tops weekend

On Saturday I drove to Sydney, for the engagement party of some friends of mine [just to clarify that I wasn't just crashing the party of some strangers?]. Unfortunately I couldn't work the dates to have some more time up there, so it was just an overnight visit, which is always a bit of a gamble - sometimes when I do the flying visit I end up being so tired that although it is lovely to see people, I can't quite form intelligible sentences, and so just perform the conversational equivalent of beating someone around the head with a large, dead fish. Happily this time was not like that, it was, in fact, tops. Naturally I started with a spot of research, as is my wont, at the State Library of NSW. I'm currently on a bit of a mission to find out everything that I can about the East Sydney Technical College/National Art School c.1956-1960 (should you have any info.... ) so I was chasing up a few bits and pieces in the collection there. Which, incidentally has some hilarious photos of people at the college in the 1950s, often wearing Buddy Holly glasses and enormous chefs hats. Admittedly that's possibly one of those things that's only truly amusing to someone compelled to research by wading through endless catalogue entries and is thus in search of any diversion. Unfortunately I didn't find anything of any real relevance to what I was looking for, but at least I can tick a few things of the list of what I need to look at. Then we repaired to my friend's house to prepare, via the Neutral Bay PS so she could vote. Which hilariously seems to have the school motto "Be a Player" - rare to find such honesty on the North Shore. Should, quel horreur, Malcolm Turnbull ever end up PM there will be a nice resonance for those casting their vote for him there. Because I know I always like to check the school mottos of whatever polling booth I may be entering... a connection that doesn't really offer any explanation for how the PS I attended had the motto "Learn Wisely Live Proudly" - and yet that electorate keeps sending Phillip Ruddock to parliament with resounding victories. The "Live Proudly" bit is particularly puzzling as they keep sending a member of the undead to parliament. So anyway....

We decided in view of our somewhat all-tuckered-out condition that we needed Redbull to get through the evening, which meant that we needed vodka, and I thought cranberry would also be a good idea. Which meant that we ended up drinking something that recreated the flavour sensation that is raspberry cough syrup. mmm. But did serve it's purpose of gearing us up while chilling us out.

Anyway, we eventually got ourselves off the sofa, and away to the party, where we walked in the door to the news that Howard had lost Bennelong. Much screeching ensued! I had already made the announcement that "I will probably get quite intoxicated tonight. If labor win, there will be champagne, if they lose, then there will be scotch. Lots of scotch." So corks began popping, and kept on popping all night. Despite the fact that channel 9 had called Bennelong about a week earlier than anyone else was prepared to. Nice to be in a crowd of people that seemed uniformly happy about the result (certainly provided a nice buffer zone for my kilowatt-level gloating), and it made for a great night. This was the first election that I've been old enough to vote for in which election night has been a positive experience, normally they've been a galling, horrifying "THREE MORE YEARS... !?" then weakly: "pass the scotch please". I had a profound sense of relief that labor did win, partly because I really didn't want to have to move to New Zealand, but I really would have been desparately sad for the state of this country if John Howard had been re-elected. Now one just hopes that the Labor party keep it together. [tip: try and remember that the opposition is across the aisle, not within the party.] It was great to be sharing such a happy event in the context of another happy event, with great friends.

The following day we went for breakfast in Darlinghurst, then I made my way back to Canberra for a Hen's afternoon, followed by the movies (Death at a funeral: don't rush to see it, but there are some funny bits). It was a great weekend of seeing people.

This week has been so strange; seeing the "Howard Government" in past tense gives me a buzz everytime, and the liberal party being in such a state of collapse is something I just can't find it within myself to be sympathetic towards considering the hubris they have demonstrated for so long. The sense of transformation is remarkable. And although it has obviously been coming for a long time, and the result wasn't a surprise, I was never prepared to let myself believe it, lest the depression of loss be entirely crushing, and so the change does seem quite sudden and fast. I really hope the new government are able to get some legislation up and running quickly so they don't lose that momentum. Not to mention finally, finally, apologising to Indigenous people!

Now all we need is for the liberal party to select Tony Abbott as their next leader and Labor should be guaranteed at least a couple of terms....

a question, gentle reader

Should I place a bet on the Coalition to win on Saturday, on the premise that that way there will at least be some consolation?

the return leg

Somehow it seems that no matter what time I schedule flights, it always results in not really doing anything else that day, partly because of my (now well founded and fed) paranoia that I will miss them. I had decided, due to ever expanding baggage, to get a shuttle service to JFK that would pick me up from the hostel, rather than attempt to travel on the subway. Somehow this meant that I had to be ready at 10.50am for a 2.20pm flight however: and then they were 40 minutes late, the scum-tinged bastards, so fortunately they had only offered me such a ridiculously early timeslot or the grumpiness would have been profound and wide-ranging. But this all meant that I ended up with not a lot of time on my final morning, except to slowly absorb breakfast, and as large a quantity of the "coffee" as I could muster, so as to then filter it for any available shred of caffeine that I could eke out of it. And then bring this excess girth to bear on my suitcase, to encourage it to close. And when I was in the middle of this routine, mid-panic that in fact my abilities to reorganise physical properties of objects vis a vis my suitcase dimensions, until now a skill I was considering putting on my cv, had in fact, failed, I then took a small mental step backwards - an actual physical one being prevented by both the dimensions of the room I was staying in and the fact that I was holding said baggage together in an effort to resist its overpowering and exploding over me in a Pompeii-like manner that would fascinate archaeologists in years to come - and realised that if I released the extra storage compartment on my suitcase, I would be, in fact, home and hosed. I know, I really did just write all that to describe a three minute interaction with my suitcase. And who said blogging was self-obsession gone mad?

The flight from JFK to LAX was happily, direct, on-time, and unmarked by incident, apart from a brief vesuvial interlude with a soda bottle that erupted with a drenching over me, my neighbour and a nearby flight attendant. Tip: if you ever want to crack that facade of sociability painted onto flight attendants along with their pancake make up, spray a soda over them. I've never heard such a hollow laugh. Fortunately it was just soda water, so I didn't start of the trip sugared and coloured, because that would have truly worn thin after the next thirty hours of happy travelling fun. I arrived in LA with a four hour wait ahead of me, which did not thrill me to the core, not even a little. I did however mollify that sensation by ordering a Manhattan, which are pleasingly potent are they not? And reflected on the wrongness of drinking my first Manhattan having just left Manhattan, sitting in the LAX terminal (and never was a facility so aptly named). By the time I got on the aircraft, it took off, and all the preliminaries of snacking and announcements were taken care of, it was about 1am in New York time, which was the time I was operating on, so far as I was really aware of time by this point in the trip, and about three hours past my bedtime, in my still lagged state, so I conked into a coma for a number of hours, I'm pleased to recount. I awoke sometime around the international dateline, and pondered one of my favourite 'weird topics to ponder': where did Wednesday go? I left on the 13th, I arrived on the 15th. I'm in the future now, where's my shiny jumpsuit? I'm glad timezones exist, if only because they give me something to be all "oooh, freaky man" about, even though most people just look at me with that same "duh" expression that they get when I express my inner hunch that the only way a detailed digital image can fly through the air to my computer is via magic. Which reminds me: how weird is it the way language morphs? 'Wireless' is so hip and now, rather than Granddad listening to the races. Bring on the Bakelite laptop!

So eventually I arrived in NZ, oddly as far into the future as one could go before retreating to Sydney time, waited around, mounted a new and smaller aircraft, hoping that my baggage was similarly engaged, and discovered I was in a window seat, meaning that I got a beautiful view of Sydney flying in on a gorgeous morning. Of all the places to fly into, Sydney really is stunningly beautiful. On arrival, I got through customs with a speed that suggests the future really is bright, boarded a train and retreated to the Southern Highlands. Where I got out of the car and went, "woah, quiet". It doesn't come entirely as a shock that Bundanoon, not quite the same pace as New York, but the experience of it is like the world going through some cosmic pause before the aliens invade and the cast have some brief interlude to mount some improbable levee that ultimately saves humanity from destruction. And then you realise that the absence of 19 million souls in close proximity does tend to slow down the surrounds and remove the white noise. I was feeling quite lively during the afternoon, managing several loads of washing, various leisure pursuits, some telephone conversation, dinner, and the washing up, before my brain came crashing to a halt and demanded I go to bed, before Kerry O'Brien had even finished his day's work. The evidence would suggest that this brain crashing occurred sometime during the washing up, as I left the tap on and flooded the kitchen cupboards. Lucky Dad.

Friday morning, pre-dawn, I finished my airplane novel (reading, not writing), and then arose to a day of happy nothing-to-do-but-relax-Hurrah! Read my new novel sitting under the trees of the neighbouring state forest, and pondered the sense of dissolute fecundity that this damply humid season seems to bring to these parts. And reflected on how I could communicate to the bug kingdom "My legs, not in fact, smorgasboard." The new novel: "Bowl of Cherries" by Millard Kauffman - how could one resist the buying of a novel introduced with the phrase "the debut novel by 90-year-old Kauffman...." and the endpapers of the hardback edition confirm the choice. It is published by McSweeney's, whose book designs resurrect the appreciation of the book as an object. I nibbled a chocolate digestive and enjoyed the peaceful respite before confronting reality. Holidays should always end with a nice buffer zone. Particularly with one that involves the smells of roast currently emanating from the parental kitchen.

the apple isle

After another night's rest in the Hostel of the Clanking Pipes (the central heating featured quite the echoing acoustic accompaniment and performed both its aural and thermal duties with excessive enthusiasm. The first night we didn't realise the window could open - yes yes I know, between us we may have attended uni for about twenty years, but that doesn't mean the occasional detail doesn't skip gaily past - and I woke up with the conviction that we could grow papayas in here to the sound of iron-soled clog dancers performing on a tin roof, not the best start) and went in search of breakfast. Which we found, and was okay, at least with somewhat better coffee. But was one of those places that uses disposable everything, and so had a definite moment of understanding what Gore is ranting on about when looking at disposable plate, cups, cutlery - when you are eating in for goodness sake. And the mountain of napkins that you get every single time you order any comestible item. Now, I know that I spill coffee copiously and often, but I don't think my fame actually precedes me on that score (or, for that matter, on any other, being imaginary) so it can't just be me. And anyway, a poncho would surely be more appropriate for my coffee "moments".

So then we headed off to look at more art, again, happily via Central Park. We had to wait at the Whitney to open so I got a truly awful coffee. And someone else spilled it on me, and then after cleaning it up, spilt it again, so somehow my gift is attracting other people to spill coffee on me. Quite strange. The Whitney giftshop is quite good. I then went to look at their exhibitions and after about 45 minutes realised my eyes were still tired from the previous day, so it was a bit of a trudging visit. The current exhibition of Modernism in American art, looking at the different expressions of it - not just photography and Abstract Expressionism but the broader context - was interesting, but I couldn't quite grind my brain up to speed. Then a Kara Walker exhibition - another Kara Walker exhibition - she's currently being exhibited at the Fogg, the Met and the Whitney, so the word overexposed does come to mind, especially seeing as the Fogg and the Met are exhibiting the same series and all three feature the same device (19th century-style black silhouettes). And then an exhibition of the past two years of acquisitions by the Whitney, in which the most interesting thing that I saw was Adrian Grenier. I'm a fan of Entourage, so I was very excited. And proceeded to "coincidentally" have exactly the same path through the exhibition as he did. Managed not to drool forth my enthusiasm for his work, instead keeping my stalkerage to a silent one. He's smaller than I thought.

Then we went shopping in Soho! Yay! New jeans! And enough clothes so that I wouldn't have to do any laundry before I left. We trudged homewards at about 6.30, intending quite an early night, but came across a cosy looking bar, a dumpling house and a movie theatre in immediate proximity to one another so ended up having an excellent night. The best martini that I have ever had [haaaaaaapppppy place], then 'Martian Child', the new John Cusack film, which, possibly as a result of the basin of gin I had just consumed, I did enjoy, and then a pleasing repast of steamed dumplings and grilled salmon.

Monday, after the Clanging Pipes Ensemble performed their nightly routine, our time was limited as my friend had to return to Boston, so we sallied forth to consume further quantities of flimsily constructed coffee and then visit the Natural History Museum. Which truly has an impressive dinosaur in the lobby, and there's so few places about which you can honestly make that comment, isn't there? It's a refreshing change. After the lobby we went to the gift shop, which is fantastic, over two floors, I spent more time in there than in the musuem. Some good christmas shopping was done and a shirt acquired for a Small Person who Enjoys Dinosaurs. After that we looked at stuffed mammals. The American ones were very interesting. Has anyone heard of the 'Fisher'? Kind of weird to come across whole species of mammal that you have never even heard of. Baby skunks! Cute!

Then the return trip to Port Authority, and a sad farewell :(

I consoled myself with an enormous piece of cheesecake. It was vast. And had rasperries, chocolate and hazelnuts in it. So tasty. And a wander around Time Square. I checked out what was playing that night and discovered: very little. Apparently my visit was the time in which the stagehands decided to strike. I'm all in favour of the plight of the worker and all (I mean, of easing the plight of the worker, not that they should be further enplightened), but timing people, timing. Still, at least people can still strike in America, and they aren't only offered the option of "go get another job" if the one you have isn't working out. Because that's always just so easy isn't Tony, you self-satisfied, sharp-faced prig of a man. Not everyone wants to be a miner. [ahem. rant over. well, paused.]

Then I went on a Quest. I wanted on particular toy, from one particular toy shop. Unfortunately I misremember the location of the shop, and spend a long time walking in the wrong part of town, until I eventually get directions from someone who I will maintain a small candle of appreciation for until the day that I die, and then the store is sold out. Gah. Grumpy pants firmly in place, I went ... downtown! Where all the lights are bright! More dumplings. aaaah. Happy. And a shirt with trees on it. Also, more shoes.

and so to New York

Five or so hours on a bus and we were in NYC, which is, in fact, My Happy Place.  No wonder I can't do self-relaxation routines: soho exudes a different kind of peace to that of imagined autumnal forests and babbling brooks.  My luggage had expanded by this point to a dimension that forbade subway travel (bad packing the night before I left, compounded by a spree in Philadelphia, sparked by a shoe store, that saw me leave as the semi-ironic owner of a pair of shoes that cost $12 and are constructed out of brown floral netting, that then spiraled out of control, all the way along South St, to incorporate a 3/4 length leather jacket ($99, thus inevitable and I feel excusable...), a pair of polka dot rainshoes and mother-of-pearl earrings emblazoned with cherries) and so required waiting forty five minutes to catch a taxi, and the same to actually drive to our hostel.  I don't recommend arriving in NYC during Friday night peak hour on the eve of a long weekend.  We made it, dumped our stuff, and turned around and in 15 minutes on the subway returned to where we had started out, to meet up with other painting conservators  and an evening of martini, mexican food and an insight into the innards of NYC galleries. 

Saturday was Met day!  Having fortified ourselves with breakfast, bottomless coffee that resembled coffee in the sense of being a warm brown liquid but little else, and a walk across Central Park (which I do recommend in Fall) and make-up coffees, that this time contained taste and some measure of caffeine, if not that imparted by the happiness of espresso.  We arrived at the Met at about 10.30, and left at about 4pm.  In between, we examined art, lots of art.  I went to the Met twice last time I was in NY and both times got suckered into the abstract expressionist corner, and not much further: the rest of modern, and the post-impressionist and inevitably the impressionist, because you can't really escape them and I felt strangely obliged to look at them, even though I'm quite, quite over the impressionist gaze and all the social and scientific advancement it heralds.  So this time I was determined to at least pay a cursory glance beyond this happy corner of the museum.  So I promptly got suckered into the abstract expressionists.  At the moment they have an exhibition of abstract expressionism from a private collection that has just been donated to the Met, and surely solidifies its claim to have probably the finest collection of American art during this period.  It wasn't just that she had bought large works by all of the key artists, but that she had such an eye for excellent examples - even a Phillip Guston that I didn't hate.  So then I felt obliged, as I was nearby, to go sit with Jackson for a bit, and then Jasper, and Wassily.  After that I summoned my legs to offer me carriage out of that part of the museum, and to contemplate its vastness.  We took a look at the exhibition of some of the panels of Ghiberti's Gates of Paradise, which are remarkable, and then I scampered through the museum in a general state of overstimulation.  The ancient near east collection for instance, or all of European art, with its endless depictions that jolt you between Jesus' birth, resurrection, babyhood and death every time you turn your head.  My favourite are the ones that represent the ascension, because the hovering Jesus in a contrapposto and flowing robes always makes me think "Dancing Jesus".  This is my problem with a lot, if not most, of European art, between say 1550 and 1850: it's completely insane.  I'm sure when a lot of people talk about "good art", as opposed to "contemporary art", and mean painting that depicts things with as high a degree of verisimilitude as possible, and for an obvious reason (commemoration, adoration and so on), they mean this kind of painting, but when you look at it en masse, it's completely whack.  The outstanding artists are all the more incredible for depicting crazy stuff in a way that seems rational.  I don't mean crazy stuff as in the depiction of christianity, I just mean the manner in which it is done: entirely still figures in flowing robes of the most glorious hues, gathered around a stricken corpse with the most incredible musculature, a few stray animals, perhaps a still life in one corner, a skull in another, a peacock above, all in an unearthly landscape: the whole scene is a pastiche of symbolic elements that read a coherent narrative to those in the know, and are an effective didactic device to a largely pre-literate age, but when you encounter them now, in a room full of similar works, after eight other rooms thus overbrimming: whack.  Hence my interests in the modern, the glued and the abstract. 

Exiting the museum, we went in search of martini, followed by an unfortunately fruitless search downtown for "that polish place I ate in last time I was here and I think is on the next  block... no the next... maybe over an avenue...". Eventually the quest was abandoned in favour of roast chicken, which was consolingly excellent. 

onwards

Monday was the final day in Philadelphia, in which I had planned originally to visit the PMA, but in a startling moment of clarity, realised that it would be shut and hence why I skipped the conference on Sunday. That meant that Monday was free for some touristy stuff. Reading Terminal markets - some interesting little stalls of Pennsylvania gifts (slightly odd looking calico Amish/Voodoo dolls being a treat that I only just managed to forgo), then lots of fresh food and food stalls. Then to the Fabric workshop (or some similar named institution) which was really interesting. Unfortunately it was located in a temporary building while its original home is being rebuilt, so there wasn't a huge deal to look at, but there were examples of the projects they create with contemporary artists - good contemporary artists (Oldenburg, Kiki Smith, Mona Hatoum) - all sorts of textile related things as well as some beautiful wallpapers. Excellent giftshop.

Then My First Cheesesteak Experience: and can I just say arraghagh, good. White roll, steak slivers, onion, cheese. If you have to induce a heart attack, this is the way to do it.

Followed, to round out the tourist adventure, by a duck tour - one of those amphibious vehicles, that took us around the streets of the old city, and then onto the Delaware River. The bit around the city was really interesting, lots of historical detail that you don't otherwise pick up on - such as the AME church that was both beautiful and one of the key stations on the underground railway, and that the paved stone streets were paved with stones originally brought over as ballast in ships that came over empty to take the products of the New World back to Europe. And some stuff about Ben Franklin, the American flag, and some of the oldest streets in America. And then we did a fairly pointless bit on the Delaware, that seemed more to demonstrate that we are in an amphibious vehicle and isn't that cool? Surely it can't have been necessary to get such a vehicle just to show us where Will Smith's dad lives (which he must certainly appreciate whenever he is out on his deck).

The next day I woke up at 4.30 in the morning again, and had to kill time until I could get breakfast, then wandered around the city, very strange for me to be up and wandering at 6am. Nice to watch a city come to life though. Lunchtime saw me board a train to go to Boston, which was great, it was definitely nice to not have to contemplate getting on another plane, and the views, especially between New York and Boston, were stunning. It was great to see the autumn colours in the landscape, and the coastline of upstate New York. No wonder they bleat on so much about their country houses, they are stunning. 6pm I arrived and was very happy to see my friend who resides in those parts.

The next day I accompanied her to Harvard, and managed to spend most of the day with her by joining in on her work morning tea and the gallery staff seminar, which was a lot of fun and very interesting. Took a look around the Fogg Museum - excellent - and spilt coffee on myself in front of the smart people of Harvard (fortunately this was at a cafe, not my friend's work place). The campus itself is lovely. And with excellent burgers.

That evening I made a truly superb risotto. I don't mean to boast, but, well, no, clearly I do, it truly was very tasty. Mushroom, asparagus and smoked tuna. Quite marvelous, I have discovered that I enjoy smoked tuna.

The following day was the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, which was not dissimilar to the Philadelphia one, but perhaps with more of a focus on ancient art rather than post-1900. My perceptions are possibly skewed by their renovations, which have necessitated the temporary removal of some of the collection. There was an excellent exhibition of contemporary craft, with quite a few Australian wood work pieces that were stunning.

The gift shop is better in the Philly.

After that I left and wandered around central Boston, buying the extra bag that my incessant shopping renders inevitable. Visited the first market in Boston, which now contains very little of interest, but in a very nice building. The next day we caught the greyhound bound for New York Ciddy!

piccatures

Harvard library

lil' Egyptian dudes, Boston Museum of Art

Philadelphia Museum of Art

Bernini clay sketch, Fogg Museum, Harvard

Interior, Fogg Museum

Ancient Egyptian lion, Boston Museum of Art

Philadelphia Museum of Art

Brancusi, PMA

View from PMA

Main staircase, PMA

new encounters with dawn.

Well now that I'm more than halfway through the trip, maybe, just maybe, I should take the record of it beyond the airport. Having arrived in the hotel to a crushing sense of "it's two in the morning, I'm alone in a big city, this doona cover is horrible, and I have to speak in public tomorrow", I found it rather difficult to get to sleep. I woke up the next morning to an actually painful sense of exhaustion, somehow gathered myself into what I think was a presentable state and went to confront the breakfast buffet.

Now I know that this was a more expensive hotel than the one in which I stayed in in London, but the breakfast buffet was an interesting cultural exchange: both described as Continental (though not specifying which continent) but London:
White sliced bread, plastic cheese, truly awful jam, cheap tea and instant coffee.
US: doughnuts, bagels, croissants, fruit, yoghurt, waffles, brewed coffee, selection of cereal, breads of various denominations.... and it went on.

The whole doughnut (heh! pun) for breakfast thing: strangely alluring when you've had no sleep, but does inspire the thought: "If I continue to eat this much sugar I will be going home with a candied leg."

So anyway, after the breakfast interlude, I went on my way to the conference. I'm told that I was coherent during my presentation, but couldn't honestly contribute to that debate, as I can't quite remember what I said. I was happy to hear that I was, as I was revising it while I was speaking, which is always an interesting approach to take when you're not completely conscious. It was a deep relief to get it over with fairly early in the conference and then be able to relax. The other speakers in the session were very interesting, and they became my conference buddies for the rest of the weekend, as we bonded over snacks after our papers, which revived me sufficiently to get through another couple of sessions and the drinks reception that followed. I then decided to walk back to the hotel, which was a nice, if bleary, way to finally encounter the streets of Philadelphia (sing it!).

The location was really good, as it meant I got to walk through Philadelphia's old city, the earliest part of Philly, where Independance Hall is, assorted statues wearing frock coats, that kind of thing. Something about signing some sort of declaration. The surrounding blocks have now become overrun with the national constitution centre, national history of this or that etc. The following day was some more presentations, then the conference lunch, which provided me both with a chicken wrap featuring grapes, and a few moments of amusement. I should preface this by saying that the conference was divided into various streams - so I was in Art, Design and Architecture, then there was childhood studies, sci fi, music, fashion, etc, as well as American culture and death: and so when, during the lunchtime announcements which went on interminably and to which not much attention was being paid, I couldn't help finding a certain element of humour to the minute's silence that was called to remember "so and so, the former convenor of the Death studies panel". Finally, some primary research....

And then I went on a tour of a cemetery. Which also had it's moments of hilarity. The cemetery itself, Woodlands, was fascinating, as old cemeteries are, both for their social history aspects, and the melange of styles of sculpture that compete for attention. What was entertaining was our tour guides, who were both older gentlemen, clearly fascinated by the subject, clearly very good at what they did, and clearly hadn't rehearsed how sharing the tour guide role would work - so one would dart off in one direction while the other did in the opposite - and then one would randomly stop in the middle of nowhere, tell a very interesting anecdote about one of the graves but conclude it by saying "I've lost where the grave actually is though". One of my favourites was the following exchange, while looking at the largest headstone in the place (about two stories high):
"Now this isn't a true obelisk"
"Why not?"
"Because a true obelisk is made out of one piece of stone, and as we can see this made out of many stones"
"So what do you call this?"
"An obelisk"

Only followed when we stopped to discuss that a cenotaph is when the body is buried somewhere else and a headstone is place in memory of them, "as we can see this woman was buried in Kansas"..... [as we walked away, sotto voce] ... "with Dorothy."

When we returned to the hotel we went to another couple of sessions, which having woken up at 4.30 am, I have virtually no memory of, and then to the hotel bar, for red wine (and rioja is our friend is it not?) and flatbread pizzas, which I think was all that bar could actually make in any neighbourhood of edibility, but which they did very well. Then, back to my hotel, sleep, coffee, doughnuts....

The Philadelphia Museum of Art {gasp}... excellent! Having woken up at six am, I was there on the dot of opening (which I was very happy about as the queues were out the door by the time I left). Scoffing heartily at the idea that I would want to see the Renoir exhibition, I proceeded into the general collection. The Philly is shaped in a big U, with the ground floor on one side being American art and on the other European impressionism and modern art, so probably the biggest hits of their collection, the impressionism was fairly standard compared to other US collections, though outstanding compared to any Australian one. Cezanne's large bathers was something you travel to see though, one of those art history one-oh-one paintings, as is Renoir's bathers, with the key difference being that one was fascinating and entrancing, and one made me want to gag. I proceed fairly rapidly through the Impressionist/post-Impressionist section and got into the more interesting modern and contemporary arm. Which is really interestingly presented, not strictly divided according to time/location, but brings out themes and parallels. A small chapel is dedicated to Brancusi, with some Mondrian, which is really excellent, and then the Duchamp collection! Nude descending a staircase! {can't verbalise}

Upstairs: European history, excellent medieval pieces, and a lot of installations set up as rooms, so "French sitting room 17th century" "cloisters" etc, that they'd wholesale moved to the museum. Which are both excellent and highlight the different resources of Australian and American galleries/museums: both feel same sense of inadequacy due to distance from European tradition, one bleats and creates nationalistic sheep backlash paintings, one tries to transplant as much of it as possible. Amazing what a slightly different approach to philanthropy can do.

Then, to remind Judas and Thomas of the good ol' days, I decided to walk back to the hotel, to see the other side of central Philadelphia. And found a Gap outlet. Happy $12 pants. Met for final drinks, then we found an Excellent mexican restaurant, oh my the salsa.

The journey continued.

Travel is a surreal thing, I pondered, repeatedly, throughout my very strange and long journey here. You find yourself sitting 20 000 feet above the earth wondering what's taking them so long with the drinks cart already rather than what hubris it is to attempt hurtling through the air this far above your rightful place. Stop overs are also strange, just spending time in a country for it's airport, wading amongst the New Zealand souvenirs despite not really visiting the country. I did enjoy my reminder of just how good Speights' ale is on tap, and how entertaining the NZ news broadcast. Although not the reminder of how expensive are the carved jade pendants. After these brief wanderings it was back on to an aircraft for the longest
flight of the trip, and I have to say that Air NZ are excellent; I'm sure you get more space on their 747s than you get on QANTAS and they have excellent ice cream and very generous pouring arms.

The trip was the usual tedium and discomfort associated with such a long time in a confined space; the TVs were working though, so that was a nice change from my previous encounter with that journey. I watched 'Once' which is excellent, although I would like to listen to the soundtrack to more fully appreciate the music as the headphones weren't so good. Then I watched "No Reservations" which is a romcom about a chef; and a less realistic presentation of a chef I have never seen - taking off an apron as crisply white at the end of the shift as at the beginning. Leaving the restaurant immaculately made up and wearing heels after twelve hours in kitchen. Apparently able to flounce out of the kitchen in the middle of service for whatever ruffles your emotions. Having hands and forearms unmarked by scars. The romantic comedy bit is fine though, and the dvd will get you through that basket of ironing.

Then we landed in LA, before we had left NZ, and the Thursday that wouldn't end just kept on going. I had to transfer to a domestic flight at LAX and my word if there is an airport more poorly signposted it would be a surprise. If you ever need to do that make sure you need to know which terminal you need to find and where it is because there is nothing that will tell you
that in the airport. Security and customs took awhile, but not ridiculously so, and I was able to check in to my next flight without any further dramas. Which meant that I could fly across the world and then the USA without any problems, but it was getting more than a couple of k away from my home that posed the difficulties of this journey. So I went and found my gate, bought
a copy of the NY Times and a coffee from Starbucks and grinned smugly to myself that I was back in the US of A. Starbucks is definitely better here. And I read an hilarious article in the Times about how New York interior designers have decided that Jewellery for your FURNITURE is the latest thing. Because people want to "personalise" their furniture as they do their appearance they should buy jewellery for their FURNITURE. The picture depicted an enormous CHARM BRACELET draped ever so insouciantly over the back of a chair. Because just buying a chair can't be expressing one's self, other people might have that same chair. So one should buy jewellery to put on it. Or you could just skip a step and wrap a straightjacket around the back of the chair, should indicate your personality just as clearly.

The next flight took me to Atlanta, I got on the plane, sat down and conked into sleep. I came dimly awake to wonder what was taking so long to take off and realised that I'd slept through take-off I was so tired. So I missed that enjoyable "we'reallgoingtodie" moment that my gut sends forth when an aircraft really puts its shoulder into it. The flight to Atlanta took about
four hours, and then there was an hour wandering around the airport there - during which I realised that I had no real idea of where Atlanta actually is, another strange aspect of bouncing across the globe and having odd none-encounters with geography - then the two hour flight to Philadelphia. Airtrans is quite a good airline, should you ever need. They give you lots
of pretzels. While boarding the final flight I had the sudden thought that even despite my extremely lagged state, and the endless tedium of embarking and disembarking aircraft, I still really, really love travelling.

The flight arrived on time at Philadelphia, at one in the morning, I took the longest walk between plane and luggage carousel that I have ever encountered, eventually someone else did that with my bag, so I was able to leave and find my hotel. Which turns out to be ensconced between the Delaware River and a six lane freeway which sends a nice reverberating drone
through the whole building, but is otherwise fine. I had a shower for which I was yearning as though for the promised land. And then I went to bed! 37 hours after leaving my own... ! And couldn't sleep.

a shortcut to a stomach ulcer

So I’m seriously rethinking how I booked my travel for this trip. Everything was going fine: I got up at five in the morning, and I got the taxi on time, I arrived at the bus terminal super-early. And then, the wheels on the bus did not so much go round and round, as come off the wagon. The Greyhound bus-man responded with mirth to my rather tight schedule, leaving me imagining which rotisserie he will be occupying in the afterlife. I met another fool who had booked the bus for the airport who came up with the idea of hiring a car. Which meant we had to go to Canberra airport to get it. Which meant that we had to deal with “Thrifty”: by which they mean they are thrifty with the number of IQ points you need to work there. An inordinate amount of time later, they handed over the keys to a car other than the one we had hired, and we started driving. And I started calling Air New Zealand, to find out how late I could be before I missed the flight. The goal of 10.30 was set and so we drove, and I palpitated. My stomach slowly came to grips with the reality that I had decided to replace its rightful six other hours of sleep with a cup of coffee and a boatload of stress, and decided to introduce me to how it would feel should it every try to burrow its way out of my body. I’m not good with flight deadlines at the best of times, I panic that I’m going to miss them and turn up hours early, so actually being late was not my ideal start to the trip. Or the best way of conducting normal social chitchat with my travelling companion – as small talk inevitably does, it wormed it’s way around to the ‘what is your phd topic’ question and I think a direct quote of my response is: “Art history. Australian. 1960s.” After which time I got to account for the prices in the art market and the claims to value of Aboriginal art – reasonably complex issues that I would normally struggle to answer in an articulate fashion after only two hours sleep and before nine in the morning, but add a nice haze of stress and I think I start to borrow Yoda’s sentence structure. “Art it is, Aboriginal, yes, unique it is.”
We made it with ten minutes to spare. And the plane was late. It turned up, the tortuous boarding process was completed (oh, and if you are late you get to sit up the back with the kids, joy). And they had lost the food. So we waited another thirty minutes. Finally the food arrived, and we set off for Auckland. Where I now am, making the most of the fact that wifi doesn’t effect navigation systems when you are inside the airport, apparently. It’s now three p.m. Sydney time, and I’ve got another twenty hours of travel to go. Gah. I have, however, noticed that there is some tasty looking NZ beer on tap here in the compound, so after I have read through my paper there will be treats, oh yes.