What Makes Me Laugh

Adelaide from the airport

Saying adieu with Hannah

On the flight back to America, I collected a few more travel tips to share with my savvy readers. If there is one universal law about life I think it’s that you learn the best lessons the hard way.

Travel Tip #4: Clothes expand in your suitcase

It’s a fundamental law of traveling. What was an easy suitcase to close when you left becomes a wrestling object that makes you pant, sweat, jump up and down, and squash things that are likely to squirt gooey substances all over your clothing.

Only once in my life did I listen to my inner voice of reason and pack light. It was dreamy. I spent 10 days in Belize with a backpack smaller than the size of most school backpacks. Sure, I wore the same clothes nearly every day, but I didn’t have to hunt to find that one thing that I knew I brought but I didn’t know where I put it, or wait for baggage claim, or worry about thieves.  

Unfortunately, I didn’t learn my lesson, and this trip I packed about five books too many (gearing up for the long plane ride), not enough underwear (you can’t depend on finding a laundry), way too many clothes (at a certain point I couldn’t tell what was clean or what was dirty so it didn’t even matter), and a curling iron (what was I thinking?). I should have brought about half a suitcase full and left the rest.

Packing is really an art form that should be taught in high school right along with typing (or keyboarding, as they say these days). Next time, I vow to pack light.

Travel Tip #5: If you’re panicked about missing your flight, don’t try and rush through customs.

Ok, I’m more than a little ashamed of this story. We arrived at the Adelaide airport several hours early for our international flight. No problem. We lingered with Hannah until she boarded, and then sauntered the few gates down to where we should be boarding. Oh. It’s glassed off. Oh. We need to go through another security point. Oh. We need to go through customs.

At this point, I’m sweating it. It’s boarding time, and the customs officials are taking it slow and easy. I put on my most charming voice and ask two couples in front of us if their planes are boarding right now, and oh please, would you allow us to jump in front of the que since our plane is about to take off for New Zealand without us? Thank you.

Then, we finally get to the customs official, and she helpfully says, “Ok, it looks like everything is in order except you haven’t filled out this form. You’ll have to go fill that out over there and bring it back to me.”

Next, I got a little crazy, and tried to tell her that our plane was leaving and couldn’t we just fill it out right there? I swear, when stressed, I could feel the rude American just creeping out from under my skin where I had tried to bury it and deny that it ever existed. For two weeks I had been as quiet as possible (trying to dodge the loud American stereotype), polite in line, smiley with strangers, and very clear with taxi drivers that I loved Obama and never voted for Bush.  

All of that goodness fled in a mere five minutes until Doug, seeing reason, pulled me over to the table to fill out our forms. Then, he told me that he wasn’t wearing his reading glasses and couldn’t fill out the form. I think I had a panic attack right there. In a split second, I started to fill out my form, hyperventilate, and read off the various lines to Doug. “First line is first name,” I shouted. “Second line is your birthdate!” while he muttered, “Damn. I think I put my occupation where my country of origin is supposed to go.” Ahh!!!

We finally return to the desk, and the customs official smiles at us and says, “Don’t worry. They won’t leave without you. They come back here to find you if you don’t show up.” She leans in closer to me and delivers the final blow, “No panicking. We don’t panic in Australia.”

We made the flight in time for economy class boarding and for Doug to ask me if I needed medical attention.

Travel Tip #6: Don’t wear fleece clothing on an international flight

So, I bought this really cute gym outfit from Eddie Bauer at Christmas that doesn’t look like sweats, but really is (it’s tailored fleece after all). I thought, “This will be perfect for the plane. I won’t get cold. It’s comfy. I can sleep in it.”

Well, I could sweat in it too. After my panic attack at customs, I still had about 20 hours of travel left to go and I was already afraid to lift my armpits up. I applied some wet towels and new deodorant but the damage was already done. My other clothes were checked and there was little I could do when the airplane didn’t cool down from tropical temperatures. Even in good times, when the airplane stays cool and I stay cool and I wear enough deodorant, I want to burn the clothes I wear when I travel. This time, when I got off the plane, the urge was almost unbearable. If I was a little more off my rocker I would have started a fire made from fleece in the airport bathroom, but instead I just changed and have banned the said items from my sight for the next millenia. Still, I wouldn’t put it past me to do it in the future.

Travel Tip #7: Don’t watch sad movies on the airplane

I knew what I was getting into. I avoid movies where the animal dies at the end for a good reason. I just couldn’t help myself. I deliberately chose to watch Marley & Me on the airplane, knowing full well how it would turn out, but resolving that this time, just this once, I would be able to control my emotions.

Yeah right. I collapsed into hysterics at the end, trying to rub the tears off my face slowly, like I was scratching an itchy spot, so that I wouldn’t scare the little old lady sitting in the window seat who probably was wondering why I hadn’t taken my meds that day.

All during the movie I had been laughing and chuckling, pretending that it would be a happy ending and telling Doug, “Oh, you have to watch this. It’s really funny!”

And then, the dog died, and I couldn’t bear it, and all sorts of totally humiliating fluids were coming out of my face like a storm and Doug was trying to calm me down saying, “Well, I guess I won’t be watching that movie.”

Travel Tip #8: If your flight is over 12 hours long, business class is worth the extra money

Filing on the plane from Auckland, New Zealand to Los Angeles, I couldn’t help but stare at the pods in business class with outright envy. They had space, real space, enough space to lie down and maybe enough space that they could avoid having their feet swell and pure hypochondriac, “oh my god, I’m going to get a blood clot” moments on the plane.

I’m not going to lie. I had the worst seat. We were seated in the middle aisle (the dreaded middle land of nowhere), Doug on the aisle, and I in the middle of the middle aisle seats, next to a man who had one foot in my seating area and who refused to speak when spoken to. I swear he was meditating the entire time on me disappearing.

In crowded situations like these, every little thing starts to disturb you. For instance, Doug’s stuff had started to wander into my space — his shoes, his travel pillow, his book, and when he was a little bit grumpy when I woke him up to go to the bathroom I admit to being a bit more emphatic than necessary when I plonked everything back into his space and then leaned in. “Just because we’re married does not mean you get to hog my space on the plane,” I whispered passionately in his ear. Fortunately, he was asleep again by then.

Travel Tip #9: Don’t go to the bathroom after you’ve run through the entire airport to catch your flight.

It was the last flight. The flight that we had been waiting for, dreaming of, for over 20 hours. The flight home. And if we missed this flight we would be stuck in Salt Lake City overnight, if not longer. We had ten minutes. We ran. We ran like we had never run before. From terminal D to terminal A. Past bathrooms, past the obese person being dropped off at his gate by cart, past food, down escalators, up escalators. At one point I almost had to cry, “Go without me. I can’t make it. You can! Save yourself!”

Then, relief. A line at the counter, people were boarding at our gate, so Doug fled for the bathroom.

 ”Bozeman!” cried the man at the gate. “Yes,” I panted. “We’re right here. My husband. Is just. In the bathroom. He will. Be back. In a minute.”

A minute went by and the man looked at me. “We’re closing this flight in one minute. He needs to be here by then or we’re closing this flight.”

I ran towards the bathroom, not knowing if I had the courage to run into a men’s bathroom and yank my husband out by his unzipped pants but willing to do so if I had to.

He saw me coming. I waved and made a face like a close family member was dying. He ran. They scanned our boarding pass and urged us to hurry.

And then we ran some more. To the furthest gate in the extension off of the main terminal.

I slid into my seat like an animal dying from respiratory distress and the second little old lady to sit next to me asked, “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be. All right. In a second.” Cough. Inhaler. Cough.

And then a voice on the loudspeaker. “Folks, this is your captain speaking. We’re just going to be a few more minutes. Looks like we’re still waiting for some delayed passengers to reach the airplane. Sorry for the delay. We expect them here in the next 15 minutes.”

The next 15 minutes? I just ran like a track star with a heavy suitcase for probably a mile and nearly had to drag Doug out of the bathroom by his pants and you’re waiting another 15 minutes for more people? We were supposed to leap on and you were supposed to take off! That’s the best ending possible! That’s the only ending that justifies my heart rate!

I don’t know what to say to conclude this long rant except that we did eventually make it home. I showered three times before I felt clean. I buried my washed fleece outfit in the back of the closet where it may stay forever. And I swear to you that I will never, ever run through an air terminal again.

I know, I know, I’m back from my trip, and you all are waiting for me to be done writing about Australia, but I have a couple more posts to share before I mentally return to the U S of A. This is a collection of signs we spotted on our trip that made us laugh. Warning, it contains material that may be offensive to some readers.

The Jack Schitt Story

If you are ever in Hahndorf, South Australia, I don’t recommend the leather shop, or maybe I do depending on your tastes. It’s a small, cobwebbed place on main street with a dirt floor covered by rugs and at the very way back, in a caged hovel, are two large pink bunny rabbits running around in the dirt. I swear. The shop was likely founded by German immigrants with a predilection for  sadomasichism. At the very back of the shop, hanging on the rabbit cage, was this sign: 

Hire A Hubby

I think I’ve heard about these guys in the states, but this is the van for the Aussie franchise, Hire A Hubby. Fortunately, I married an excellent handyman who cooks and gives a good back massage. Now, if only he would do the dishes…

Pickled Brain

There’s a good chance you’ll get a pickled brain if you start drinking at the Aussie bars. 

The Road to Mount Buggery

And other curiously named places in Australia. Order your copy now! 

Wombats!

We love the pig-like marsupial of Australia, even if it is a smelly creature. We weren’t quick enough to snap any photos of wild wombats, but I did get this sign. 

No Spitting — Please use toilets

What can I say, we had a good laugh over this sign at a garbage in the Auckland, New Zealand airport. Is this really a problem? 

Thanks for the Mammaries

I spotted this advertisement in the Sydney airport, and we wanted to go see the play based on the book (it was playing in Adelaide) but didn’t have the time. I will say that perhaps I should broaden my reading lists, because even though these are some of the “world’s most popular authors” I’ve never heard of any of them. Anyway, Australia – Thanks for the Mammaries!

I was going to call this post, “The Last Supper” and then I realized just how inappropriate that would be on Good Friday.

On our final day in Tasmania and our final night in Australia, we sampled some of the best that the country has to offer. The best rainforest in Tasmania has to be Mount Field National Park, which sits near the heart of Tasmania’s wildest country.

Mount Field's gorgeous rainforest

Russell Falls

We took a beautiful circuit hike amongst the tall trees and waterfalls of Mount Field in the morning, but not before we sampled the best coffee and hot chocolate in Tasmania.

Australians are serious about coffee. Bars (or pubs, as they call them) have espresso machines. Even a lot of gas or petrol stations have espresso machines – although we passed on one that offered espresso made from instant coffee (eeugh). I don’t drink coffee, but I do drink hot chocolate, and I can say that the hot chocolate is much better there too — not so sweet, and a lot finer chocolate than Hershey’s.

Anyway, we stopped at the Possum Shop and had our best coffee and a delectable breakfast of sticky date pudding, which is not a pudding at all, but more of a gooey caramel cake, and scones and fresh raspberry jam. I’m salivating just thinking about it.

Doug was on a quest to find the best fish and chips in Tasmania. Seriously, if he could have, he would have eaten fish and chips for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He thought the best was found in Strahan, on the west coast, but a pretty good runner-up was found in Hobart, where we stopped before our evening flight. The high-end fish is blue eye trevalla, a meaty white fish that is probably most similar to cod in our part of the world.

Downtown Hobart

After the fish and chips

Like a lot of nights while we were traveling, we missed having a proper dinner. This time our flight times interfered and by the time we arrived in Adelaide it was past nine, and past closing for most restaurants (they close really early in Australia). So we dined on takeout pizza on a park bench while listening to a woman playing an acoustic guitar at a local pub cover Green Day’s “Time of Your Life” and watching the intensely bright southern hemisphere stars. It sounds sappy, but it was the best last supper to be found in Australia.

So I went to see an astrologist. Once. In December, when I was hoping she could tell me for sure when winter would end in Montana. Seriously, I went to her to make sure my psychic was accurate. Does that make me a flake? Probably, but she was right about my trip to Australia. She accurately predicted the exact dates of the trip and said that it would be perfect and it was.

And, if I didn’t know better, I would say that we were under some very lucky stars because all of our good timing (ferry departures, activity bookings, etc.). It couldn’t have been easier or turned out better. On our final night in Tasmania the stars twinkled and we lucked into the best accomodations of the whole trip for cheap. Tarraleah.

After a day spent exploring Strahan and Tasmania’s Western Coast Wilderness we did some laundry and hit the curvy road back over the mountains before the wildlife lit out. I had booked two nights in Strahan, but the Harbour Views B&B had a bed about as hard and comfortable to sleep on as a round granite rock and we couldn’t stand the thought of another night in pain.

Ocean Beach

Even the vegetation is wild in western Tasmania

So, we headed into central Tasmania without accomodation booked and hoped that we wouldn’t have to sleep in the car. We arrived back at Lake St. Clair National Park at dusk and checked with the park first for a cabin. No luck, except we saw a wild wombat (which was lucky). Then, we went to the one hotel in town. All they had were backpacker accomodations, which were rows of storage-unit looking rooms with no windows and smelly beds. We passed.

But the manager was really kind and called ahead for us to Tarraleah. Lo and behold, they had a cabin for a reasonable price. We’ll take it. Once again managing to miss all of the noctural wildlife (Doug’s good driving) we arrived at Tarraleah after dark and checked into our “cabin” which turned out to be much bigger than our house at home. Tarraleah is a resort community built from historic houses used by workers who were building a hydroelectrical development in the 1920’s and 1930’s.

Tarraleah - the front sitting room of our "cabin"

It was by far the nicest place we stayed while in Tasmania and one of the cheapest. Lucky indeed.

One of my favorite New England yarns from Doug is a story about a tourist who stops at a little town in Maine to ask for driving directions. He sees an old Mainer sitting outside a coffee shop and asks, “Can you tell me how to get to Bangor?”

The Mainer looks at him, and slowly drawls out, “You can’t get there from here.”

Puzzled, the tourist asks, “Well, where does this road go?”

“Don’t go nowhere,” the Mainer answers. “Stays right here.”

I wish you could hear Doug tell it in his New England accent. It kills me every time.

During the last part of the trip, I felt a lot like that tourist in Maine. The roads in Tasmania didn’t seem to go anywhere but there.

Before we left on our trip, I studied up on Tasmania, visiting travel websites and keeping a hefty Fodor’s guide by my besides at night. Fodor was pretty good except in one regard. They offered this piece of advice, “Most places within Tasmania are within easy driving distance.” And you would think so, given that Tasmania is about the size of West Virginia and also because I’m from Montana, I have a bit of an ego about driving long distances to get to good spots.  

What the guidebook didn’t say is that the roads are all narrow, mostly curvy, and it’s not at all advisable to drive at night because the woods spit nocturnal wildlife onto the road every five minutes.  

Oh, and then there is the left side of the road thing. Doug did an admirable job of driving, and only forgot a couple times (when we were on very rural roads) that he should be driving on the left, not the right. We probably had the cleanest windshield in Tasmania though because every time he went to turn on the blinker (usually on the left) he hit the windshield wiper instead.

Doug in the driver's seat on the right

So, when I planned the trip to Tasmania I had one of those traveler dilemmas — stay in one place and get to know it really well (i.e. a backpacking trip) or try to see as much as possible because you may never come back. I opted for the latter and booked a couple of nights on the West Coast, which required a drive from the East Coast and Freycinet National Park. No problem, I thought. We can do 4-5 hours in the car. If we get up early we can also hike at Lake St. Clair National Park. No problem.

I know this metaphor may not work for those you not from Montana, but what we did in one day was equivalent to driving 8 hours from Bozeman to Calgary, Alberta with a five hour hike in Glacier in the middle.

To try to speed things up, we took shortcuts across the state, asking people only an hour’s drive from the shortcut road if it was an okay road and finding that some people in Tasmania haven’t left their county in their entire lifetime.

The road less traveled

It was a long gravel road, which was marked mostly by huge logging trucks going way too fast and a forest fire that seemed awfully close to the road when we drove by. Fortunately, it led us to the beautiful Lake St. Clair National Park where we hiked through rainforest up to view two glacial lakes.

Lake St. Clair National Park

At Forgotten Lake

But that wasn’t nearly as bad as the highway to the west coast after we finished our hike. Beautiful views of glacier valleys and mountain cliffs were not seen by me, because I was trying not to gag from the motion sickness caused by hairpin turns that went on endlessly.

We stopped in Queenstown (Tasmania’s version of Butte – it has open-pit copper mining and everything) to grab some meat pies (I abstained do to the nausea) and then crept along for 40 km (it took us an hour and a half) because of all the darting wildlife in the road (rabbits, possums, and wallabies).

We arrived in the coastal village of Strahan at our B&B, drop off the baggage, and leave Hannah to sleep while we search for a “bottleshop” to buy a few bottles of beer to share back at the hotel.

Turns out the only place to buy beer in Strahan at 11 p.m. is at the bar so we turn up there to buy a six pack. Doug approaches to buy the said beer and a middle-aged man with an extremely red face and slurred speech asks us where we are from. In towns of 750, it’s easy to pick out newcomers, even if we weren’t from the country.

We’re having as decent a conversation as you can with a drunk man from Tasmania who is called a “slag” by his girlfriend (apparently that means redneck) until he decides to reach over to unzip my hooded sweatshirt (which didn’t get him very far since I had a t-shirt on underneath).

Doug’s reaction was to sort of gently push him back and say, “Hey now, she doesn’t like to be fussed with.”  

Which is hilarious in and of itself (I now tell him all the time that I don’t like to be fussed with) but I didn’t really help matters because in trying to diffuse any possible tension I said, “Oh, it’s ok.” Very lame.

Anyway, we left without any altercation and the whole incident was fairly minor, but it’s true, I don’t like to be fussed with.

Travel Tip #3: When seakayaking, make sure you choose someone besides your spouse for a partner.

The twilight sea kayakers

After our adventures in southeast Australia, we drove up the coast to Freycinet (pronounced Frayseenay) National Park, one of the most gorgeous places on earth. Imagine turquoise water, white sand beaches, exotic forests, mountains made up of jumbled granite rocks, and most of it removed from civilization’s easy access. Now that’s my kind of place!

Wineglass and Honeymoon Bays at Freycinet Park

 

 

It was at this juncture that our trip became a bit more “balls to the walls” as Doug put it, and after a three-hour drive we hiked five hours up a mountain, across two beaches, and through the forest just in time for another dinner of fish and chips (Doug’s favorite food) at Coles Bay.

Wineglass Bay Lookout

At Wineglass Bay Beach

A wild wallaby on the trail

The next day we hiked to the top of Mount Amos in the morning, and then scheduled a twilight sea kayaking adventure across Honeymoon Bay.

Hanna hikes with her borrowed toque (Canadian), beanie (Aussie), or hat (American)

At the top of Mt. Amos

This went well, except that we have never sea kayaked before, and my driving skills annoyed Doug so much that he used up his quota of dirty looks for the trip.

We managed not to bicker too much (I mostly laughed hysterically every time he gave me a look for steering us in the opposite direction from where we were supposed to go) but Doug mentioned to our guide that when he used to guide whitewater rafting trips the guides called the double kayaks the “divorce boats.” She laughed and said she’d witnessed some awful fights in Honeymoon Bay and actually had couples ask to switch partners during the tea break half-way through the 3.5 hour trek.

The back paddler in a touristy sea kayak steers the boat not with her paddle, but with her feet. You press the right peddle to go right and the left peddle to go left. Or, if you’re me, you press the left to go right, realize that you’ve done the wrong thing, overcorrect and nearly tip the boat while out at sea. If you can’t walk and chew gum at the same time, this might not be the position in the boat for you. 

The front paddler in a sea kayak sets the rhythm of paddling and generally tries to keep the boat going forward. I was decent at this except that I kept dumping shovel-full buckets of sea water on Doug when I brought my paddle up and out of the water and he wasn’t too keen on that experience either. So we switched spots during the break, and paddled in last because of my terrible steering skills. 

Sigh. You just can’t be naturally talented at everything.

They might have to rename Honeymoon Bay  Divorce Bay if they keep offering kayak trips for couples across it. Don’t try this at home.

Travel Tip #2: Boats shouldn’t have seat belts

Bruny Island charters - our boat

The art of taking risks is personal. I’m afraid of spiders, Hannah is afraid of snakes, and Doug is a little afraid of missing the last ferry off the island.

Today I had about 15 minutes of pure, intense fear — the kind of fear where you are sure you are going to die, the kind of fear where you are saying prayers to gods you don’t believe in, the kind of fear where perfect strangers become close, personal friends. And what was Hannah doing while I had my panic attack? Laughing. At me. 

Before the terror

The fear arrived when we took a cruise around Bruny Island today in the yellow boats (look for that if you go to Tasmania) and it was truly an unforgettable experience of natural beauty and pure adrenalin. I should have known when we got in the boat and they asked us to put our seatbelts on “low and tight” and didn’t tell me where the life jackets were that I was in for some trouble.

But for the first part of the trip, when we were getting close-ups of the caves and rock formations and amazing wildlife around the island the boating seemed fun — like going on a motorboat ride in a big, pretty calm lake.

And then our boat met the Southern Ocean. Things were relatively calm on the Tasman Sea, but the Southern Ocean held swells about 20 feet that looked like they would envelope the small jet boat we were in. And it was a calm day, they said. 

The swell coming toward me

We ripped through those swells at about 40 miles per hour. Up and fall. Up and fall. It was a 900 hoursepower boat, three 300 mercs — crazy amount of speed and power and really we probably didn’t have a chance of dying, but with every fall I saw the boat shattering to pieces and all of us drowning immediately. Of course, nothing like that occurred, and we were in great hands (Doug kept assuring me) and at the end of all of that terror lay great giant seals on huge rocks with beautiful blue water swirling round and they more than made up for my fear. But I didn’t really breathe easily until shore again.

Seals in the Southern Ocean

What I should have been afraid of was the brown snake Doug nearly stepped on as we made our way down to the beach on our after-boat-ride hike. Copperhead snakes in Australia are some of the most poisonous snakes on earth. Kill you in a millisecond, they will. And yet that didn’t bother me in the least. The snake slithered away more frightened of us than we were of it. 

At Isthmus Bay on Bruny Island

Once again, we had a perfect day, and Tasmania was glorious. Now how do we immigrate here….

Sunset on the ferry back to Kettering

Landing in Tasmania was like coming home. I could feel a cool breeze, I could see trees that if you squinted might look similar to the ones in Montana, and there were mountains in the distance. 

Hannah celebrates our arrival in Hobart, Tasmania

It’s odd to fly nearly 10,000 miles and feel at home. You think that marathon travel like that would lead you to a really foreign experience, like outer space maybe. But no, they still play music from Nashville and movies from Hollywood over here (which is disappointing, I must admit – I had hoped for a few more Aussie tunes on the radio).

Hannah said that during her international student orientation at University of Queensland they carefully instructed her that things in Australia “are not weird, are not wrong, they’re just different.” 

And I would say that’s mostly true except for vegemite, which does seem wrong to me.

At the Tahune Airwalk, a boardwalk through the tops of tall eucalyptus trees in Tasmania

Another treehugger in the family

But I love different English (as in the language) names and expressions of communicating. For instance, you can tell a lot about a country by what they call the “facilities”. In Australia they call a spade a spade, shall we say, and just get right to the point with the word “toilets” and an arrow pointing in the right direction.

We stopped at a winery for lunch on our first day in Tasmania and Doug asked what a toasted sandwhich was. The woman looked at him like he was a little retarded and said, “It’s a toasted sandwich.” See, direct. Hannah got a similar response with the question, “What’s in the salad?” By the way, if you travel to Australia, “capsicum” is green bell pepper. 

At a Tasmanian winery in the Huon Valley (which sounds like a Dr. Seuss valley)

My other favorite Australian expressions are greetings and general feel good sayings. “How ya going?” is their version of our “How’s it going?” and “No Worries” to Americans is a reminder to stop stressing, you’re not in America anymore and you don’t have to worry that someone is going to be rude and jump the line here. I was sad that we only heard two G’days. Hannah said you really only hear it in rural areas. Maybe it’s the Aussie version of howdy? 

My very favorite saying is “Good on ya.” It’s just so nice and complimentary. We should say, “Good for you!” as often as they say this.

Ordering coffee and tea can get confusing. They have coffee items like flat white and long black on the menu, and when I tried to order tea in jet-lagged stupor the woman asked me what kind and I said, “Medium?” and I got another “are you retarded?” look when she replied, “Black or White.” Oh.

Anyway, morning and afternoon tea breaks at work should definitely be imported to America. We need a few more occasions to talk and times for no worries in our culture. And that’s not weird, or wrong, it’s just right.

Morning tea with Jurlique

In Hahndorf at the art museum

After four days of bratwurst, schnitzel, Kuchen, and bee stingers (a cake), we were ready for some normal, non-faux-German items on menus again.

At Adelaide's Rundle Mall with the other piggies from Hahndorf

Hannah arrived in Hahndorf just in time to try and hunt for something approaching a vegetable in town, and since we had an early departure for Tasmania the next day we booked a hotel room next to the Adelaide airport and spent the day exploring local attractions.

Hannah at the koala "close-up" at Cleland Wildlife Park

First, we headed to Cleland Wildlife Park for a fun zoo-like experience. You haven’t lived until you’ve fed and petted a kangaroo. They have such soft noses and fur and are so gentle on the hand. After an experience like that you can’t imagine trying to eat kangaroo (which is on most menus). Hannah said that Australia is the only country that regularly eats the wild animals on its coat of arms (emus and kangaroos).  

Feeding those crazy Roos

Yes, emus will eat from your hand

For some islands, just a bit north of here, humans were a prime item on the menu (they didn’t need schnitzel or kangaroo) some years ago and when we toured the South Australia museum we viewed some genuinely scary artifacts. 

We ended the day with a trip to Adelaide’s outdoor Rundle Mall and Central Market, an enjoyed some of the yummiest fresh fruits I’ve ever eaten. We just don’t have that year-round in Montana. Or cannibalism, thank god.

Adelaide architecture, a mix of old and new

This trip has been filled with good people. Perhaps that is the best part of traveling — meeting people who may be thousands of miles from your geographic world, but very close to you in spirit. 

Enjoying a final refreshment together in the Adelaide Hills

With sadness, we bid adieu to Pam, our Jurlique host, and Jude and Libby, our fellow winners. 

On our last night of Jurlique contest sponsored fun(last Thursday night), Jude and Libby kindly invited us to watch some “footy” on the telly in a Pub and explained the ins and outs of Australian Rules Football to us. I’ll try and explain it to you.  Picture about 30 very fit men under 30 running around a soccer-sized field wearing Where’s Waldo striped clothing while trying to either bump (like a volleyball bump) or kick (like an American football kick) an oversized American football to each other and through a goal post. 

No helmets, no special padding, and a lot of wrestling and grabbing and “marking” and “oh my god, it’s up in the air, who can jump and catch it first” type of play. It really was fun to watch, and not too confusing — unlike cricket, which is deadly boring and lasts literally for days. 

Libby described rugby as trying to get a bunch of bananas through the end of a goal post, and I might pick up on her metaphor to say that rugby players do kind of have gorilla- like bodies. I don’t see that much difference between it and the AFL (Australian Football League), but my eyes haven’t developed a sense for Australian “footy” as they say. 

Anyway, we very much hope that Libby and Jude will make a trip to Montana so that we can try to explain America’s National Football League rules to them and similarly confuse them with the rules of our favorite sport. Cheers!

At Glenelg Beach for a final Jurlique spa treatment