Padang Bai, Indonesia (March 28th-April 1st)

The airport smells of incense. That was my first impression of Bali when I arrived late on the evening of March 28th. I found the driver my hostel had sent for me, and he explained that the odor emanates from the thrice daily offerings of the Balinese people. My second impression was of the pure madness of the motorbike traffic. Cyclists sped in and out of traffic without regard to their safety or that of anyone else's, and more than once, I thought our van might pancake an oblivious moto-driver weaving haphazardly into our lane.

After an hour and a half's nerve-wracking drive, we arrived in Padang Bai, my intended place of rest for the next few days. As we walked the narrow alleyways of the small village, stepping over upturned woven baskets housing chickens and constantly crowing roosters, I noticed the aforementioned offerings on each and every doorstep, intended to keep out demons.


Despite the late hour, children trotted behind us, giggling hello over and over again, like a refrain. We climbed dozens of stairs to the Lemon House, where owners Ben and Claire greeted me warmly and showed me to the sole dorm room. The bed was huge, almost the size of a double, and I settled into it quickly and fell asleep.

The next morning, I woke up naturally and then waddled into the main area of the hostel, only to be gobsmacked by the layout and view.


I had seen them at night, but that hadn't prepared me for how fantastic the Lemon House looked by day. I sat down to a delicious breakfast of bananas, watermelon, papaya, poached eggs, toast, and an English tea that my Welsh hosts seemed quite proud to have, all made to perfection by the sole member of staff: the marvelous Ketut.


I decided to enjoy the vista from the shade of the Lemon House and give my skin a much-needed break. I read for a while. Then I picked Ben and Claire's brains about the village and Bali in general. I also had my first shower in an Asian bathroom, where the shower head is simply positioned on one of the walls in the same room as the sink and toilet. But my surprise at that hardly registered in comparison to my realization that toilet paper is rarely used in Asia. Instead they use what's commonly referred to as a bum gun.


Uh-huh. I'll let you figure out how it works on your own.

When finally I felt the desire to vacate the shade, I made my way down toward Bias Tagul (White Sand) Beach. As I stepped from our alley onto one of the town's two main streets, a motorbike passed by me with a small yappy dog standing on all fours on the back of the seat, tongue out and tail wagging happily. Just as I recovered from my shock enough to laugh, another bike passed by with a whole family onboard, including an infant! I thought that I would never get used to seeing that, and so far I haven't.

In any case, I doubtfully made my way up a rocky, trash-strewn hill to which Ben had directed me, thinking that I had picked the wrong town to spend a few relaxing days on the beach. But ten minutes later, I turned a corner on the dirty, littered road to paradise.


After inching down the steep slope, I emerged from between two of the restaurant shacks onto one of the most beautiful beaches I had ever seen.


A woman greeted me who turned out to be Ketut's sister, Made, and I bought my first sarong from her, spread it out on the sand, and settled in for a perfect afternoon of swimming in the bath-temperature water and reading on the shore. I ordered my first local meal from Ketut and Made's mother, who ran one of the sea shacks. I still don't know what kind of fish I ate, as the menu simply said "sea fish", but it tasted delicious and came with vegetables and my first of many plates of white rice.

As I finished my meal, a light rain began, and I watched the water fall through the still present sunlight, one of my favorite phenomena. Then I returned to the Lemon House to watch from the balcony as day morphed gloriously into night, accompanied by the sonorous chanting of the nearby mosque. I read until I fell asleep, completely at peace.


I awoke the following morning with my ear still throbbing with pain. After I'd done a bit of yoga on the porch, Claire got me an immediate appointment with the doctor at one of the local dive shops. The doc took one look in my ear, said, "Wow, that's really infected." She hopped on her motorbike and went to pick up my antibiotics herself, giving me the chance to chat with some of the dive instructors about my options for getting SCUBA certified and to wander along the main waterfront of the town.


Later, armed with antibiotics and strict instructions not to snorkel or dive for 5 days, I ventured with my roomie Kirsten through the village to the Blue Lagoon, a gorgeous, secluded enclave of course known for excellent snorkeling and diving. Since I couldn't partake, we simply swam out and bobbed along the surface for half an hour or so before returning to shore to bask in the sun for a bit.


We lunched on our deck chairs, and while I very much enjoyed my papaya shake, I didn't even finish my greasy, flavorless jaffle-- a panini-like confection with dough ironed into a sealed square around a filling. But my dislike of this popular snack may have arisen from my choice of a cheese jaffle, and I would soon learn that cheese in Asia isn't much better than it is in South America.

After lunch, we joined two other LH guests on Bias Tuggal, where I sated myself at Ketut's mom's shack once again, this time with a coconut juice straight from the coconut and my first banana pancake, an apparent staple on the Asian traveler trail. After a few more hours of sun-bathing and head-above-water swimming, we returned to the LH, cleaned ourselves up, and headed out for the evening.

We ate at Grand Cafe, where I got grilled mahi mahi over fresh salad greens for $3.50. I also learned a few valuable dining lessons: 1) You can't alter menu items in Indonesia. If you don't like what's on offer, order something else. 2) As in, South America, in Asia, sugar is in practically everything, even when truly unnecessary, like in a fruit shake. If you don't want sugar added, say "No sugar." This is the one exception to rule 1. And 3) Bali functions on island time and island etiquette. Service is slow and perfunctory. Our waiter stopped taking our order to answer his cell phone, and when I later flagged him down for drink refills, he stopped for five minutes on his way to the table to chat with a friend who was hanging over the railing, still on his motorbike.

After dinner, we wandered through the soporific PB night scene until we found an open bar, where we drank some laughably over-priced, poorly-made cocktails.


Kirsten explained that liquor cost a small fortune in Indonesia because of the high taxes tacked on to deter the native predominantly Muslim population from imbibing.

As we drank, the bar tenders flocked to our table to flirt with Kirsten and me, presenting us with flowers they'd made from beer cans. I asked one of them how teenagers came to be bartenders, and he swore that he was 23. Initially, I found the hard to believe, since he looked all of 15, but most Balinese people simply look far younger than they are. "You like younger men?" he asked, eyebrows bouncing up and down comically. "Not that young!" I replied.

Hearing far superior music wafting over from the reggae bar next door, we changed venues. The bar's Balinese owner, Rasta, only allowed us to pay for one drink before he took out a bottle of arak, a homemade whiskey of up to 14% alcohol content. He insisted on each of us taking shots with him and his local friends as he told us about Bali. "Everybody come here, jealous of my life. We get up at 1pm, go to beach, drink, swim, drink some more, snorkel. Good life. Always relax."

With some encouragement and a lot more arak, he turned off the music, picked up a ukele, and entertained us with a song about Padang Bai. It concluded, hysterically, with a call and response section imitating the ubiquitous calls of Bali hawkers: "Hello. Where are you going?", Transport, transport," "Massage, massage", etc.


By the time the sing-a-long was through, I had come to realize just how much my antibiotics had affected my tolerance. I was truly and properly soused! The night with the group begging for a serenade as we wandered, giggling, back to Lemon House. I sang a bit of Nina Simone, followed by the chorus of my own "Favorite Things", and they praised my drunken balladeering hyperbolically.

The next day, I slept in, bid farewell to Kirsten as she headed off to the airport, did some yoga, and lazed about the Lemon until the midday sun had passed, then headed back to Bias Tugal Beach. Although still beautiful and swimmable, the sea had changed completely; where before gentle surf had lazily crawled up to the beach, 10-foot waves now slapped the shore.





I had positioned my sarong a good 3 meters from the water's edge, but a freak wave crashed onshore, barely giving me time to snatch up my camera and wallet. My banana pancake didn't make it. I moved my things to the safety of Ketut's mom's restaurant shack. When Ketut arrived, I accepted her invitation to indulge in an hour-long massage right there on the beach for a whopping five bucks!

That evening I went with Claire and Ben to their friend's restaurant, the Ozone Bar, where I ate another mahi mahi salad, this time paired with a pineapple, orange and lemon fruit shake and tasty, albeit styrofoam-textured krupuk crackers. Delicious. This time, I had enough sense not to drink on my antibiotics, and since the vibe was decidedly laid back anyway, I made it an early evening, catching a wholly unnecessary lift back with B&C's friend purely for the experience of my first motorbike ride.

I spent my last day in Padang Bai doing more of the same, this time in the company of another roommate, Patricia, a lovely girl who I discovered at day's end to be only 19 years-old. As we supped that evening, sitting on pillows beside a low table perched on a raised palate??, I realized with contentment that our mutual shock at each other's ages had made for the closest thing to a shock in the middle of an utterly mellow day. I had gotten just what I wanted from Padang Bai.

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Location:Jalan Pelabuhan Padang Bai,Manggis,Indonesia

Reflections on Oceania

And here we are at the close of another chapter of my trip story, where I shall take the opportunity to think about my time in Oceania and postulate theories about myself and that place in a ponderous way that will surely be uninteresting to anyone but myself, so feel free to skip this entry if you so choose. Precious few direct plot points will come up, I assure you.

I left Oceania feeling that I had had a nearly perfect first trip to New Zealand. I had seen so much of it, met such wonderful people (locals and travelers alike), and encountered such perfect weather so much of the time, all at my own pace with the freedom of my own transport and with an ideal travel companion at my side, that I know I wouldn't feel regretful should I never get to return. I would still like to return one day to visit friends and see the parts of the country I haven't seen, but if for some reason I can't, I am certainly satisfied with my time there.

I left feeling quite differently about Australia. I greatly enjoyed my time there and felt that I had covered Sydney, Byron Bay, and Fraser Island quite thoroughly. But my time in the country as a whole was so very brief and allowed me to see so little. Yet the extreme costs of living and traveling there made a longer stay untenable. I think I should like to return a bit more flush and with a friend or partner in order to really do it right. Also, I would certainly CouchSurf there again, but I don't think I would stay in hostels. I would prefer, I think, to stay in guesthouses, B&B's, or other budget accommodations catering to older or at least not such very young travelers. Living and working in Sydney for a time and traveling around on long weekends or holidays could certainly be a viable option, but regardless, a substantial amount of time and money is necessary to really see Australia at large.

Also, aside from the financial aspect, traveling in Australia is too easy! Having traveled in South America, I think that I still craved a bit more of a challenge, a starker cultural contrast, and a language barrier. My stop in LA and my five weeks in New Zealand had provided a welcome return to the creature comforts of truly modern, English-speaking countries, but driving and trekking around New Zealand had provided its own challenges and adventures, and, by the time I left, I felt ready to rough it again. I was also ready to return to a McDonald's-free existence.

On each and every one of our journeys, Franca and I made an obligatory stop at the Golden Arches. See, one of the only places in all of New Zealand where internet comes free with a purchase is MickeyD's, so Franca and I had become regular customers. We would Skype our families when the signal was strong enough, do CouchSurfing searches and make arrangements with our hosts, look for dorms on HostelBookers, check out excursions through TripAdvisor, and take care of odds and ends like our banking. And all of this with the torturously intoxicating aroma of french fries in the air. I probably hadn't entered a McDonald's in twelve years prior to setting foot in Kiwi-land and felt rather proud of this fact. But I hate to admit: their ice cream cones and McCafe hot chocolate and muffins are pretty damn tasty.

Still, I preferred my former state of fast food abstinence. If for no other reason than I had gained a good 10-15 pounds while in Oceania. I had surely gained a small bit in South America, but constantly stopping for fast food and driving around in a car stocked up with snacks from supermarket runs had taken its toll to a far great extent. In fact our stops at supermarkets and gas stations-- where we used coupons obtained FROM our supermarket shopping trips-- hold a large place in my memories of my trip. We couldn't afford to eat out, so we always cooked! But it was the snacks that killed me. Eating peanut butter out of the jar with a spoon and cutting pieces of cheese off the block as we drove. And we drove everywhere! So even with our trekking, we weren't getting as much exercise as I had in SA. No wonder I had started forming cellulite!

Which leads me to another realization, which I am still struggling with now, two months into my travels in Asia: I talk about this stuff far too much. I must have many more insecurities than I'd known because I find myself discussing my weight at regular intervals. I can't say why it comes up so often. Here, I often end up defending a healthy meal selection or my yoga practice to other travelers, as if it's anyone else's business what I eat or whether or not I want to work out. But both can be greeted with perplexity or ridicule, particularly now that I have lost most of the weight I had gained. "Jesus, you're already skinny. Why are you thinking about this while you're traveling?" This inevitably leads to me explaining how much weight I
had gained at my heaviest point in the trip, how I can feel pretty much any extra pounds putting strain on the herniated discs in my back, and how weight gain no longer seems to mean just fat now that I've hit my thirties, but cellulite too, which is far less attractive and far harder, if not impossible, to get rid of.

And why do I end up defending myself in such detail? I don't know. Why do I talk about ANYTHING in such detail? I just do. It is my compulsion and my curse. Do I know that a woman talking about her weight is annoying and unattractive? Of course I do! And it's something I never or rarely did prior to living in New York, which gives some insight into the root of the problem, i.e. in such an appearance-concerned city. I've also noticed my disturbing tendency to repeat compliments that have been given to me, particularly to guys I like. Ugh! How vile. I've always felt that a confident person has no need of mentioning their good points, their achievements, or what others say of them because security and true self-confidence are self-evident and need no embellishment or advertisement. Well, physician, heal thyself.

I used to think that I didn't care what other people think about me. I know now that that isn't true. I just care what SOME people think. And I probably care a bit too much. Ironically, this makes me talk about all those things a confident person doesn't need to talk about when I am in the company of those people upon whom I would like to make a good impression, achieving quite the opposite effect. And so, I make this mid-year's resolution, avowed on June 2nd, 2012: "I will stop making an ass out of myself by discussing my physical appearance and regurgitating compliments."

Will I stop making an ass out of myself completely? Surely not. Would that I could. But I have as large a propensity for foolish behavior and bad judgement as anyone and surely a larger ego, less graceful feet, and a greater tendency to put my foot in my own mouth, leading, undoubtably, to even more humiliations, pratfalls and misunderstandings than most people endure. But most prove valuable, if humbling, life lessons and nearly all provide comic relief, so at least there's that.

So why isn't there more comedy in this blog then? Well, for two reasons I suppose. The first is the sad fact that I am just not that funny. While in Indonesia, I read Tina Fey's "Bossy Pants" and nearly bubbled over with envy of her wry brilliance. I don't think such a thing can be taught. Improved upon, yes, but taught? No. A truly keen eye for the absurdities of life is a gift
and the ability to dissect them in comic form, a born talent. Some people-- my friends Zhubin Parang and Julie Sharbutt among them-- have it; some people don't. And sadly, I find myself in the latter group.

Besides which, some things I just can't talk about here. I have no problem laying myself open, but I choose not to discuss other people's personal business on here (even when it overlaps with my own) or say anything that might tarnish the reputation of or cause a problem for any of the people I meet on the traveler trail, should the wrong person read this. Is such a thing unlikely? Probably. But in this day and age of information exchange, you never know. And let's admit, most truly funny episodes come out of something at least one person would be embarrassed about.

And the last thing I would want is to embarrass any of the friends or acquaintances I have met on this trip because overwhelmingly, everyone has been incredible to me. I really can't say enough about the overwhelming open-heartedness and generosity of most travelers. A girl I barely knew gave me all the warm clothes I needed to make it through the unusually chilly New Zealand summer. A random guy in the hostel in Queenstown saved me fourteen bucks by giving me his "Lonely Planet Australia". In Indonesia, a guy gave me a guidebook AND his travel phone. When I lost yet another eye mask, one of my roommates just happened to have received an unwanted free one from their last flight. I CouchSurfed literally half of my time in Oceania! All thanks to the hospitality of fellow travelers.

Not to say that I've liked everyone I've met or liked everything about those I liked in general. And sometimes I just want to be alone. I never really thought about it before, but I am a bit of a loner, in truth. I don't always like going out, and sometimes I wish people wouldn't talk to me. I never voice this or ignore anyone because I've learned to be very very careful about what I wish for, and I could end up very lonely that way. But I do hit streaks where I enjoy myself most just sitting somewhere reading or writing, enjoying a meal and a glass of wine and the view totally isolated.

These times alone give me plenty of room to think, and I realized in Australia that I'm done pursuing music as a performer. I'll still sing, hopefully with a band somewhere, for my own enjoyment, and I'll still write songs. Maybe even sell some. But I think I'm done trying to make a career out of it. I worked hard at it. Maybe not hard enough, but hard. I loved it. Maybe not enough either. And I think I'd started to lose some of that love. And maybe I just wasn't good enough. Who knows? I really think that I might just be true jack of all trades, master of none, and I'm coming to enjoy and appreciate that. I could be happy doing lots of things, not just music. And that's probably why I didn't succeed in it.

Anyway, hat was one of two decisions I've come to. The other is that I need to live somewhere that is warm most of the time. I am just happier that way. I like the seasons, don't get me wrong, but a little cold goes a long way. And everything is better when the sun's out.

And so a few closing notes and lessons from my travels in Oceania: 1) Roundabouts are far superior to traffic lights, save at gridded city intersections. They require no electricity, and they lead to far fewer accidents and traffic jams. America needs to get on board. 2) If ever you feel lost in New Zealand, simply look at what's around you. What's the name of the road you're on or the creek you just crossed? Because there's about a 90% chance that that's the name of the town you're in. Seriously. 3) I don't know how I left without taking a picture of the purple flowers that carpet NZ. They were everywhere, and I miss them. 4) Unlike in America, where there are many accents and in Britain, where there are innumerably, in Australia, there is really only one accent with varying degrees of thickness. These range from "Very Australian" in the middle (read: Sydney and most of the East Coast) to "Very, Very Australian" at one extreme (read: Darwin and the outback) to something barely discernible from upperclass London at the other And finally, 5) That furry brown fruit you eat with the green inside? That is a kiwifruit, not a kiwi. Remember that, should you ever travel to NZ.

Books read: Clash of Kings, The Time Traveler's Wife,
Articles lost: not much! or at least not much that I can remember!

On to Asia!!

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Location:Darwin, Australia

Fraser Island and Brisbane (March 22nd-27th)

I spent the night at Flashpacker's in the bland coastal town of Hervey Bay. Fraser Experience picked me and two other girls up from my hostel early on the morning of March 22nd. We had a perfectly sized group, with just eight people. Not too many, not too few.


Our guide, Neil drove us directly onto the ferry and stayed with the van while the rest of us moved up to the deck for the crossing. Once on the island, we had a good hour's drive through the dense forest before we reached the oceanside coast for our first stop at Eli Creek.


A short amble along a boardwalk running over fecund underbrush led us to the lovely creek, which several of us floated down back to the sea, where a tasty fruit and sandwich lunch awaited us on the back of the truck. Not everyone braved the rather chilly water, however, as we'd met with overcast weather and the temperature out of the water wasn't much better than in it.


We continued our drive up the seemingly interminable 75-mile beach to where the ship Maheno had run aground many years before.


The rust had rendered the wreck unclimbable, but I peered in and watched the surf froth over and around its rotting innards.


After a short stop at the Colored Sands, which were basically... colored sands, we moved on to the northernmost end of the island, where Neil allowed us to sneak into the rock-encircled Champagne Pools despite the fact that we hadn't paid the tax for that particular site.


Afterward, we climbed up to the perch at Indian Head.


Cloudy, or no, the view impressed, showing not only the sandy coast and the forest behind it, but the sandy inland and the scope of the epic 75-Mile Beach as well.


As we backtracked southward, a dingo trotted past. I must say that it looked pretty much like a normal dog to me, but then normal dogs don't typically eat children. And no, this is not a "Seinfeld" or "A Cry in the Dark" myth. Just a few years ago, a 9 year-old was left unattended by his parents on the beach, and he was eaten.


At around 5pm, we reached the compound where we would spend the night. We split ourselves into rooms, me sharing with Julie, and regrouped to take a plunge into the pond just behind our cabins. The amber tea-tree-oil-infused water warded us off at first, but once the sand flies began their attack, we each scurried in to escape them.


Refreshed and temporarily reprieved from the insect assault, we treaded water while Martha and Joel took turns diving down in a fruitless attempt to reach the bottom of the surprisingly deep pool. Trina got out and threw in the lifesaver on shore, and we all hung on with one hand to take a rest from our dog-paddling. Dragonflies began harassing us in seeming solidarity with their shore-bound sand fly brethren, and eventually we succumbed and rushed back to the bank and then to our cabins.

That night we drank the beer we'd picked up at a stop at the island's sole shop, ate burgers and steaks that Neil had grilled up for us, and played a series of games, including a maddening brain teaser involving ropes. Stephanie, the only local in our group, made us laugh with dozens of bizarre Aussie sayings like "One kangaroo short of the top paddock." Once we'd returned to our cabins, Julie and I sat up gabbing for a while and then passed out with a chorus of frogs, birds, and who-know's-what-else singing outside.

In the morning, I tried the infamous Aussie/Kiwi spread, Vegemite, for the first time, and-- contrary to the general trend of either loving or reviling it-- I felt rather indifferent about it. After breakfast, we took an appreciative look up at the blue sky and radiant sun and loaded back up into the van, heading straight for Lake Wabby. Neil dropped us off, pointed us in the direction of the trail, and said he'd see us two hours later. Eventually the track opened up onto a vast desert plain with a view of the ocean beyond.


At the other end, the lake awaited.


The moss-colored lagoon felt amazing in the sun and catfish approached us tenuously as we swam.


We spent the next hour swimming around and running up and down the massive slope that led down to the lake before another raucous tour group arrived and made us glad of the necessity of returning to Neil and the van.


On the way back, we saw a goanna-- sort of a mini-komodo dragon-- and any number of hand-sized spiders. I told Katrina that, as most likely the only doctor on all of Fraser, she was responsible for reviving any of us who might be bitten. She didn't look amused by my suggestion.


We drove back into the forest and set up a picnic table lunch at the grounds of the former logging camp where Neil mocked me for my staggering consumption of water since the previous day. "No wonder you've got to piss all the time!" We took a quick wander about and read the information boards, mostly devoted to the tragic history of the early settlers' and English government's disgraceful treatments of the aboriginal residents of the island. I hadn't realized before arriving in Australia how harshly the aborigines had been dealt with, how decimated their population had been, and how tenuous the racial relationships remained within the nation even today.

Moving on, we took a short hike along Wanggoolba Creek within the awesomely antediluvian Central Station rainforest. The Creek's water runs so clear that it gives the illusion of not being there at all. Neil informed us that the backdrops for the History Channel series "Walking with Dinosaurs" had been filmed in the legitimately prehistoric landscape. Some of the King Ferns in the area actually dated back to the dinosaur era.


Walking through the rainforest, I was dumbstruck by the magnificent and bizarre plant life, much of it looking straight out of "Avatar". And then there were the trees. We marveled at the beauty of the climbing ferns wrapped around massive kauri trees,


the shapes of the blackbuttts (like this one, which looked like Treebeard from LOTR; and yes, that really is their name)..,


and the sheer size of the grand satinays.


After an hour's journey, we reached the other side where Neil was waiting for us with the van. He then took us to our final and most-anticipated destination: Lake MacKenzie. And it did not disappoint.


The water of the lake was totally translucent, like the ocean waters in the Caribbean. But given that it's a lake, we didn't have to contend with any waves. Other than a slight ripple from the wind now and then, the water stood completely calm, like in a pool or gigantic bathtub. In a word: perfection.


The sand itself remained so pure, that you could polish jewelry with it-- which several people did-- or even your teeth. We all tried rubbing a bit of it on our pearly whites in attempt to make them even pearlier, but who can say if it worked.


We'd had the good fortune of arriving at a time with virtually no one else in sight. But as our final moments at Lake McKenzie drew near, the shore filled with people from other tour groups, and we scurried away in retreat.

On the way back to the van, I stopped repeatedly to pick and stuff my face with Miggum berries, tiny wild fruit that Neil had shown us how to identify along the path. They tasted of honey and cinnamon, and I couldn't get enough of them.

After some cookies and milk at a small picnic area, we headed back to the ferry dock. While we waited, the sand flies attacked once again. We'd all taken to slapping them off of each other, often without warning, and the situation had escalated into a full-on smackfest. Gemma had suffered the worst, both literally at our hands and figuratively at the hands of the sand flies, who seemed to find her particularly delicious. I myself had several bites all clustered together on my rump. Best line of the trip, in response to my predicament: "You must have a tasty ass."

As we stood batting away the flies, I took a ponderous look at the low-tide ferry dock. Little to no water remained in the basin, surrounded as it was by mangrove forests on each side. Yet to my amazement, the huge ferry pulled right in to the shallow port, and we drove onboard.


That night, we saw the sunset from two perspectives: the first while we sat on the passenger deck of the ferry as it returned to the mainland, and the second as we dropped everyone off at their accommodation. Either way, beautiful.


That evening, I sat at Flashpackers and checked my email while waiting for the time to pass. At 8:30pm, I caught the free shuttle to the bus station, but since my bus didn't arrive until 1am, I crossed the street to the movie theater and took in a showing of "The Hunger Games" while I waited. (Not as good as the book, but not bad.) Afterward, I grabbed the healthiest snacks I could find between the gas station convenience store and the local McDonald's and plopped onto the outdoor station's bench to wait.

Once I'd arrived in Brisbane, I took a 20-minute train ride to the outskirts of the city, during which I had a strange conversation with an older woman who told me stories about her family as though I knew them "Well, then Barbara arrived, and you know what that must have been like for Herb...."

I had arranged to stay with the local CS Ambassador, and it ended up being exactly what I needed. Steve's place was a veritable couch-surfing haven. He had two rooms all set up for CSers and other guests, with towels and linens folded neatly on the bed. He had no problem with me arriving at 7am, and no sooner had I gotten there, than he showed me where the key was kept, the CSer food cabinet (!), and the sauce he had set to cooking in the crockpot for our dinner that evening. I couldn't have asked for more. He headed off to work, and I took a nap.

After my nap, I showered and set out for a wander around the neighborhood. I found a bakery with fresh croissants and ate them as I snaked in and out of side streets on my way to the grocery store. When I got back to the house, I spent the rest of the day paring down my things for Asia and reading "A Clash of Kings". When Steve returned, we had great conversation over an equally-enjoyable meal and then watched an Aussie cooking show called "My Kitchen Rules," which I would surely be addicted to if it aired in the States.

The next day I spent much in the same way, except that when Steve returned from work, he took me out to see some wild kangaroos. I lucked out and got to see a roo in the pouch of its mamma.


Afterward, he took me to a lookout point over the city, where we stayed for sunset, and then we returned to the house for where I made salmon over salad while we watched another episode of "MKR." I left the following morning, thanking Steve for his gracious hospitality and for giving me the exactly the place I needed to get my things together and my head on straight before heading to Asia.

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Location:Fraser Island, Australia