Goodbye to All That

On the eve of our departure for America I take computer in hand for one final entry. It is hard to contemplate, or even comprehend, what sort of country we will return to, but an objective analysis of this society has convinced me that it, too, may be suffering from a tremendous upsurge in xenophobia and racism. I have seen nothing personally to verify this, mind you, yet I have read quite a few editions of the Rupert Murdoch-owned newspapers here and seen the same disgusting rhetoric that has gained a foothold in my own benighted homeland over the last few months. Fortunately, my actual experiences yesterday completely contradicted that sense of a fascist zeitgeist, but I will have to back up to tell the tale.

We left Melbourne on the Monday morning train and endured the 11 hour ride back to Sydney. It is not as bad as it sounds, because on the train there is no one to constantly pester you about wearing a seat belt (there aren't any) and you are free to move about as much as you want. The passenger trains do not have lounge cars here, however, so your walking about and stretching is confined to trips made to the "buffet" car where a narrow passage is provided for passengers to order food and beverages. Small alcoves between the cars allow for some stretching room, and of course, there is always periodic swaying, clumsy trek to the toilets. The food is not bad on these trains, and true to her habit of photographing attractive meals, Jayne decided to snap this shot of her choice for lunch.

We arrived at Sydney just as it was getting dark and, ironically, we had to catch an urban line which backtracked the same route we had just traveled. We arrived at a station that Google Maps told us was no further than 750 meters from our next lodging, but of course it did not tell us that distance was almost straight up. Fortunately our host

came and collected us at the station in his car, and brought us to this lovely restored Victorian era mansion where I now type these lines. It must have cost a fortune to change this palace into six luxurious, self contained apartments, and the effort has truly paid off for guests such as ourselves. This apartment has everything, and is thoroughly modern and clean. What was even more incredible was the arrival next morning of our host with a continental breakfast try for our enjoyment. As always, my lovely partner recorded the attractive meal:

Arncliffe, the suburb where this place is situated, is close to nothing and conveniently located to less than nothing, which may partially account for the host's royal treatment and the low price, but we chose it for an entirely different reason. Blanca Tovias, a scholar of Blackfeet Indian studies who I met years ago when she was doing research in our Special Collections reading room at the Montana State University Library, lives nearby with her husband Philip, and we wanted to spend our final days in Sydney visiting with them. Blanca has retired

from the faculty of the University of Sydney to pay attention to her grand children, and Phillip is a retired engineer. They are lovely people and devoted an entire day to showing us their world. Among the sites we took in were the beach at La Perouse and a monument that marked the place where a French exploring vessel arrived at Botany Bay in 1788 just a couple of days after the arrival of the British first fleet of convict ships. Not only did La Parouse miss his opportunity of claiming Australia for the French, he had the dubious further honor of having one of his crew members die during his visit (making him the first European to expire on this continent) and then became lost at sea after the crew departed for France. Tough luck.

But all this attention to the misty past and Gallic exploration is not the multi-cultural lesson I wanted to convey in this essay. You see, Dr. Tovias was actually born in Mexico, and only came to Australia after marrying her husband who she met while he working on a project in her home town. She is the only person I have heard who speaks Australian with a Mexican accent, which would be impossible to duplicate by the most talented mimic. Obviously you would expect an educated person of such ethnicity to be the sort to celebrate the expanding cultural society of Australia and you would be right. She and Phillip took us to their favorite coffee house, operated by some Lebanese and situated in a neighborhood that is home to a growing population of people from Nepal, who live along side of a substantial Chinese residential contingent. Blanca explained how much they love the vibrancy of the shops here, and among the stops we made after

coffee was a Lebanese bakery with the most delicious and beautiful arrangement of goods I have seen anywhere (and I have been to Paris)! The proprietor allowed Jayne to take her portrait behind the counter as she loaded us up with a variety of goodies that Blanca ordered. Phillip next ducked into a hookah store where he bought charcoal for his Christmas barbecue, and we took the lot back to the car to drive back to their home. In short, it was a lesson in how all societies with a little effort can learn to live with one another, and appreciate their differences, even celebrate them. Thank you, Australia, for restoring my hope.

Pedal Power

Our last days in Melbourne have been both exhausting and relaxing. We spent yesterday running around downtown again, taking in the OTHER Art Gallery of Victoria which featured painting, sculpture, and design from Europe, Asia, and other places other than Australia. One

particularly poignant display was a painting that the museum thought was a Van Gogh, "Head of a Man." For sixty years the gallery thought the work was an original by the celebrated Dutch artist, but a 2007 analysis by the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam put it to tests and proved it was not. It was a real pity, because the curators thought they had the only Van Gogh in Australia. I resolved then and there that if I ever won the Powerball, I would purchase a Van Gogh and give it to these good people to enjoy in perpetuity.

After reviewing some pretty incredible art, we caught a free tram to go deeper into the town center where our guidebook recommended we visit a Victorian era “arcade,” a shopping center set back from the sidewalk and quite elaborate in its interior design. I was somewhat underwhelmed, since the place was so small, but it did contain one storefront that had a selection of original paintings and drawings done by Theodor Seuss Geisel, popularly known as Dr. Seuss. While I would have enjoyed an original sketch of the Cat in the Hat, we had to pass it up. We made our way to lunch after that, and then caught another free tram to the Victoria Market, a giant open air assembly of merchants of various ethnicity hawking cheap merchandise in a babel of tongues. We then returned to the inter-city train station where we heard there was a Banksy exhibit. How one would feature original

works that are done on graffiti walls bewildered me, and I remain in bewilderment since we decided against the thirty dollar ticket price. However, adjacent to the venue was a curious little riverside carnival that we determined to investigate. It was a very odd, and very cool

place where temporary food vendors and bars had been set up around about four different croquet setups, all busy with young people playing the game. Returning to the train station from this place were a string of African food booths, selling the cuisine of Ethiopia and other countries while a stage show of African dancers performed to a hypnotic beat. This was truly sensory overload.

Today we stuck close to our little rental home and prepared to pack up and leave, but we did make one last outing. Availing ourselves of

our host’s kind offer to let us use her bicycles, Jayne and I took a bicycle path to visit a riverside café about 4 kilometers from here. What a great ride! The Yarra River, while hardly a pristine course of water, is quite charming with many homes lining its steep banks. The

bike path we were on went all the way to the downtown, too, and was used by other riders, joggers, and strollers. This accommodation for outdoor recreation was outstanding, and I must say I have not seen the like in Sydney. Indeed, one of the first newspaper stories I read when we arrived in Australia featured an interview with Tour de France champion Cadel Evans who declared he would never ride in Sydney because it is too dangerous. I totally agree.

We ended our bike ride by stopping at the park that lies in the rear of our house to watch members of a local baseball club playing a game. Yes, you thought all these Aussies played cricket, rugby, and that bizarre Australian Rules Football, but here they were, playing American baseball with real spirit. We watched a few pitches, and saw some pretty impressive infield errors, before returning home. Tomorrow it is back on the train to Sydney.

Back to the Future

In the book Future Shock, which I was required to read as a sophomore in college, author Alvin Toffler predicted in the 1970s that living history communities would eventually spring up in America allowing people to have the option of living their lives in the past, or at least a interpretation of the past. The idea intrigued me at the time, since my only experience with such places had been an elementary school outing to Henry Ford’s bizarre Greenfield Village and a trip to Williamsburg, Virginia when I was eighteen. Both places were staffed with people taking the option of living in the past, but neither one seemed particularly convincing or inviting.

Fast forward to my experiences as a Civil War reenactor. Gathering together with hundreds and thousands of like minded lunatics who wanted to recreate the world of the 1860s, I found an experience that most resembled Toffler’s prediction, but only as a temporary world; a weekend’s escape from the twentieth century. I had read about plans to establish a permanent site for a Civil War reenactment village, but to my knowledge nothing ever came of it. Visits to Tombstone, Arizona, Lincoln, New Mexico, and Virginia City, Montana during the intervening years all left me with the feeling that Toffler’s vision would never come true for the history of the American frontier. Nevada City in Montana might come close, but unless I am mistaken few of the reenactors there are paid for their trouble.

Our visit to Sovereign Hill on Thursday convinced me that Toffler’s prediction can possibly become true. Set in the 1850s, this town is a recreation of frontier Ballarat, staffed by over 350 paid employees and probably a volunteer compliment equally as large. The buildings were superb reproductions, as evidenced by comparing old photographs with the present structures, and even the miner’s cabins and tents along the gold panning creek gave the impression they had just been erected and abandoned for the day by occupants whose lust for gold kept them at their claims from dawn to dusk. The personnel were accurately dressed, and they slipped from first person interpretation to contemporary explanation effortlessly. Even groups of school children, who need to book their visits years in advance, were properly decked out in nineteenth century garb and shepherded about by teachers in similar attire, learning their lessons in basic subjects along with manners and comportment. They were so regimented, and so polite and willing to play the game, that it added to the illusion of actually being in the past. There were four different schools being taught at different locations in the town.

We spent the afternoon in this wonderland taking in the shops, watching some of the demonstrations, riding the Cobb & Company stagecoach, and having a delicious late lunch before checking into our cabin accommodations at a nearby caravan park. By the time we got there, Jayne and I were pretty well done in, and none too

enthusiastic about the next activity I had scheduled; taking in the towns light and sound show about the Eureka Stockade event that started at 9:00 p.m., a time when we are generally in our pajamas. Add to that a fierce wind and rain storm that had started during the day but only turned uglier at nightfall and you have a picture of our reluctance.

We should not have had the slightest hesitation. In spite of it being a cold, wet, and blustery night, we made our way back to the town to watch one of the best multi-media historical presentations I have ever seen. It began in an exhibit hall with interactive stations that helped one place the gold rush into context and appreciate the incredible hardships that goldseekers had to endure to get to the diggings. Then we were seated in an indoor theater and presented with a projected show that gave an overview of the 1854 miner’s revolt. Just as I was getting comfortable and smugly reassuring Jayne that we would not have to go outside for the show, a guide appeared on the stage and told us to follow her outside for the rest of the show! We were herded into the middle of a cold, rainy, muddy street that ran through the miner’s shacks and storefronts where the narration continued. Jayne, dressed only in two sleeveless dresses and a shawl, at least had an umbrella, but I gave her my coat, too, or she never would have made it. That would have been a pity, too, for once the gold camp portion of the presentation concluded they provided a bus that took us over a mile up the hill to ANOTHER open air theater where the story continued. It was fascinating, thrilling, and downright awe inspiring as we watched the tale unfold in

a scale model of Ballarat with working campfires, burning buildings, and various special effects. I was not uncomfortable; we were sheltered from the rain and I have a tendency to dress too warm anyway, so we enjoyed the entire show together, hypnotized by its professionalism and realism. Bear in mind this was all conducted in the dark, and when the bus took us back down to the main street the scene was lit by soft glowing street lamps that lent an eerie realism to the concluding performance, a live address by an actor portraying one of the miner’s leaders. We went home after that stunned by what we had seen and spent a comfortable night.

So, if it is true one can live in the past in this future world we find ourselves, I think Sovereign Hill came closer to that ideal than anything I have ever seen. We both agreed that the potential for Virginia City to replicate some of the things we saw here in Australia ought to be explored.

Robbery Under Arms

Ballarat. Even the name sounds exotic. Scene of the epicenter of Victoria’s 1854 gold rush, Ballarat is now simply a suburb of Melbourne, with commuter trains going back and forth mulitple times every day. This is our destination tomorrow, when we will go to spend the night in a holiday park adjacent to Sovereign Hill, a recreated gold rush town with costumed guides and plenty of opportunity to spend money. It sounds like an Australian Tombstone to me, and I am quite excited about our visit.

I first heard about Ballarat (and the Australian gold rush, for that matter) when I was still in Magee Junior High School and reading Sherlock Holmes for the first time. The Boscombe Valley Mystery set Holmes and Watson on a puzzle that resulted in apprehending an English murderer who had formerly been a member of a bushranger gang in Australia. On the lips of the murder victim were uttered the word “rat” which the great detective realized was actually “Ballarat,” and so here I am about fifty years later.

Jayne was quite sick the other night and coughed violently, causing both of us a bout of sleeplessness that really wore us out. She stayed home today while I made a trip to a bookstore adjacent to the University of Melbourne where I knew they had a copy of Rolf Bolderwood’s classic Robbery Under Arms. It was a long journey in the surface tram, which I learned crawls along the city streets at a fraction of the speed of the commuter trains. They stop multiple times between the official stops, and the trip was an ordeal I would not care to repeat, even though I got to see a lot more of the city. I felt like I was on a Cobb & Company stagecoach headed to the gold fields, but at least I was not concerned about being bailed up by bushrangers.

Exploring Melbourne

Melbourne is a wonderful city, filled with an interesting mix of old and new architecture, lovely parks and green spaces, and a transit system that is initially confusing yet curiously effective. We got up this morning and rode the train from the suburb of Kooyoung, where we are staying, into the Flinders Street station and began a long walk east to the Fitzroy Gardens, a park that was established in the 1860s.

It was spotless, with lots of busy caretakers to make sure it stayed that way. Among the sites along its shady lanes were a pavillion green house filled with the most beautiful array of flowers, the reconstructed cottage of Captain Cook’s parents brought over from England, and a “fairy tree” which has long since died but still bears the intricate carvings created in the 1930s of little people, koalas, and kangaroos.

Exiting the park we embarked on a fruitless quest for some second hand stores a guidebook had told us would be in an adjacent neighborhood of the same name. It was not an entirely wasted trip because we saw some pretty old buildings along the way that are reminiscent of the architectural style you would see in the French Quarter of New Orleans and a giant, somewhat grim looking St. Patrick’s Cathedral which rivaled many we saw in Paris.

Turning back to the core of the city, we made our way first to the Melbourne Museum, but we decided against going in to view the eclectic mixture of natural history and human history exhibits. The Royal Exhibition building in front of the museum was impressive, with a giant dome and a polished wooden floor that we admired from the doorway. Both are situated in another lovely park that a sign proclaimed had been designated as a world heritage site. It was not entirely without fault, however, since the flies were particularly nettlesome along this stretch that required us to continually employ the “Australian Wave” to keep them at bay. (I can see why the popular image of the old-time swagman with corks dangling from his hat brim came to be.)

At last we found ourselves at the State Library of Victoria, and we quickly made our way to the fifth floor to view the treasures they had on display. An incredible collection of documents, photographs, and artifacts told the story of Melbourne and Victoria’s

history from aboriginal times, to the first white contact, and finally to the modern date. We saw a portion of the flag flown by the rebelling miners at Ballarat’s Eureka Stockade, a diary of an active young woman from the 1890s who detailed her daily life in the city, and of course, Ned Kelly’s armor! As impressive as that display may have been, I was completely aghast to see Ned’s Jeriderie manifesto on display as well, done in his own hand (well, done in Joe Byrne’s hand, but at least Ned dictated it). I really liked the text from page they chose to highlight in the display case. Ned was certainly no Shakespeare:

...is my brothers and sisters and my mother not to be pitied also who was has no alternative only to put up with the brutal and cowardly conduct of a parcel of big ugly fat necked wombat headed big bellied magpie legged narrow hipped splawfooted sons of Irish bailiffs or English landlords which is better known as Officers of Justice or Victorian Police...

While we were looking at the Kelly display the library’s manuscript curators came to do some maintenance and we had a nice chat, international colleague to colleague. We also viewed the library’s main reading room from the balcony, which allowed us to see people deeply engaged in reading and study with nary a house computer in sight. Such is life.

Such Is Life

In one of the more significant events of my adolescence in Tucson, Arizona, I stumbled across a phonograph album in an El Con Mall department store. The album was the soundtrack to a film by Tony Richardson and starring Mick Jagger: Ned Kelly. Kris Kristopherson and Waylon Jennings were featured on the album and the interior notes of the cardboard cover gave the most sketchy details

of Australia’s “Iron Outlaw.” I bought the album, waited breathlessly for the film to show up in Tucson (which it did, eventually, as the second feature at a local drive in movie and even then only for a week) and I have been interested in Ned ever since. I have read quite a bit about him, and find his myth to be a compelling sort of Australian Jesse James figure, notwithstanding the recent comparison by Robert Utley of Ned to Billy the Kid.

I remark on this because today, during our 11 hour train journey from Sydney to Melbourne, we passed through the heart of “Kelly Country,” including Glenrowan, the site of his last stand against the police that had come to track him down, and Euroa, the site of his gang’s first successful bank robbery. I was beside myself with awe, even though my dear wife continues to refer to Ned as “Stupid Head” and spent most of her time reading as we passed through these historic sites.

Now we are comfortably settled into a pool side cottage that is nothing short of palatial compared to our other lodgings during this trip. After the lengthy train trip, and a short jaunt in a sweaty cab across downtown Melbourne, we were welcomed by our host who

had thought of everything. In addition to the well stocked larder for our evening meal and detailed instructions on how to use the train to get from the suburb of Kooyong to downtown, she even offered us bicycles to ride and showed us the bike paths. Unlike Sydney, it appears you can ride a bike here without taking your life in your hands.

Our final day in Sydney was somewhat of a disappointment. We went to Paddy’s Market where I bought a Ned Kelly t-shirt, as I always do when we visit, but when we tried to go to a restaurant in nearby Chinatown I picked the very worst one. To make a long story short, after plunking down sixty seven dollars I was presented with some shrimp and rice served in glop of unspiced cream sauce which

covered the squash it was cooked in. I doubt I have had a worse meal on this continent, and I have eaten some pretty sketchy meat pies, believe me! Our apartment in Sydney, although located convenient to the conference I attended, left much to be desired as well. We are glad enough to now be here in Melbourne, and tomorrow we will explore more. After all, the Victoria National Library here has Ned Kelly’s armor on permanent display...

‘

Conference Wrap Up

Years ago I used to do a stand up comedy routine at the annual meetings of the Society of Southwest Archivists. For weeks prior to the event, I would pour over tired old jokes to see if I could somehow flip them to direct the humor at librarians and archivists, and eventually I would come up with enough to fill up a couple of small notecards with reminder cues that allowed me to keep up the patter for about a twenty minute presentation. It was very nerve wracking because I knew once I had to begin drawing tickets for door prizes (ostensibly the reason they kept asking me to do it) I would have to ad lib, and horrid were the tremors of “flop sweat” that I endured. I needn’t have worried. Every act for a decade turned out OK and the audience enjoyed regardless if they won a prize or not.

This meeting of the Art Library Society of Australia and New Zealand was different. Other than my nervousness about doing a Power Point presentation, I felt no pressure at all from these lovely people and was perfectly relaxed. This was especially true yesterday when, as part of a panel discussion that ended the conference, I was able to respond to questions with a clear head and a easy stomach. It also

helped that every presentation prior to the panel discussion was worth listening to. One of my favorites was presented by Michael Proud of the National Library of Australia regarding their handling of a massive photographic collection backlog. It warmed the cockles of my archival heart to hear them say they realized early on how ridiculous it would be to attempt item level description for these images and opted for arrangement and description practices of archivists to gather the photographs into large, relevant subject series. Still taking the time to individually number the items, the practice allows for the future addition of item level cataloging data at leisure or demand. If only all library managers were so enlightened! We work so hard to create searching platforms that are merely online collection advertisements designed to give the uninformed the illusion they are actually doing research.

I had so many people come up to me and say they agreed with my True Archives web blog and its vicious anti-Information Science rhetoric, too. That was worth coming to the far side of the globe to hear all in itself, but of course we have more things to look at before Jayne and I return to our benighted homeland. Today is the first day I have had to myself after two days of conference activity and Jayne has been a bit of a homebody during that time. Sticking close to this gulag of an apartment (the television does not work, the carpet is old and stained, the kitchen supports wildlife, and there is no artwork on the walls except for a collage of old greeting cards) Jayne has been bored out of her mind. While I was out at the conference banquet last night, and had the pleasure of seeing Russell Crowe walk by my table with his son, she was stuck here watching YouTube videos on this dinky, slow-loading laptop. I have to get her out into downtown Sydney during our last day before heading to Melbourne on the train tomorrow.

I am a Stranger Here Myself

I appeared before an international conference yesterday. (It was “international” because I was one of two American presenters, we were welcomed to country by a fellow of Aboriginal ancestry, and there were a couple of New Zealanders on the program as well.) In all a most intimate gathering since there were only about sixty five to seventy registrants gathered in the lecture hall of the Art Gallery of New South Wales.

The conference began with one of the most delightful talks I have ever heard in any gathering of information professionals. Benjamin Law, an Australian writer of Chinese-Malaysian descent, spoke about his family history in Australia with humor, grace, and touching detail. Benjamin is a gay man whose parents were divorced at a crucial time in his life, and anyone would reasonably expect a fellow with his background and experiences would have endured an adolescence of feeling like an “other” to the world around him. However, this young man flourished in Australia, became a successful magazine essayist, and his memoirs on his childhood, The Family Law, has been republished in numerous editions around the world and served as the basis for a smash hit Australian television series of the same name. He was an absolutely stunning speaker and he paid tribute to the archives and libraries where he did his research for the book. I told him after the talk that I sincerely hoped our American public television network would pick up the option on the show. (It would certainly be an improvement to their somewhat tired current lineup of British comedies.) Benjamin’s next book is an examination of the LGBT communities in various locations in China, Malaysia, and India which he has titled Gaysia. I hope our library will purchase his books if it has not already done so.

Those who know me well can testify that I have never really been intimidated by public speaking, but this time was different. Not only was my subject controversial, I also had the horror of a session timekeeper with a bicycle horn to give notice to windbags hogging the stage. I began by apologizing to the audience by identifying myself as an American and naming three disadvantages I was working under: I have a tendency to speak slowly, I have never given a Power Point lecture in my life (although I did show a video once), and last but not least, I had nothing to do with electing the current idiot that is slated to take the Presidential oath of office next January. With that said I

launched into my illustrated tirade which, on the surface, would seem to be insulting to each and every one of my listeners. I decried the contemporary librarian obsession with all things digital, damned the practice of destroying collections to make room for maker spaces and other such irrelevancies, and insisted that those whose work does not focus exclusively on curating the codex should cease referring themselves by the honored title of “librarian.” Along the way, I used some of my most provocative artwork to illustrate my points and got more than a few polite laughs. The real payoff began when after the talk so many of these Australian professionals came to be privately to confirm they felt the same way, and that they were glad SOMEONE was finally saying it out loud. I would hate to build a reputation as being the Don Rickles of library presenters, but this was most gratifying to hear from an audience I had mildly insulted and who had enjoyed it.

Meanwhile, back in our rented apartment Jayne suffered through another day of no television reception by proacively visiting a nearby electronic shop and purchasing a cable to connect our laptop to a giant screen monitor that dominates the living room of this hovel. As a result, we are now able to watch YouTube videos to keep her amused during the day while I attend the next sessions tomorrow and appear in a panel discussion on (you guessed it) the “future of the library.” Should I see any rotten tomatoes among the participants swag bag contents I will excuse myself.

A Seafaring (or Fearing) Man

The closest I have ever come to a sea cruise (oooo-eeee, baby!) is the half hour ride from Manly to Circular Quay on the ferry that traverses Sydney Harbor. Our friend Ronald tried to get us one from Narooma to Montague Island last week, but high swells prevented the prudently cautious captain from taking out his boat. Today there were no such problems with the Manly Ferry, and lest one think that harbor waters are generally still and peaceful the boat does have to face a bit of open water as it rounds the North and South Heads that guard the entranceway to this seaport. We have taken it in the past when it seemed the boat bobbed like a cork, but today’s run was very smooth.

Once we arrived in the Big Smoke, we had to get a taxi to our current lodgings. It was only a matter of a few blocks, but the burdensome load of our luggage suggested it was better handled with a cab ride. I am glad it was only a few blocks, because the driver, whose native tongue was clearly not English, promptly got lost and wasted our time and money going around a block that was roughly the size of Rhode Island. The promised discount in fare was not forthcoming.

The new apartment is a short distance from the conference venue at the Art Gallery of New South Wales and for the opening cocktail reception that happened this evening at the “O” bar on the 47th floor of the Australia Square building. It was quite an impressive view looking out over the Harbor Bridge and the Opera House, and off on the distant horizon one could see between the buildings the familiar outline of North Head. More surprises were to follow. As I chatted up Barbara, my host for this conference and met about five other librarians all of whom were named “Elizabeth,” I placed my hand on the outer wall of the widowed circumference of the room only to have the weird sensation that I was about to fall down. (Never fear, your prudent correspondent had not consumed that much beer.) The sudden onset of sea legs was caused simply by the restaurant itself which moves in a very slow clockwise direction, allowing a view of the entire city to unfold from all compass points. I have never been in such a building before and was thoroughly impressed, if not a bit sea sick.

The conference is quite small according to Barbara, perhaps about sixty or seventy people. I met one other American academic who will speak tomorrow, and a very nice archivist from New Zealand who told me tales about collecting Maori documents.It was amazing how much we had in common besides the ubiquitous Elizabeth handle. As I spoke to people I found a sincere love of reading, and an equal despair at its decline. I was also heartened to confirm that none of them blamed me personally for our country's recent decision to elect a tantrum-throwing haystack seated atop a Cheeto as our President. They seemed more than ready to hear my curmudgeonly take on digital library issues tomorrow, and I must cruise through this night while boarded on the ferry of Morpheus to prepare for the speech. I do not anticipate rough waters.

When Animals Go Horribly Wrong

I do not think the birds of Australia like me. First there was the unprovoked duck attack at the Murramurang Resort last week, and yesterday, here in North Manly, a small brownish bird that I cannot identify swooped at my head as I walked to the store. The bird, smaller than a “honey eater” but similarly colored, had already given the chap walking a dozen yards ahead the “what for,” so I was somewhat prepared. Perhaps protecting her nest, this little bird was a daredevil attacker, and later in the day as Jayne and I waited for a bus across the street we watched as it swooped over to our side occasionally and then back across to disappear in the same bushes.

Another animal encounter last night was just as exciting when I went to the bathroom and discovered a roach about the size of a small dog. There I was, unarmed, and helpless to destroy the creature as it scurried across the floor and into the main chamber of this little rental house. No doubt caused by the encounter, I had an uneasy sleep until Jayne awoke with a midnight mission to the restroom herself. I told her of the monster bug and, true to her nature, she was undeterred. Sizing up the situation, she quickly grabbed my rubber flip-flop sandal and dispatched another large one in the bathroom in less time than it takes me to type this line. Brave girl!

We move into the central business district of Sydney tomorrow to be in proximity of the conference, but in spite of the aforementioned midnight safari I do not wish to leave my few readers with the impression that our present headquarters is anything but charming. It is a lovely little cabin in a private backyard, and regardless of the visitation of any eight legged fauna it has to be one of the better places we have ever stayed. If only a little shop or something was nearer than a kilometer it would be perfect. That and perhaps a club for night time bathroom visits.

Cold Fury

I have been laid low by a vicious head cold on our return from the south coast. It became worse during our final day at Murramurang and during the drive back to the northern beaches my sinuses had become so impacted that I have had trouble sleeping. I hope to be back in trim by the time I am scheduled to speak at the conference on Thursday.

We have relocated to a really cute little backyard cabin in North Manly which is conveniently located near nothing. All of the commercial development of Manly lays far to the south of us and the closest grocery store, which only sells fruit, veg, seafood, and meat is nearly a full kilometer away. Even though I awoke groggy and stuffy this morning I braved that walk to get us something to eat for a continental breakfast. For the remainder of the day I intend to rest and try to beat this wretched virus.

The ride back yesterday was uneventful except for the fact that it took all day in traffic conditions that would have tried the patience of the Buddha. Ironic, since that is exactly why it took all day to get back here; we stopped at the Buddhist temple at Wollongong for lunch.

What a beautiful, spiritual place, and what a reasonably priced and delicious vegetarian lunch. We did a quick look around, during which I attempted a prayer at whatever Deity might be listening, and then resumed our battle with a line of slow moving cars that would maddeningly space out a times before bunching up again. My sincere admiration to both Ronald and Jane for their skill in dueling with this mechanized mess cannot be adequately expressed.

Bush Turkey Day

First of all a disclaimer: we did NOT see a bush turkey on today’s bush walk, but we did spot a lyre bird dashing off into the underbrush, which is almost as good. Regardless, this is about as close to the symbol of Thanksgiving and Benjamin Franklin’s choice for a national bird that we are going to get on this day. Although it is Friday here, as I type these lines I know so many of our loved ones are digesting their own turkey feasts, and I have just contented myself with a plate of microwave nachos. Happy Thanksgiving to one and all.

We had intended today on taking a sea cruise from Narooma to Montague Island, a nature preserve off the coast about forty miles south of here. However the captain of our charter boat did not want a live rehearsal for “Gilligan’s Island” and had been watching the height of the sea swells all week to determine if it would be safe enough for a three hour cruise. Alas, it was not to be, and so we contented ourselves with a walk to see the tallest (or second tallest; it depends on who you ask) tree in New South Wales. It was a beautiful walk through a forest that looked very much like the set of a “Jurrasic Park” movie and the day was both cool, sunny, and relatively fly-free. The tree itself is somewhat underwhelming, but on the way back we had our encounter with the aforementioned lyre bird.

Other wildlife sightings today include the ever-present kagaroos, some dolphins that have appeared in the water right off the beach in front of our cabin, lorakeets who act like they have a right to access the interior of our home, and some rather aggressive ducks that attacked me during my morning walk to get the newspaper at the park headquarters. I am proud to say I have finally found a use for Rupert Murdoch’s Sydney Daily Telegraph because I used it to fend off the duck who clearly meant me harm.

Rainy Daze

Even though the first day of summer is about a month away, it can get quite cold on this beach. Yesterday it was overcast and rainy on and off the entire day, quite different from the day before when we actually got hot enough to swim in the ocean. Today I am looking out over a beautiful sunrise, and perhaps it will get hot again.

Since we could do little but play board games and hang around the villa yesterday, we decided to take a road trip to buy some food and explore a few nearby towns. One place called Mogo is an old gold rush camp and has a frontier theme park celebrating the invasion of fortune seekers in the 1860s. Although Ronald and Jane had no interest in touring the place (nor did I for that matter) we stopped and had a peek at their gift shop. I always feel obligated to visit these frontier reconstructions regardless of the cheesy commercialism and blatant phoniness. It is the reason I keep going back to Tombstone when we visit southern Arizona and consume expensive Wyatt burgers at the Crystal Palace. As it turned out, there was true cultural confusion on display among the Chinese made trinkets in this shop. Along with gold pans and fake wanted posters there were fake gold bars in the shape of $100 dollar bills, but they represented American currency. I guess when you are running a tourist trap and have to order your merchandise from Hong Kong wholesalers you have to take what you can get.

We also stopped in a little town that reminded me of Nibin, primarily because their was a store called “Hippy Sticks” which specialized in incense, tie dyed t-shirts, and Bob Marley wall hangings. The place was a riot of color, and the selection truly astounding. I could have picked up a “Hippy on Board” bumper sticker, but given America’s current political climate I don’t think it would have been safe to bring it back. Besides, how ridiculous would such a declaration look on the bumper of a big SUV?

Beachcombing With Marsupials

I am typing these lines while surrounded by dozens of gray kangaroos of both sexes and all ages. These marsupials pose no threat, however. They are the permanent residents of the Murramurang Beach Resort comfortably located on the beach of the national park bearing the same name. We left Collaroy yesterday morning with Ronald and Jane and drove a beautiful back road route around metropolitan Sydney. We saw such lovely countryside, and some really palatial homes. After stopping in a town called Ulladulla for groceries, we arrived at this resort by about four in the afternoon. Jane made us reservations for a two bedroom cabin that is absolutely lovely, right on the beach, and surrounded by the aforementioned ‘roos.

They really are interesting creatures. These ones are quite tame and very interested in humans, and when I first saw them as the evening was coming on I was impressed they allowed me to approach within about ten feet. Even more surprises awaited because after we went back to the cabin a mother and joey came right up to the porch to say hello. Jane, being a brave, fair dikum Aussie girl, boldly allowed mother ‘roo to sniff her hand and then began to pet her! I took courage from this and tied it myself. What an experience!

This morning I took a walk along the beach, about a mile I would estimate, and ended up sitting on some rocks that were shaped very strangely by the erosion. As I looked out over the Pacific at the rising sun, I felt totally at ease and in harmony with the planet. Then I looked down at my feet and within a small tidal pool etched out of the rock a medium sized crab was looking up at me. He looked like a water-borne tarantula, but he had no place to hide so I got to study him a bit. The day ahead looks good!

Cars and the People Who Love Them

The northern beaches area of Sydney is a great stretch of suburbia that many Americans would find familiar. However, there is one similarity that is certainly not serving these people well: the obsession with the automobile. Although there is likely ample room for more population growth around here, there is no room for more cars. Just like Americans, Aussies feel that individual mobility with an automobile is a birthright, and the infrastructure to support that attitude is simply not here. The result is a nightmare of traffic consisting primarily of vehicles with only one person in them, all snaking slowly along roads designed to handle a fraction of the present number. We have not taken the wheel on any of our trips down here, and I am heartily glad of it. Even if I could reconcile my driving skills to adjust to piloting down the left lane, I would go mad having to deal with the worst gridlock I have ever seen.

The answer is, of course, more public transport for both Australia and America. We just returned from an outing to go to Manly Beach, about six and a half miles. We rode the bus and the trip took about thirty minutes. I doubt seriously if one could have driven that distance any faster, and even if you could, it would probably take the same amount of time looking for a place to park. While seating on the bus one gains an appreciation for the steely nerves of the driver, and the incredible close shaves they must make to maneuver in the steady stream of cars.

We went to Manly to visit an open air flea market and watch the surfers from the beach, all on a lovely day with variable clouds and cool temperatures. Today’s picture shows Jayne checking out the bargains at the market, right before I adjourned to a nearby bar where I enjoyed a cold beer and tried desperately to understand the fellow sitting next to me who wanted to talk. Up until now I thought I could do pretty well speaking and understanding Australian, but this fellow was too much for me. He sounded like Bazza Mackenzie on steroids.

An Airport? No, Life is a Beach!

We landed at Sydney yesterday a little worse for wear, but glad to be back in the land of Oz none the less. Passing through customs was delayed when we honestly told the authorities that we were packing no less than six cans of Hormel Corned Beef Hash as a present for our friends (who love the stuff). After the sniff dog determined that the luggage contained nothing more than tinned meat product (which ironically looks like something you would feed a dog) we were on our way. First a train from the airport to Circular Quay, then the ferry across Sydney Harbor to Manly, and then a city bus to Collaroy.

Along the way we activated our travel phone, ate a couple of meat pies, and Jayne endured my hearty cursing at the bargain suitcase in which the hash was packed. The wheels on the damn thing were worthless. Now we are comfortably settled in our apartment high on a hillside above Collaroy Beach. I took a long walk along the shore at sunrise. It was beautiful, although the erosion many structures suffered during the storms of last June were apparent. Today's snap shows Jayne seated on our front porch, which is fragrant with star jasmine blooms.

Life is an Airport

I remember years ago when I was returning home from a conference when the thought occurred to me that the future was going to be like living in an airport, and I think I was right.

Airports are obsessed with security and one gets the feeling that one is under constant surveillance (which is true).

Everything is super expensive in an airport, from the five dollar hot dogs to the ten dollar beers.

Airports are crowded, noisy, and extremely uncomfortable.

Airports have no soul.

Now I am typing these lines while enjoying a paid admission to a "sky club" facility where we were able to indulge in a hot shower, free beer, and complimentary snacks which include a delicious chicken salad. That being said, this place still has no recliner seats, no furniture that invites lounging at all, and in spite of its relative quiet it is far from a comfortable place to kill a five hour layover.

As I contemplate what is in store for our society after this wretched election, I feel like my impressions of the future are coming true. I fully expect to be watched, to be uncomfortable, and to pay more for everything. Indeed, the future is turning out to be an airport.

Headed Way South Again

We are rapidly approaching our next journey to the Land of Oz and I could not be more excited. A conference hosted by the Art Libraries Society of Australia and New Zealand offered an opportunity for me to go back to the land I love and present a paper. They have also asked me to participate in a closing panel discussion, all held at the Art Gallery of New South Wales in Sydney. The theme of the conference is "Persistence of the Real," and I think with my curmudgeonly take on modern library practices I can reliably comment along those lines.

While we are so looking forward to the trip, there is also the embarrassment of traveling overseas so close on the heels of this disastrous national election. It will be difficult to represent a country that now has gone on record as favoring a candidate who is a racist, misogynistic idiot, but perhaps it will actually help me in my presentation to the conference. After all, my claim has long been that the internet is making idiots of us all, and there can be no more compelling evidence that widespread voting for an orange skinned baboon has helped make that case. What a change from our last trip to Oz, when I was actually proud of our president!

Paris is What You Eat

We have had some pretty good meals here in Paris. I find that chicken seems to be a dish they do well and I order it often. Once I had veal in a rich sauce, and while I enjoyed it I did not want to think about that little captive calf pining for a better adult life that never came. Besides, at our age (today with Jayne’s birthday we are both officially in our sixties) we really ought to cut back on meat of all kind, especially red.

But enough of that, this essay is about eating out in Paris, and some of the joys and drawbacks. Among the joys have been friendly waiters and waitresses. I know, your prejudices have told you they are all rude and snooty, but we have found that is simply not true. The other day, for example, we had lunch at a nice place near the Bastille and the waiter identified himself as a former temporary resident of Los Angeles. When we praised the mushrooms that came with the chicken, he even brought out another entire bowl of them at no charge.

He said the chef was pleased he had pleased us!


Now for the disadvantages. It is expensive. I do not think you can count on getting a decent lunch for much less than fifteen euros, which translates to nearly twenty bucks, and that does not include the drinks. When you figure that a value added tax (sales tax) is hidden within the menu price and that all of the workers, from chef down to

dishwasher, are making a living wage, I guess it is not a matter to complain about. If I knew that my waiter in the states was making fifteen dollars an hour minimum and there was no tipping, I wouldn’t mind spending twenty bucks for a meal there either. Such an economic arrangement is far overdue in the USA.

The other disadvantage is space. Parisians have a different concept of the space needed for comfortable dining, and you can easily find your chair pushed tight against the diner’s seat behind you. And the tables are all the size of a postage stamp.

I have yet to be seated at a table that was big enough to hold the plates, drinks, and condiments at the same time. No wonder they eat so slowly here; you have to be careful when picking up your fork so as not to tip over your wine glass.

In sum, eating here is one of the main pleasures of visiting, and the food is absolutely delicious. I wish I could enjoy more of their bread. It is heavenly, but the hard crust can tear up your mouth faster than chewing a whole can of Skol. And the wine? Even the cheap stuff is pretty damn good. French beer isn’t bad either. Heck, you just can’t go wrong with any of it!!!!!

Riders on the Storm

The weather has been cool, rainy, and windy here in Paris, but we are not complaining. I would much rather be cold than suffering through hordes of sweaty tourists here in the summertime, which I imagine could be really unpleasant. There are certainly enough tourists here now. However, as cool as it has been, the trees are leafing out like crazy, and flowers are blooming all around us. Every park, every fruit tree, every flowering plant is coming alive in this overcast, cool environment and, in those brief times when the sun comes out, makes this city so utterly beautiful.

Yesterday we took a boat journey along the St. Martin Canal, a man_made supply tributary to the Seine built on the orders of Napoleon himself. The journey was only a couple of kilometers long, but it took two and half hours due to the locks through which the boat had to pass. On our way down to the boat dock, however, we were treated to a sight which was so somber, so heart-wrenching, that it was hard to keep a dry eye. At the Place de Republique there is an impressive monument commemorating the heroes of the Revolution,

with bronze relief vignettes of important scenes of the struggle. It has now been completely defaced with graffiti and hand painted banners, some of which are perhaps of unrelated political events, but the majority are to remember the victims of the terrorist attacks nearby in November, 2015 and the Brussels attack just last March. It was so sad to see a city's grief all on display, and especially touching were the images of one of the youngest victims, a 17 year old girl whose only crime was wanting to go see a rock concert on a night when some murdering sons of bitches decided to strike. I had to take my hat off and observe a moment or two of heartfelt silence.

We went from that somber location past the Bataclan Cafe where other people were killed, and made our way to the boat landing. The canal boat first enters the canal by means of a two kilometer underground passageway that was delightful to cruise through. Seeing the dark, brick lined ceiling

overhead, and the greenish, none too clean water below, made me think of the sewer pursuit in Les Miserables. Totally cool. Once we emerged from the tunnel we went through four double locks that helped raise the boat about twenty feet each time. It was slow going, but the boat was comfortable, the narration by the guide in English, and there was a bar on board. What more can you ask?

Today we had a totally different experience. We started out by taking the Metro to Rue Clar, a market street adjacent to the Eiffel Tower area. We went on the advice of several people, including Rick Steves, but found it underwhelming. Our old neighborhood was near Rue Daguerre, a real lively market street that, unlike this one, was truly a pedestrian zone. We had breakfast in a bistro, but then quickly left with a nice pair of eclairs to go which we ate while sitting in front of the Effiel Tower.

Next we took the city bus number 69 through the heart of the city to the Père Lachaise Cemetery, a labyrinth of stone monuments and crypts, home to about seventy thousand dead people including a few famous ones. We saw Oscar Wilde, Gertrude Stein, and of course, Jim Morrison. However the most touching of them all was the fairly recent gravesite of cartoonist Bernard Verlhac,

known as Tignous,. Bernard was shot in January 2015 by some other lunatics for nothing more than the crime of drawing a cartoon of Muhammad in the magazine Charlie Hebdo. His grave was covered with tributes, including a jar full of pencils and pens, and no doubt the tears of the people who live in this great city.

Start the Revolution Without Me

Yesterday we took the long train ride to Versailles to reflect on the excesses of past French royalty. Our guidebook guru, Rick Steves, told us to avoid Saturdays and to go early, but we had little choice. Today was the last valid day on our four day museum passes and we opted to go anyway. The RER suburban trains are not as fast as the Metro, even though they make fewer stops, and it took about an hour total to get to the palace. By then the train was pretty full, and it even took a while for the crowd to just exit the station. We found a tourist information office nearby and asked if it was possible to just tour the Trianon palaces, and we were glad to learn they were accessed by a separate entrance.

The walk to the "little palaces" was beautiful, first through some city streets, past a Waldorf hotel that had a Gordon Ramsey restaurant (Foie Gras 55 euros) and then, once through security at the "Queen's gate," along a beautiful rural lane lined with trees and running along side a vast sheep paddock. It took a full 45 minutes to reach Maria's crib and we really enjoyed the walk.

Marie's little place turned out to be a fairly impressive two story villa with the bottom floor mostly unfurnished, (even this groovy little kitchen that looked like it was ready for Mrs. Patmore was bare except for the copper pots) but upstairs elegantly decorated with period furniture and portraits of the ill-fated queen. You could just imagine her hanging out here kicking back while people in nearby Paris were getting ready to do away with the whole concept of monarchy.

The next thing to do was tour the little private world she built herself outside, complete with a fake village (presumably staffed by fake peasants) and a real working farm with plenty of chickens, rabbits, goats and sheep.

There were miles of pathways through what appeared to be untended woods and fields. Along this walk Jayne saw a creature that resembled a giant rat, or maybe Ted Cruz, but was likely a muskrat.

Then it was time to tour the bigger little palace where the king had his hideout. We went through an amazing stretch of sculpted hedges and arbors to reach the place,

but it was overwhelmed by a crush of tourists who all seemed to have arrived at once in their rented golf carts. (I didn't really resent that; I wanted to drive one of those puppies around myself.) However, they made a slow moving line of shutter snappers once we got inside and it was hardly worth it to view the eighteenth century version of the Trump Tower. Outside, however, was the most beautiful garden that stretched on for acres and acres, lined with classical Greek statues, ponds, fountains, ect. And this wasn't even the MAIN gardens, which cover the two kilometers between the little palaces and the main show!

And we did get to see the main gardens. Little shuttle trains run tourists from the Grand Trianon to the main palace and we caught one of these, stopping along the way for a glass of wine and a snack at a beautiful cafe situated along the grand canal that quarters the grounds. Once we arrived at the main palace, we saw all the fountains in play,

with beautiful classical music issuing from hidden speakers all around the place. It was a great way to end our visit. No, we did not go see the hall of mirrors, but I think we got a pretty good idea how the one percenters were living at the time of the Revolution anyway!

Paris Rapid Transit

I would like to think that we have some experience of the world, having used public transport in several European and Australian cities, and even a few places in America, so what I am about to express should have some authority The Paris metro system has to rank among the best public transport options in the world. We have yet to wait any longer than five minutes for a train, and the connections have been so easy, so smooth, that it seems like you can get anywhere in this city of 2.4 million people within minutes. You are never more than a few hundred yards from a stop, too, so once you master the line numbers and colors the maps are easy for anyone to use even if you do not speak a word of French. We have been buying Metro tickets in batches of ten for the discount price of fourteen Euros (about eighteen to twenty bucks American) making each ride super cheap. I am really impressed with this Paris system, and while you miss a few sightseeing opportunities by being underground, the convenience and speed more than makes up for it.

I was not as impressed today with my solo outing to see Napoleon's tomb and the army museum. I saw where the emperor lies in his red stone crypt surrounded by marble engravings that commemorate his victories (and defeats; Moscow was on there). After reflecting on this world dictator wannabe, I went into the army museum to look at relics dating from damn near the stone age to WWII. I get a little dazed looking at all that armor, all those swords, and all those firearms, and there is something almost antiseptically offensive to consider nothing seems to denote the carnage they caused. This can't be said for the modern war exhibits, though. From the Franco-Prussian war of the 1870s to the end of World War II there are an astounding number of exhibits devoted to the objects and the horror they participated in. In fact, the very first thing you see when you enter the early part of this modern war section of the museum are a series of paintings that show dead French soldiers in various poses from the Franco-Prussian war. The WWI section really gets the message across with vintage film clips, models of trench layouts, and even an overcoat that is still stained with the mud from the trenches. I guess the most unsettling thing I saw in the WWII section, aside from the documentation of the German death camps and the French people who were shipped to them, was a large photograph of Hitler and some general with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Like some sort of vile "selfie" from the worst human who ever lived, it made me somewhat nauseous.

All in all, I must say that Jayne and I felt more emotional impact from the deportation memorial that stands behind Notre Dame than from visiting the entire army museum. Still, I am glad I went. Jayne was feeling under the weather today and I knew this was something that I would find more interesting than her.

City of Lights (if you can stay up late enough to see them)

"The life of the tourist is hard' said our landlord in Madrid, and he was not kidding. It takes a lot of effort to explore a city this big, even if you knew the language all the maps and signs are printed in. I would estimate we have put in over five or six miles every day since we have been here, and when you figure we are officially senior citizens (at least I am; Jayne must wait another week) the effort is Herculean. We have tried to rent bicycles to take some of the stress off our feet, but the stress of the traffic more than makes up for it. Yesterday we found a huge park on the city's southeast section which had miles of bike trails. There we had the leisure of peddling around without worrying about becoming a hood ornament. That evening, after we got home and had dinner, we went out again AFTER DARK!!!!!

A very big concession for us, I can assure you. We saw the Eiffel tower all lit up, with sparkling lights alternating with a nice yellow outline. Today we went to see a free museum at the Petit Palice, art which Rick Steves says is second tier. It looked pretty first rate to me, and the price was right. The Louvre and the other big museums are not open until tomorrow, so that is why we went to this place today.

A Box of Chocolates

Forrest Gump was not talking about Airbnb when he made his observation regarding the role chance plays when making one's decisions, but it would be entirely appropriate for today's move. We left an apartment that was cramped, none too clean, and with a shower drain that moved slower than Mitch McConnell scheduling a Supreme Court nominee hearing. Now we are in a lovely little artist's studio with great decorating touches, a comfortable "murphy bed" where Jayne is currently spending some quality time this afternoon, and a bathroom that is cleaner than the one I use at home. The neighborhood, while only about a mile from the other place, is near a charming pedestrian market street with green grocers, butchers, and wine merchants. We are across the street from one of the city's largest cemeteries (not the one with Jim Morrison) so I imagine the neighbors will be quiet. Also, there is a bicycle rental rack not twenty feet from our doorstep and tomorrow (Sunday) is a no auto traffic day for the streets in this area, especially established so people can peddle around. I am going to try to snag us a couple of velocipedes as soon as I can in the morning.

Yesterday we took the metro to a tourist information center on the other side of the city to pick up some museum passes. You can get a pass that will let you into the Louvre, Versailles, and a bunch of other places for four consecutive days once you activate it. That is the trick, of course. Knowing that the museums are mostly closed on Mondays and Tuesdays, we will wait until Wednesday before activating it. When we returned from buying the passes, we went through a very nice park which has the Natural History museum, an old zoo with old animals, and these super cool greenhouses.

Luxembourg Gardens Gambol

With conference duties about completed, it was time to explore a bit of the city. Today we walked from our apartment to the Luxembourg Gardens, a lovely sixty acre spot in the middle of the city. I guess the French Senate meets there, and Rick Steeves told us that the French CIA has their headquarters underneath the greenery. There were very friendly heavily armed soldiers and police at various points and they all seemed like they were intent on doing their job but not freaking anyone out. One little boy was asking a soldier for directions near the corner of the palace and I do not think I saw a friendlier smile today than the one that graced the machine gun-wielding guardian. I like 'em! We also passed by a huge indoor greenhouse sort of building where they keep huge potted orange trees, etc., and bring them out with fork lifts when winter is over. It was all very impressive.

We also saw a great little Statue of Liberty, the second one we have seen in our overseas trips (the first one was at Cadeques, Spain.) We walked home from the park, stopped for a late lunch of pork for me and rabbit for Jayne, and then discovered there were more that CIA operatives underneath our feet. We passed by a huge line of people and when we investigated discovered they were waiting to see the catacombs; centuries of bones piled deep beneath the surface of the pleasant street we were on. We agreed that we would pass on that attraction.

We have been shopping at little markets that specialize in wine, cheese, and of course, bread. Its all good.

Arrival in the City of Lights

We left Bozeman on Saturday morning and it is now Sunday evening in Paris. We had a rather grueling flight, although the crew did everything possible to make us comfortable. It is simply hard to sleep sitting up. Now we are comfortably situated in an little apartment just a few blocks from the conference where I will speak tomorrow morning. We have been to the market, bought some small food items, and will stay awake an hour or two more before we go back to bed and try to sleep off this jet lag. No pictures yet, but the adventure is just starting. Stay tuned.