What Makes Me Laugh

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.

Travel Tip #1: Avoid long layovers at LAX at all costs!

We are currently suffering through a 12-hour marathon layover in LAX.

 Here’s how today was suppose to go: Get up ungodly early, arrive at LAX from Montana at 9:00 a.m., check our luggage with Air New Zealand, throw carry-ons in a locker, and head to the beach for a little R&R before our 10:00 p.m. flight.

Here’s how today really went: Get confused about how to get to Air New Zealand terminal, rent a $4 SmarteCarte, speak with “volunteer” who gives us directions to terminal and then hoses us for a $7 donation for “hungry children”, travel approximately 1 block with $4 cart, get on bus, and arrive at empty terminal. 

Air New Zealand staff apparently don’t arrive on site until 2:00 p.m.. When we enquire with the security guard about when someone might appear he pulls us toward a window, points to an odd-shaped circular building in the distance and begins to talk in the sort of calm, resigned voice you use when giving someone bad news.

“See that building?” he says. “On the top floor is a restaurant, and on the bottom floor is a good deli. I really like the deli. You can also go to the international terminal – a lot of good restaurants there and a nice place to sit and watch the planes fly out.”

Watch the planes fly out? What does he think we are, 3? What about the lockers?

“Sorry, no lockers at the airport.” 

We look a bit stunned, and turn to see similar expressions on two couples traveling on Air New Zealand late in the day too. The UK couple are returning from Tahiti and are dog-tired. 

Doug decides he’s going to try reaching someone by phone and practices impersonating Bret and Jemaine while waiting on hold with Air New Zealand. When someone finally picks up he asks, “Is there a way we can check our bags early?” and she says,”Of course not! There might be four or five bombs in there!” Hmm. The woman is firm. We can’t check in until 6 p.m.

The Brit woman asks, “No joy?” when Doug gets off the phone and I shake my head. “No joy.” It’s now my new favorite saying.

The six of us trudge our way to the international terminal, where Doug is currently sleeping on my shoulder and I’m looking at a view of palm trees in smog. When we arrived here another “volunteer” asked “Need some help?” and Doug joked, “Yeah, I need some money for food. I’m hungry.”