Turkey

Seeing as I didn't liveblog or tweet my Turkish Trip in realtime, things are now a little hazy. A school excursion (cough-only-6-kids-the-rest-were-parents-or-kids-from-another-school-cough) that toured sites of Ancient and Modern History, starting in Istanbul.

So rather than attempt to recreate the narrative of the visit, I thought I might go Dot Point With Pictures.

Day 1.

River Cruise.

War Museum.

Stuck in mega traffic jam because some doofus abandoned his Beemer on a roundabout outside Louis Vitton.

Baklava to die for.

Took students on a walk. Got mega lost. At sunset. In one of the most chaotic cities in the world. Tried not to panic. Good cure for jetlag.

Day 2.
Eggs & Feta for breakfast.

Topkapi Palace.

Spice Bazaar.

Turkish coffee = Tru Love 4 Eva

Awkward Hammam (Turkish Bath) and Massage. Possibly scarred for life.

Day 3.
Blue Mosque. Wow.

Hagia Sofia.

Grand Bazaar. Made up for being lost on the streets by navigating crazy maze of 4000+ shops.

Basilica Aquaduct.

Day 4.
Gallipoli.

Sunset over the Dardenelles.

Day 5.

Troy.

Pergamom. Theatre as therapy? Sounds perfect to me!

Day 6.

Temple of Apollo.

Ancient Theatres.

Day 7.

Ephasus.

Re-Wrote and Performed extract from Antigone in the Great Theatre. A highlight of trip, and possibly of life.



Next stop: Belgium.

Escape to the Seaside

After ten and a half long weeks of molding (or moulding? - could I be coating their brains with greenish scum?) young minds, confiscating spray deoderant, failing to track down a thief and helping to write 120 essays, I was exhausted. Just smashed. Like close to tears for no reason all the time kind of tired. If someone had have pulled the "Teachers get too many holidays" line on me in one of those last weeks, I would have sconed them, Glasgow Kiss style. Then I would have sat on their chest and tried to drown them in my irrational flood of tears, Alice in Wonderland style.

But the light at the end of the tunnel is in the shape of almost three weeks off - Easter and ANZAC Day conspire to give us an extra long break. And what better way to escape the Boy Factory and West Bubblefuck than to hijack Sparky's brother's family holiday at South West Rocks? Ah, nothing. There is no better way than that.

Sleep little town, with a few cafes (where the coffee is just passable for the addiction and to keep the whinging at bay) and a few pubs with great counter meals and a few days of sunshine to ease the pain of  marking those 120 essays that I helped to write. Beachside markets for a new raffia fedora, and a gorgeous trinket for Mum's birthday. Sparky distracted by (largely unsuccessful) fishing trips. Cold beers, chilled cider, wickedly good gelato. A few dunks in the ocean (already more than I got in my Almost A Disaster summer floody road trip.) Time to paint my nails and read some pages and watch some trashy DVDs... Holidays? Yes please!

However, South West Rocks brings me just one gripe. I have NEVER understood why it is called South West Rocks. Yes, it is indeed rocky. There is a plethora of rocks. No misnomer there. But exactly what is it South West of? The USA? The moon? Fiji?

Really, if that is my biggest problem, then I seem to be going OK, right?

Travel Plans

Warning: Serious First World Whinges may be contained in this post.

Week 9 in an 11 week term is pretty brutal. The kids are tired, the staff are exhausted. But there is too long left in the term to down tools, and there is not enought juice left in the tank to keep powering along. (Too many mixed metaphors?) My general state of busy is demonstrated by how damn long it has been since I posted anything...

So how do I distract myself from the dramas, traumas and fairly insignificant whinges of the end of term?

Travel Plans.

Usually at this time I would be building in excitement and anticipation of giggles at the Melbourne Comedy Festival. Catching up with old friends, drinking my body weight in amazing coffee and transporting away from The Boy Factory through the magic of standup comedy. And this year, as the sun sets earlier, and the days of blasting heat are beginning to abate, thoughts of Melbourne keep arising. It's almost Pavlovian.

But I'm not headed to Mexico City this year. Despite the fact that I was promised an AFL game, and despite the fact that there are new tiny friends to meet. And it's because 2011 has some richer variety of travel plans.

First jaunt, Easter - The East Coast Blues & Roots Festival. Or Bluesfest.

The lineup is cracking. Bob Dylan. The Cat Empire. Elvis Costello. Clare Bowditch (she doesn't know it yet, but I have a mad girl-crush on her)

I haven't been to this fabulous festival for YEARS. Possibly since before I turned 18. It is a tradition for the extended clan, and there is a tribe of folks from the Big Smoke making the trek all the way to Byron town. And they have a HOUSE booked (read: hot shower & actual bed). It won't be a cheap weekend, by any stretch. But if I keep control of my pennies, it shouldn't have a huge impact on The Big Trip.

Ah, The Big Trip. When my head teacher mentioned a senior history excursion to the battlefields of Europe, my first question was "Yes?"

We go to Gallipoli, Ypres, the Somme and Paris. Then I have taken a sneaky week off to flit up London to see some of the best people I know. Plus some theatre, some warm beer and an extra week of "summer" in my year. Right now I am using this trip as my crutch - when the weight of being Mum to 110 becomes a bit too much, when the pile of marking threatens to smother me alive, when the piles of disorganisation on my desk in the staffroom are in danger of toppling over into a lava flow of unfiled paperwork, I get quotes for travel insurance. Or check prices on flights and train trips. Or research what plays are on at The Globe for 5 quid.

I was last in the UK in 2008, for The Best Thing Humans Have Ever Invented Ever, usually referred to as the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. And my time with The A Team and new friends there was brilliant. Hard work, and hard on my liver (seriously, I still don't think I have recovered). I am just a few weeks early this year, and so I will miss TBTHHEIE. A shame, for sure.

The excitement is building for this looming trip. It is my distractinator for sure.

Lung capacity

What does one do on a summer holiday when faced with lots of rain and/or contaminated ocean water?

Read.

Knock over a few Reading Resolutions.

Breath by Tim Winton seems an incredibly fitting book as a supplement for a craving for a dip in the sea. Sitting on the grass atop the small dune behind the beach, with almost every fibre of my being screeching at me to ditch the sarong and dive under the waves. All except my delicate ear drum that was squeaking at me to remember 2 summers ago, with the perforated ear drum, the searing pain and the complete lack of swim time that followed. A quick google search showed that flood waters and even heavy rains bring down untreated sewage, chemical run off and the juices from animal carcasses. Reading this worked as a way to convince all the other fibres that my ear, as usual, was right.

So I settled for reading about the joys and the beauty of sliding down the face of a wave instead.

Winton seems to have the ability to discuss that which usually cannot be communicated - the inner workings of the mind of a man who is incapable of emotional articulation. I am not saying that all blokes are emotional retards, or that every single guy is mute when it comes to discussing, nay even identifying an emotion when they feel one. But lots of the boys I know are. And I know a fairly large number of males, working at The Boy Factory. In his Lockie Leonard stories, the protagonist is a teenager, discovering self-awareness and what it means to be human, male, a son, a brother, a boyfriend, a friend.

In Breath, the central character is going through the same thing. But a la The Wonder Years, we see it through his adult eyes. Told largely through flashback, mostly (but not entirely) linear in structure, we see why this middle aged paramedic is so cynical, so emotionally cut off, and yet so knowing. And a la Freud, the reasons lie in his childhood, and the formative years of his adolescent friendships.

Pikelet is falling in love for the very first time, and it is with the ocean. His mentor, the slightly dinted Sando, and his best friend, the more than slightly unhinged Loonie surf enormous waves, seek the next thrill, and approach surfing as though it is an addiction, a science, an art and a way of life. And then humanity gets in the way of it all.

My mother (who ALWAYS loves Winton) didn't like this book all that much. A bit too heavy on the adrenaline for a worry-junkie like her. Seeking out the next thrill, the next way to push ones' self to the edge, to find something within ones's self that is Extraordinary, rather than just being satisfied with the mundane things that life brings... this is the motivations behind all of the characters in the book. And I don't know that she is all that comfortable with that notion. But I get it.

As usual, Winton's poetics are rich and varied, and his ability to craft the tension is sublime. He can craft a moment on the top of a wave, mere hairs of a second, into half a page of breathless delight. The characters of this novel dive and swim and auto-asphixiate, and the reader does it with them. If a book can make you change something as innate and essential as your pattern of breathing, then it must be some pretty powerful writing.

Wanted: One ark. Reasonable condition.

A road trip to the coast, summer with my brother. Beach, booze, a bit of art and music, but mostly catching up with friends flung northward. Sounds like fun, eh?

In reality, the road trip was a little more eventful than relaxing. Less beach time, and more avoiding the rising flood waters. Which the media is saying is "the biggest natural disaster to ever hit Australia", and I am sure if you count the devastation in Victoria (where flood meters have been swallowed by the torrent), New South Wales, Tasmania and South Australia, it is probably true. But they do tend to stretch that thing called truth, now and again, don't they?

Escaping Brisbane before it was totally inundated was a wise move. Waiting for the insanity of lunatics evacuating early was also fairly well thought out - we drove in fairly dry conditions, with near empty roads, to the safety of the Gold Coast. But after we got out of Dodge, the flood waters across the nation's rivers continued to follow us. We took a 4 hour detour to travel 65ks around Grafton to Woopi.

Grafton, the Clarence River

The rivers we crossed were swollen and ragey, pregnant with the promise of angry, anarchic watery children of chaos.



Woolgoolga and her flood stained beach

 The beaches we planned to swim at were stained unpleasantly with untreated sewage and chemicals that wanted nothing more than to inflict me with another summer ear infection.

But listen to me whinging while the multitudes of flood refugees from Brisbane, Grafton, the Lockyer Valley and northern Victoria have lost all their worldly possessions. I know my plans had to be tweaked a little, but my diatribe is knowing - I have sweet FA to complain about.

Most of the minutes of the last week on television have been saturated by tear stained faces, and all-too-eager reporters trying to evoke extreme emotions, prodding them sharply with microphones until they bleed the required tears. Lives have been lost, and more are still missing, a week later, and it is devastating what the floods have done to homes and businesses. But the overwhelming response from most of the victims of the journos is hope, and relief that things aren't as bad as they thought they would be, and so much joy at the generosity of helpful strangers with the cleaning and the sweeping.

It has got me to thinking, and these thoughts were somewhat clarified by the oh-so-articulate John Birmingham in the SMH. He wrote a beautifully bitter piece about the fact that this country we live in continues to remind us that we're not welcome. that it isn't Ours to control, not really fit for human habitation. This continent continues to push back, against our riverside properties, and our constructions that don't seem to hold up to the winds or the flames, the deluges of water or the long stretches of time without it. The sheer arrogance of "It Won't Happen To Me", the reason behind so many teenage driving deaths, the reason behind people catching STIs, is the same reasoning behind riverside properties being overtaken by Mother Nature. Yes, it happened to that property in 1974. Why wouldn't it happen again?

The day the flood warnings came to Brisbane, Tuesday, the day after the horrors of Toowomba and the Lockyer Valley, I tried to go to a cafe in Newstead. And I was told, with very little sugar coating in the tone of her voice, that the cafe was shut, in preparation for the rising flood waters. I scoffed.

Rising flood waters in Brisbane. At about 4.6m

Sandbagging in action

Then the waters rose. And the city evacuated (not officially, mind you. Just all of the office managers said "if you want to get home, you'd better leave now). And the sandbags began to appear, as if from nowhere. At times it was adventurous. We stocked up on booze and frozen pizza, rolls of toilet paper and candles. Then the reality of no power and no plumbing hit home. So my bro and me - we hit the road.

I too am of that same brand of arrogance that expects it Not To Happen To Me. I thought it all a media beat up. Scare mongering in the vein of post-tsunami a few years ago. And I have had to eat my words most humbly.

I haven't donated to the flood appeal yet (aside from a few gold coins rattled into buckets and tip jars here and there). Mostly because I am waiting for pay-day on Wednesday, because it needs to be a significant donation.

Give lots. Give to Queenslanders with their new-found kick arse premier Anna Bligh. Give to New South Welshpeeps, with their divided and isolated towns. Give to Victorians, who really deserve a break. Give to Government appeals QLD: http://www.qld.gov.au/floods/donate.html. Donate to charities http://www.vinnies.org.au/qldfloodappeal, to animal shelters, to anyone who will do good with the cash.


Side note:
In times of floods, good road trip listening material can be found in Eddie Izzard's Glorious. Noah has a Sean Connery voice.

Road Trippin' to The Wet Country

So far road tripping with my bro is going gangbusters. Despite the almost total lack of sunshine. There has been more puns and accents than you could possibly hope for. There has been stunning views of greenery. There has been caffeine in abundance.

And there has been a stowaway. We named him Cody. It seemed to be appropriate. A little frog from West Bubblefuck that just wanted to get away from it all. In the boot of my car

ReConnect

What with my weekends being consumed almost whole by The Boy Factory - as well as the working week - I took the opportunity of a No Soccer weekend to escape back to the Big Smoke. I almost didn't go, what with so many of my lovelies being not there (either long term or just for the weekend) and me being so wrung out and shattered. But the voices in my head that reminded me of my complete lack of work/life balance, and the friends that I rarely see that I still so desperately need... So on Friday afternoon, I packed up Henry with some jeans and my Red Boots, and did the New England highway. Again.

And I am so pleased I did. Pinocchio sushi and The Rege. The Spot for breakfast (though Bistro St Paul, with its pesto eggs and raspberry smoothies and brownie you could wade into is GONE!). A house party in Newton with all manner of faces from Parties Past. Brunch at Barzura overlooking Coogee Beach. A movie at The Ritz. Boozy serious hilarious discussions about The Chaser and the validity of Rape Jokes and other taboo humour. Another morning feast on the North Shore with some more Soon To Be OS kiddies.

I was still on serious martyr duty. Y12 has assessment on Wednesday, and so I was a little attached to email attachments for "miss! help!" duty. Am delighted they are working. Just perhaps a little more independance would be nice...?

While I couldn't see all the people I wanted to, as we are all flung too far apart, it was pretty much the weekend that I needed.

A Bowral Of Laughs

The 4th Wedding of 2009 was a total hit. John & Soph slammed the whole thing together in 6 weeks and it was a resounding success, with good food, boutique beers and roaring fires.

She looked stunning (he scrubbed up well too) and from the first hints of 'Moon River' by the quartet, I felt like there was a finch fluttering behind my epiglotis. A reading about love as a garden is PERfect for a landscape gardener's wedding day, and the autumnal leaves floated down right on cue. It was just like a bought one, really.

Bowral makes West Bubblefuck seem like a tropical escape, and for the first time in years, I came home with my clothes smelling like smoke. But it was from the fireplace rather than cigarettes. Bill, Robyn & I hit the Royal on Friday night - 18 year olds in Armani tshirts with shiners dropping vodka into each others beers and dealing coke in the toilets. With brand new Suzuki Swifts lining the carpark. CUB central!

I love the fact that weddings are a chance to catch up with people who I feel were pretty formative in who I am today, but who I never get to see, separated by distance and the insanity of life. Robyn asked me if it was weird seeing the friends from the past, and my response astounded me. Mostly because I hadn't conciously thought it before, and also because I had been (gently) drinking for a number of hours, and wasn't aware I was capable of such insight at such a juncture.

Such occasions that allow us to reconnect with the peeps from our past are rarely awkward. In fact, they feel like comfort. Making new friends at nearly-30 is harder than it used to be. The friends that feel like old jeans, that feel like eating soup, that feel like a nanna rug, they are the ones that know all the stories. The ones about skinny dipping in Coogee, the ones about the rats in the kitchen, the ones about sinking into the floor, the ones about cheating on the Playstation and using the hose through the bathroom window. They are the ones who are effortless and easy. These kinds of friendships don't need much maintenance. Maybe a once a year catch up, an occasional text and an invite to a wedding! I love these friends the most.

Back To The Big Smoke

That highway between West Bubblefuck and The Big Smoke is getting tire marks in it, in the shape of Henry's wheels.

I was down there this past weekend to go to a Creative Teaching conference (party time! excellent!). Catch ups with friends, revisiting old haunts. The usual.

But it puts me on the back foot all week at The Boy Factory. And already Term 2 looks like one that needs a snorkel, what with being in WAY over my head and not feeling at all in control. Plus, there is Dooty shift tomorrow, the mountain of marking, that just never seems to get smaller, and another trip to Sydney at the end of the week with The Boys.

On the up side, another weekend without a car crash! Hooray!

If a girl crashes her car on a dirt road and doesn't take a photo of it to put on her blog, does it really happen?

Generally I am a good driver. Sure sometimes I text while speeding while hungover. Or take selfies while I am doing the New England Highway. Or do a uey over double lines.

But the only crash I have had (until this weekend) was when I got rear ended in the 'Sham when I was only there to return the keys, having moved back in to Baxter. Not my fault.

This weekend I was heading to The Coast. To Forster. Not to Laurieton, which is only 1 hour down the road and FREE... (and also on a road that I know very very well, and have never crashed on before... sorry, I digress)But to a lake house that Jase had organised. And I was so very excited.

Sure I had to wait until I had coached the U13 Soccer Dynamos. And they always play at midday, which sucks arse. And then there was a supermarket trip, and getting petrol. It was about 1.30 before I left.
And I also didn't really know where I was going.
But I was heading in the right direction on the Forest Way Road. It was just stunning. Apart from the parts where the Forestry department has left huge jagged scars in the landscape. The colour was so vivid and green, there were gorgeous bright rosellas, majestic black cockatoos and gently bounding (not near the road) kangaroos.

Not long after the logging road turned to grazing pastures, there was newly graded road. Looser gravel.
I was cruising along, possibly 60, 70ks an hour. Henry's wheels slipped off the tire tracks, onto the Even Looser gravel. And fishtailed.
He fishtailed again, and I felt my heart push against my chest, as if trying to evacuate the car, but first just had to get through the chest cavity. I felt the heat prickle in my fingertips as the adreneline reached the end of the line.
He fishtailed again.
The voice in my head, the voice of reason, the one that usually knows what it is talking about. It was speaking. Not yelling, but in a calm clear voice, much like a driving instructor.
This is what you are meant to do. You're just meant to keep fishtailing til your wheels hit solid ground again. Just keep swimming.
DO NOT touch those brakes. Keep your feet OFF the brakes. DO NOT TOUCH THE BRAKES

But my feet wanted the car to stop.

Honestly, I just whispered my toes against the brakes. No slamming. But it was the signal for Henry to veer directly for the right hand side of the road.
Hitting the dirt gutter.
Gliding over the ditch. There was a hardy looking bush just one foot to my right, and a dead woody looking thing two feet to my left.
Coming to an abrupt halt. Apparently in a reedy swamp. I've never been a huge fan of swamps in the past. They seemed to me to be the lowest in the heirachy of bodies of water. Lower than a creek. Less status than even a puddle.
Swamps have soared in my esteem. Keep your oceans, rivers, lakes. Give me a swamp down from Rubys Nob Road. That swamp? Saved my life.

The giant dead tree was close enough to the driver side door for it to touch the door frame when I opened it. The wire fence, with its vicious looking star pickets was just beyond the dead tree. And the burly black cows, casually chewing cud, looking at me like she was saying "What the fuck did you do that for? You dickhead"

For some reason, I thought I might be able to just drive on out.
There was a little too much water for that. Also not enough traction for reversing the way I came.

I thought about how Nana, at 65, got her giant Merc out of half a metre of mud on the way to Kioma. By herself. I couldn't think of how to do it. Obviously Poppa wasn't talking me through it like he talked her through it. Possibly because he had been doing the precision driving to get me into the swamp, rather than the tree. Or the cow.
So I thought breifly about pushing. And gave up pretty quick smart on that.

I was just at the point of considering what I had seen behind me by way of driveways and farm houses. Do I turn left? Or right?

And then I heard the motor. It has to be the most beautiful sound in the universe, an approaching car on a dirt road. When I hadn't seen ANYONE for about an hour and a half.

Charlie, the leathery angel in the greasy hi-vis jumper, slowed his 4WD ute to a stop.

"Ah. Looks like you've had a bit of trouble here?"

Yes, Charlie. Trouble. And I am a useless weak woman and I need your help. I didn't say those words, but I meant them. Without a hint of sarcasm.

Charlie told me to stop the engine, and get in to the ute. He had friends up the road. They should have some chains. He hoped they were home.

Most of the Ham family were not home, they were out with the steers. But Janette stayed home to do gardening, as it was such a lovely day. She called Arnold, but he didn't Answer. Then Aaron answered. He would leave the breakers (he is breaking horses in) and bring the chains down now.

20 minutes later, and I was thinking about how low Henry might be sinking. Then Aaron showed up, and he brought his truck. And Charlie and I went back in his ute.

The blokes hooked Henry up easy, and while Charlie towed, Aaron steered, and I stood around like a useless git. Which is not a poetic turn of phrase at all, I was totally useless.

We popped open his boot (with a little bit of difficulty), and there was nothing really cracked or busted open or shifted too much. But the radiator was leaking a bit. Charlie the Angel had some water, so we filled him up, enough to get us back to the Ham's place.

Aaron called Mitchy. Mitchy was on call for the NRMA, in Walcha. We were about 65 ks from Walcha.

Janette made me a cup of tea, and I sat at their kitchen table, feeling like a victim of my own stupidity. But an increasing sense of joy at my lucky escape. I decided that I probably wouldn't get down to Forster, but would be happy to turn back to Tamworth - the long way around - and cook the roast lamb for myself.

Mitchy showed up with the tilt tray truck. And Mitch, the Ham's nephew. They hauled Henry up, squinted in the twilight under the bonnet, and proclaimed the need for a new radiator.

"Won't be here til Mundy"

A sigh of relief, as the boys all lit up a quick smoke. Arnold Ham offered to drive me back to West Bubblefuck. But I felt like I couldn't possibly accept any more old school rural hospitality from the Hams. I have never liked ham as much as I like those Hams.

So I got into the cab with Mitch and Mitchy. Mitchy cranked up the country music (the first song was about getting stuck in mud) and we hooned along the dirt road toward Walcha. Mitch got a phone call from the fire brigade. Another accident was up ahead on Topdale road.

By the time Mitchy's tilt arrived at the scene, the commercial towey was there already ("That Stewart cunt always undercuts me!!!"). And the ambos. And the cops. Mitch went down to see what the story was.
Mitchy told me (as he snuck another quick smoke) that if the cops came up and asked, I was to tell them I overheated. They did ask Mitch. He told them it was a breakdown.

The last bit to Walcha was jubilant to the point of silliness. The fellas were young - 21 - with sailor mouths and rural attitudes. The kind of guys that if they were shown on a film would be deemed as caracitures or cliches. They kept joking about not having a license. About Henry falling off the back. About it all being a bit too Wolf Creek.

They took me to their local pub, where they were on first names with the bar staff (the bar matron kept them in line. I could take classroom management lessons from her). I got a room in the motel, and returned to buy my knights in greasy armour a round of beers.
And more beers.
And a few more beers.
And I met some more locals, and I ate some dodgy chinese, and I laughed at the two Mitches, who were more like a married couple than mates.

And so I am still here. And so I am still alive. And my car (at this stage) is not written off. I think it would be acceptable for him to have a bit more damage than just a radiator.

And sure, I didn't get a fix of 500, red wine and coast time. But my big night out in Walcha was actually quite fun.

And I just might be the luckiest human I know.

You're lucky lucky, you're so lucky!

Melbourne? Yes please!

A wise woman once said "I'd rather Melbourne than marking."

And it is too true.

So there are many things that make Melbourne good. Not so good that I want to move there forever (despite the repeated requests). But good enough to make me keep wanting to go back.

1. The Coffee.

My addiction to caffiene is no secret. And it is also something that I don't want to give up. I am not excessive about it. I NEED one good coffee a day. I like 2. More than that makes me a little bit flighty/buzzy/anxious/insomniac. But that doesn't tend to stop me anyway.

A strong flat white is the poison of choice, and there are far too many places that totally nail this beverage.

2. The Cafes

This might sound closely related to No. 1. And I admit there are some correlations. But the baristas and the owners of the cafes take the ambience and style of their establishments seriously. They make it Different. They make it Cool. On purpose. Artworks, mirrors, table arrangements. The fact that they fit a whole cafe into a space that may usually be allocated to storing a bicycle and some ski boots.

Brother Baba Budan on Little Bourke puts their chairs in the ceiling.

A Minor Place has a whole paper-stencil-house motif going on. (evidence of how cool they are is that cosey couple in the corner are staff from ANOTHER funky cafe.) And they are set up in what appears to be a cottage (pic above)

The problem that I have with the cafes in Melbourne is they are all so good, so cool and interesting and fun. And when one has only 10 days, there are only so many meals. So it means making decisions. And I hates decisions.

3. The bars

There are too many to name. Each has its own quirky vibe, and I would happily give a small left hand digit for one of them to set up in West Bubblefuck. It is because the Wise and Way Cool (I can say that cause I don't live there) Victorian State Government has much more realistic and relaxed laws about entertainment licences - live music, serving of alcohol. Plus there is a very beautiful and serene lack of poker machines. That noise you can hear? Its not the evil money sucking con artists. That is the sound of celebrating angels.

Plus I love the fact that they are hidden down alleys, up innocuous staircases and behind deceptive facades.

The Carlton had a whole taxidermy glamour thing going on

The Alderman felt like I was drinking in my best friend's loungeroom.

The Lounge had great food, and was so much a classier student bar than the Rege. No offence to the Rege.

I didn't get to Atticus Finch this time. But even the name makes me want to make it my local.

Keithy took me to a few other places, but my Current Conflict with Alcohol meant that there was not as much consumption as I would have liked.

4. The People That I Know That Live There.

They know who they are. And I love them.

5. The shoes. (pics to come)

I went a bit shoe nutty. I couldn't help it. It was only 4 pairs...

6. Trams

Ever since The Tram To Bondi Beach, I have thought they are the most romantic form of PT. I love the DING! So much cooler than a horn.

Return To West Bubblefuck

A hysterical mother, mistakenly believing me to already be in NSW as of last night, requested I zoom home to attend to my violently ill brother. So rather than a leisurely waltz up the New England, with perhaps a sojourn further down the coast, I Have Returned.

And the brother? He is fine.

But as I stumbled to Henry The Mazda in the Bronze Carpark (nothing but the best for Henry), struggling under the obscene weight of my Melbourne purchases, and then raced at crazy paces, led only by the starlight, I was feeling pretty mixed about coming back. I think it was a good idea in order to stop the tears to cease playing the multiple (three) versions of Halelujia.

The night was thick, like Guiness on either side of the road. And the stars out here are so so bright, it is almost like they guided me back. Mostly the truckies weren't arseholes, and I found an Oporto on the way that gave me just enough chilli (ie heaps) and cooked the chips perfectly (ie heaps).

Unfortunately, the mountain of work I left has not marked/planned itself. Bugger.

And now I am here.

I've had 8 days in Melbourne

And 2 to go.

I have been so wrapped up in the experiences of things, and there is so much that I want to write.

All of the posts will prob have to be post dated, I suppose.

This city makes me want to write, makes me want to read, makes me want to learn to crochet and kinda makes me want to lock myself in a hotel room with a cute Boy. It makes me feel creative, and makes me want to take up smoking.

I think an annual pilgrimage to Melbourne would be good for my soul.

But terrible for my credit card.

The Huge Sigh Of Relief

Yes, there are 115 papers waiting to be marked. Yes, there is Term 2 to plan.

But for now?

11 weeks of insanity at The Boy Factory have come to an end.

To Melbourne, to comedy, to rendevous of all types.

"First one and then the other, my friend. First one and then the other."

The Best Albums to Not Get Caught Speeding To

What makes for a good driving song? The soundtrack to the road trip can seriously affect how the trip goes - how fast you drive, how much you enjoy the drive, how many hours you can keep clicking those Ks away. I always find towards the END of a long road, my patience with my own music collection wears thin, and I am reaching for the skip button more frequently than I blink. In order to keep on truckin', a repetoir of solid sounds is most certainly required!

In the last 4 weeks I have driven 2378. A 50th on th Gold Coast, a wedding in the Blue Mountains, and a just-for-the-hell-of-it-cause-its-my-birthday-and-I-gotta-get-outta-here trip to Cathie. And with all those Ks, one needs tunes.

The criteria...
Must have some pace. Lilting beautiful ballads have their place, but it is not on the open road. The beat shouldn't be too fast, else the driving will be. And it shouldn't be too repetetive, else it will become boring.
Drum beats need to be clear enough for digits to beat out on the steering wheel, a la John Cusak in the opening scenes of Say Anything (sigh!)
Lyrics. Essential. The road is no place for the instrumental. Must be audible and recognisable and preferably known by heart to be belted out loud enough that one becomes light headed from lack of oxygen, and there is doubt about teaching a class on Monday morning without the husky voice.


And seeing as Top 5s are so Hi Fidelity, I like Top 6s. So in no particular order...

1. Only By The Night- Kings of Leon

A recent one, to be sure. But I defy you to keep under the speed limit as Caleb and his hairy Christian brother hit the waily parts of Sex on Fire or Use Somebody. The steady beat keeps the left foot bouncing and the thumbs on the steering wheel percussion are relentless. His voice is so much older than it should be!

Plus, once this record is done with I tend to skip through my faves from the back catalogue.

2. Vampire Weekend - Vampire Weekend

I've gotta agree with Ms Martha Elaine Belden. This is a killer album that it is impossible not to grin maniacally along with nearly every track. And, still in agreement, Oxford Comma is undeniably the best song on there, impossible to pass at just one listen. I love how their lyrics seem to be an injoke, a self referential smug allusion that only the truly pompous of us will understand and love.

For a NY band, they sound so terribly English, which of couse I love the pants off. Sam The Pommy Camera Man tried very hard to convince me that they were, but my musical geekery would not allow it. Anyway, their lovely slightly pompous lyrics, oh-so-catchy melodies and their bouncy high guitars just make you want to leap hills in a single frollick!

3. Made of Bricks - Kate Nash

I've never really been one for girly pop. I like my music with a bit of guts. But I really like this chick. She is a little bit Lily Allen (which is a bit of a dirty word in our house), but I find her stuff less posey and more like the theme song to reading Frankie. Very vintage floral frocks, but with the word Fuck inside. This album is also excellent for trying to deal with anger management, (particularly when coping with wayward teenage boys and their complete lack of respect for females generally. As previously whinged about here). Foundations and Merry Happy are highlights, particularly this side of the mountains

4. A Weekend in The City - Bloc Party

Concept Albums are just not made enough, I reckon. Even though this album was released WELL after my time there, just the opening chords/beats of every song have me walking down Finchley Road or standing on a tube platform or climbing the far-too-steep steps on a red double decker.

For the times when I am driving to The Big Smoke, or coming back, this album always seems to fit. Hypothetically, when one is preparing to see one's Ex's parents for the first time in AGES, a couple of listens to The Prayer will always help (but still doesn't quite prepare you to meet The New GF... hypothetically of course...). And I Still Remember is pretty much the most beautiful song ever written. The swelling up of joy when the beat kicks in starts way down in the bottom of the belly and explodes up and out and fills up the car and the freeway and all the valleys below. Best for the F3, but does nicely on any open road. And in fact this album is so good, it pretty much works for any occasion. An All Occasion Album.

5. Neon Bible - Arcade Fire

A scathing, satirical spit in the face of the Post 9/11 US, written from the safety of Montreal in Springsteenesque* rhythms and harmonies. Seeing these guys at the 08BDO was something akin to a religious experience** (. Kind of ironic, seeing as they write music which I interpret to be fairly seriously anti-religion. But not anti-faith, just anti-commercialised, homogeonised, bible under the neon sign kind of crap.

Obvious choices for driving songs include No Cars Go but especially Keep the Car Running. But my fave is Intervention. Again, swelling melodies and steering wheel percussion reign supreme on this album.

This album is particularly perfect for the Hunter Valley drive through the vineyards.

*In our household, this record is known as That Bruce Springsteen album. The fact that he has played with the Win & Regine on stage at one of his performances makes me grin like a lunatic, and heartily agree with the cinematographer.... "YES!!! YES!!! HOLY SHIT!!!".

**Followed immediately by another more violent religious experience - RATM at BDO. Just the thought of it gives me goosebumps!

6. Old Trees & New Branches - The Bastard Children (formerly CWQ)

Not the most populist of choices, but that is just because you haven't heard them yet.

CWQ (as they were then) played at the same venue as us when at the Edinburgh Festival last year. And despite the fact that I live only 1500kms (HA! Only...) from them, I had to travel 17 000kms to see, hear and discover that I am totally in love with every beardy one of these boys. They dress in 3 piece op-shop suits, wear flatcaps and fedoras and grow facial hair. Their songs include harmonicas (is there a sexier instrument?), piano accordians (the second sexiest instrument), the mandolin and their recordings include a sax.

The moniker of The Bastard Children is so apt - they have bastardised their sound from gypsies, country, folk, pop, rock... A bit like a Convict Rock sound. Good driving music, yes, but even better as drinking music...

Special mentions must also be made.

Laid, by James. Bitter, sexual confusion. That drum bit goes great guns on the dashboard. And those high notes are so much fun to no hit. Plus this song always comes up in trivia.

Anything by The Cure works exeptionally well for the To The Coast Mountain drive.