Picasso and Katie Noonan.

so not fair that this is in Brisbane.

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. 

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.

a bit o'stuff

So last week when I was watching Oprah - an infrequent event I hasten to add out of a lame sense of elitism - Bill Clinton was on and jointly they were promoting Kiva. This website facilitates loans to businesses in developing countries - something like 98% of them have so far successfully repaid their debts. After the coverage on Oprah and in Clinton's new book they have had to limit the donation limit to $25 because so many people want to give. Such a great idea.

Two and a half weeks before I leave for Philadelphia. Would be heaps good had I finished the paper I have to present - which it turns out is the first morning at the conference, after I arrive at the hotel sometime in the early hours of the morning. Will be interesting to see how much coherence I eke forth after travelling for an incomprehensibly long time, but that is, after all, what adrenaline is for isn't it? Fighting with bears and public speaking. Both clearly vital to the evolutionary advantage.

Thinking of evolution, I bought really, really awful shampoo recently. Purely because it was called 'Natural Selection' and I was taken by the idea of it somehow offering some Darwinian advantage. A thought which I somehow couldn't express to my hairdresser when she was making me feel bad for not buying expensive hair products and attributing my fly-away ends to my poor consumer choices.

I'm listening to the new Radiohead - it's excellent. I want to know what the average price is that people are paying for it (you nominate how much you want to pay, if you had not heard, and it is only available as a download from http://www.radiohead.com/).

Oslo

SnowSnowSnow!Driving on the Right!Snow!Snow!Snow!Right!Road Sign with a Reindeer on it!Snow!Snow!SnowSnow!Right!Snow!Europey-looking forest!Snow!

Thus ran my thoughts upon arrival in Oslo. Having caught a RyanAir flight to "Oslo" it meant that I had an hour and a half bus trip from "Oslo" into Oslo, so this gave me ample time to appreciate that there was snow on the ground. While I'm thinking about RyanAir - which I have developed a firm belief that one should do as little as possible, lest one absorb too much of their attitude that one is really just an annoying hindrance between an airline reaching its target of perfectly meeting its timetable - the competition between RyanAir and Easy Jet seems particularly fierce on number of fronts, the more obvious being for passengers and securing routes, but oddly seems to be made manifest in the desparate battle to make their staff look completely ridiculous. This could be an extreme-safety measure, on the theory that no terrorist, no matter how committed, would ever pose as one of their staff if it meant wearing a jaunty combination of bright blue and yellow, or flourescent orange. But actually I think it is just an outworking of the contempt in which they hold their staff, and particularly, their passengers. I think they feel that they have to be that obvious because their passengers are too stupid to pick up that six or seven people on a plane wearing matching outfits of any more subtle colour combination are likely to be the crew. That, and that weird approach to sartorial matters that follows the line: 'weeeeeeeeee we're really bright! that means we're hip and fun! yeaaaaah!' in the hope that one doesn't notice the underlying 'if we were dressed in grey it would draw attention to our facial expressions that convey our contempt for you and our fervent wish to be upgraded to carriers which convey packages and live cattle.' Just a theory.

I arrived in Oslo at about 11.30, and my friend kindly came an collected me, very fortunate as I hadn't gotten a guide book and my Norwegian, oddly, is non-existant. She lives in am old part of town, where cobblestone still feature, and beautiful wides streets of apartment buildings. Beautiful wide streets that feature quite a lot of ice at this time of year, as Judas and Thomas demonstrated by skeetering out from under me, sensing their chance for escape, and a truly excellent opportunity to embarrass me. Fortunately no damage was done, to me, or perhaps more significantly, to my camera. It was a good way of learning to pay some attention where I was putting my feet, and proved a constant battle between looking at the ground to make sure I didn't go flailing down a stone staircase, and gaping around touristicly at the scenery. Norway clearly likes me more than Scotland: it had thoughtfully had some freezing weather leading up to my arrival, to provide a nice snowy welcome, but then was unseasonably warm, no worse than Canberra at its worst when you are out in the mddle of the night, inappropriately attired. Thankfully I had a decent jacket (thanks R!) and so was quite cosy. In fact, it was like getting to wear a sleeping bag out and about, which is excellent for naps.

The next day we went to a large sculpture park, featuring works by Vigeland and more snow. The park has an amazing amount of work in it, especially when it is all work by one artist, even if he did have a studio of assistants, he was incredibly productive. Then we headed to the Munch Museet which features both the work of Edvard Munch, and the most incredible museum security. Unsurprising, after someone ran off to a waiting car with two of the Museum's central pieces. Fortunately, and as regular readers will undoubtedly recall, they have since been discovered. Unfortunately they are still in conservation, so I didn't get to see them, but I got to see a lot of others, so I'll have to be happy... the museum had up a lot of stuff beyond the wailing wall of depression that one usually associates with Edvard, who knew that he had so many dogs, or drew them so much?

Then we took a walk around Oslo, got to see the Royal Palace, and the centre of town. I really like Oslo - its small enough that you can cover most of it, at least very briefly in a day, and it has the benefits of being in Europe (old, good bread, and so on) with out the crazy numbers of people. The next day, after extensive directions, I found my way in the 'burbs to check out the Viking Ships Museum - excellent! Vikings were very thoughtful of future archaeologists by burying people in ships, with a sample of everything they owned. Unfortunately most of these burial mounds were raided, so the jewellery and other valuables were taken, but the ships have been preserved very well, and it is incredible to consider how far they sailed in not very large ships. After that I went to the Folk Museum, which is also excellent - they have gathered together a range of buildings from all different periods of Norway's history and reconstructed them in a giant open air museum. The first time I've been able to see my own breath while at an exhibition. And the first time I've enthusiastically examined barns. With my new knowledge of Norwegian farm architecture from the thirteenth century to the present I am going to be a hit on the dinner party circuit when I get back!

Durham

Durham is an easy daytrip from Newcastle, and is a pretty old university town, featuring a very old cathedral. So of course I went there. I like travel that features going to really obvious monuments, makes it so much easier to not get lost when you step out of the station, in that bewildered state of being somewhere new, thinking, 'now where is the cathedral' to respond to self 'maybe I should go ask at that large pointy building on the hill, they might know...'

Anyway, Durham Cathedral is like many others of its kind: large, pointy, stone, old. It features a 'cathedra' (bishop's throne, hence Cathedral being a church where the bishop sits) that is a couple of inches higher than the church at Rome ( a detail I particularly enjoyed, do love it when those who are leading the flock by demonstrating the humility of Christ decide to get petty) and the tomb of the Venerable Bede, a monk who wrote the first history of England (6th or 7th century). Also features a tower that goes 325 steps up, and wow that's a lot isn't it? After going interminably round in circles ever upward I burst forth gasping onto the roof, and, once I recovered, enjoyed getting snap happy with the beautiful views all around while watching other people burst forth gasping from the stairs.

I circled back to the ground, and went for a walk along the river, which is very pretty, just beginning to get a bit autumnal and then ate a scone. Tea is very good in England. You do get some shockers, but in general the standard is much higher than in Aus. I think that is because the people would revolt if it wasn't. Possibly why France has had more revolutions than England: the English might be oppressed and downtrodden, but there's nothing like a nice cup of tea is there?

orright luv?

Lunched with the ladies at noon on Tuesday, who then deposited me at the airport for the flight to Sydney - on an aircraft that inspired the thought 'So this is what it feels like to be inside an insect.' Enjoyably named a 'de Haviland' - evoked images of the 1940s and phrases such as 'just going to pop in the de Haviland for a jaunt to Paris' - and the aircraft evoked the possibility that it may have been doing just that in the 1940s.
Flew out of Sydney at 5pm-ish, 7 hour trip to Singapore, apparently a time frame that requires two meals and numerous snacks. Tiny little softdrink cans - fun! Half an hour off the plane in Singapore, proof that airport terminals are basically identical - except that there are less semi-automatics draped over precision-groomed police officers in Aust and NZ. It was about 1.30 am according to my body clock, leading to an almost incident, but I fortunately quelled my desire to yell 'puppies!' and pet the sniffer dogs. Funny how the most ornamental looking dogs are the ones that have the best sense of smell. Or maybe just the precision-groomed officers wouldn't take anything less.
Back on the plane for another meal - it had been about 2 hours since we'd had a meal after all. Strange how noodles aren't food that can be prepared in advance and retain their appetising features. My new all-time favourite piece of technology is the seat-back entertainment console - have gotten myself up to date on films: Over the Hedge (don't bother, digital animation is not enough of a novelty anymore to justify having no plot. Apparently if it's digital you don't need an editor either.), Thank you for Smoking (enjoyed very much, see it), Jindabyne (v. good, although would have been a lot better on the big screen rather than the 5 inch screen), Friends with Money (a deeply bad film, I didn't make it to the end, one more minute of Jennifer Anniston and her cat's-bum-pout was going to make me attempt strangulation, and I don't think the guy in front of me would have appreciated it), RV (standard family-road-trip comedy, apparently Robin Williams is the new Chevy Chase, amusing moments). There was also a good range of tv and music on the system - arriving in London I was listening to George's polyserena which was launching me into a flashback of Sharehouses past and a strange desire to eat tuna pasta...
My knowledge of geography turns out to still be crap, flying somewhere at night I was peering out the window thinking 'so that's germany' only to consult with the flight path and discover, ah, now, that's Russia. Which really is large, everytime I look at a map I'm always surprised by it. Anyway, touched down at glorious Terminal 4 at Heathrow, which seems to be aiming for a 'East Germany circa 1975' feel to its décor. And succeeding. Had a happy moment of 'now which passport should I choose', - very international, continental even, don't you think? - went for the EU as the line was shorter, managed to get through Heathrow onto a train in about 30 min which was a whole lot better than what I was expecting. Got a train to Piccadilly, at about which time my exciting, high-pitched, and fortunately suppressed, squeals started: 'oooh Picadilly! a Tube station! They really do say 'mind the gap' a lot! a stall selling Paddington bear merchandise! a Bobby! wearing a hat! They actually wear those, not just on the Bill! Actually there seems to be about 75 Bobbies! A marks and spencer!' Had an hour to kill before my train left so wandered around a bit, briefly outside the station, again with more squeals: 'Huh, London, so you do exist, and this is you! Buses, red ones! Black cabs!' Since I arrived I have also been truly appreciating just how many english accents there are, and just how amusing so many of them sound.
Catching the train down to Cornwall ended up taking about 6 hours, which was rather entertaining having not slept for quite sometime, but probably the best way to avoid sleeping and creating the jet lag of death, and it kept me in the right frame of mind to continue my high pitched squealing (internal still): cows! black faced sheep! a duck pond! Oddly, it turns out that those plastic farm animal sets I played with as a child that had cows, sheep, ducks, geese, tufts of grass, stone walls, fences etc turn out not to be an idyllic recreation of farm life past but a highly accurate scientific representation of contemporary farming in the South West of England.
There's was also lots of Green! Very very Green! They weren't kidding about that. And when I told someone later they responded with a shocked But we're having a drought! Ah huh, the kind of drought that doesn't involve loss of Green.
Anyway, it turns out the conference venue is kind of like having a conference in say, suburban Hornsby, and not giving people any directions of how to get there. Anyway, I got a cab from the tiny train station I was directed to, and this led to another of my English discoveries. You know all those shows set somewhere in a small town in the UK or Ireland and feature our two fetching heroes, whose sexual tension motivates the plot, and are surrounded by an array of quirky personalities? Turns out they're documentaries, those poeple exist. My cab driver proved this to me by being exuberantly barking: mouth full of teeth going in festively different directions, driving like a lunatic while loudly abusing other drivers, asking me where I was from and sharing that 'Now of all the places, Australia is one that I've never wanted to go to.' Goood, thanks for sharing. Then we got distracted, because, as he explained, 'OF ALL THE FECKIN EEJIT THINGS TO DO I'VE MISSED THE TURN OFF, WHAT KIND OF FOOL DOES THAT, I KNEW THIS ROAD IS BLOCKED OFF NOW WE'LL HAVE TO DRIVE RIGHT THE WAY 'ROUND, JESUS WHAT A FOOL I AM' Anyway, he gave a discount, amusement, and a short tour of Penryn, so I had no problems. Perhaps if I hadn't been so sleep deprived I would have transcended amusement into some level of fear.
Something like 38 hours after the ladies lunched, I arrived at the university and found a level of disengagement that was quite surprising - there was no one really around other than the staff who gave me my room key, and meal ticket and vague directions - this is where your room is, show the ticket to the poeple at the servery for food' - ah, where's the servery? is there dinner tonight? No. Is there food anywhere nearby? No, you'll need to catch the bus to falmouth. But they did make me come out the back so they could demonstrate close up how the window latch works. Thank goodness. I found my room, which is nice, and had one my most favourite showers ever.
In a feat that was quite spectacular I managed to miss three successive buses into town, which turned out to be a blessing as I ran into someone looking equally lost, and wearing a shirt with wattle on it, which alerted me to her nationality and likely reason for looking lost in Cornwall - so I showed her where she needed to be and then we joined forces for the trip to Falmouth. An entertaining bus ride, as apparently my cab driver from earlier on at some stage taught this bus driver to drive. Nothing like tiny narrow cobble stone streets and a bus driver who apparently drives as though there is a voice in his head saying Be the wind! Fly! Let your spirit free!
Falmouth is a tiny town, and a source of more internal shrieking Cobblestones! Swans! Wooden boats! Old things! Old! Look how old they are! We shortly found ourselves inside an English pub, a real one, you know, where the beams aren't hollow and the builders must have been five feet tall: 'ach no, why would anyone need more than a six feet high ceiling, preposterous.' Dutifully I forewent the tempting prospect of Fosters on tap and somehow convinced myself to try a local ale (v. good), then we went for food, and apparently I'll order anything that has 'Cornwall' in the title, food was nice, over looking the harbour, a very nice redemption of what was looking like a dire evening otherwise.
I am slowly coming to terms with the Cornish accent and refraining from smirking everytime someone speaks.
Discovered where the servery was this morning, and the bad news I have found the only university in the entire world (from my core sample of Aust, NZ and Cornwall) where there is NO espresso, or indeed any non-instantaneous variety of coffee. It's going to be an interesting few days.

I am here.