! Have a wonderful visit!”

After traveling through the developing world for the past three months, stepping foot in Australia is as close to being home as I’ve felt since we left Albuquerque. Had I arrived in Australia direct from the States I’d be focusing on the all the differences between the two places. For example, Australians can drink just about anyone in the world under the table. When we disembarked the plane at 4:30 in the morning, a great mob of people practically ran from the plane to the duty-free store, where bottles of alcohol began flying from the shelves. When I went to buy a muffin at a cafe in the airport, a sign with an itemized list of 15 rules related to alcohol consumption and regulations regarding serving intoxicated guests greeted me. But all I could think was, “Man, I’m glad I can read that sign!”

Sociologists say there are more within-group than between-group differences, and after traveling through the developing world for the past three months, I am focused on the similarities between the US and Australia. Bathrooms have toilet paper, and I do not have to squat over a hole in the ground. I no longer have to clamp my mouth shut when I take a shower. I can have complete conversations with people. When I order a chicken sandwich in a restaurant, I know exactly what I’m going to get. I couldn’t help but marvel how orderly the flow of traffic was as we drove from the airport to Fremantle. I got excited when we climbed into a taxi cab and the meter automatically flicked on. The safety procedures on the airplane were the most extensive I’ve even encountered, explaining not only what I needed to do, but why I needed to do it. I guess you could say I’m experiencing a minor dose of reverse culture shock as I make my way back into the Western world for the next two months.