Sydney is a beautiful city.  I had spent days roaming the streets and sights before Christmas - from the light covered buildings on MacQuarie Street to the little museums in the old part of the city, the Rocks.

But never from the water.

Sydney, being built on one of the largest and best, when measured in depth and protection, harbors in the world, has a tremedous ferry system.  Most suburbs and major attractions are built on or near the water, to facilitate the movement of people, they have an elaborate ferry system that moves thousands of people.

Cheaper then a cab ride, and covering greater distances, I hoped on the ferry to Manly Beach, the narrow strip of land close to the mouth of Jackson Harbor famous for its beach, though second to the more famous Bondi Beach.

I grabbed a seat close to the front of the ferry.  As it pulled out of the bearth at Circular Quay (pronounced ‘Key’), and immediately, a different side of Sydney opened up to me - as wonderful as the city looked from the street, it looked down right magical from the waves of Jackson Harbor.

Carefully the ferry slide past the Harbour Bridge and the world famous Opera House, then it turned at the fortifications of Rock Island - complete with its ninteeth century cannon, and headed straight towards the the mouth of the mighty harbor.

The ocean waves, the smell of the salt air, the movement of the ferry across the choppy waters was nothing short of spectacular.  The city was meant to be seen from the waves.

Pulling up to the berth at Manly Beach, I followed the crowds across the narrow strip of land to the beach that faced the open Pacific.  The bright sunshine shining across the sandy beach and hundreds of people playing in the surf and sand was like a sight out of a postcard.

Following the pathway that wound around the hillsides on either side of the beach, I followed from the main beach and  to the smaller beaches farther down the shoreline - with some rock pools in between.

It was the little things along the trail that were remarkable - the statues of the animals that were hidden upon the rocks along the trail, the carvings and statues that were around the bends in the path, the beautiful ladies that seemed to be everywhere.

As dusk started to overtake the land, I made my way back to ferry and back to the city center of Sydney.

 ”Get ready for a really hot and dry summer!” Those are the words that greated me the first day in Melbourne.  First I had to remember that the seasons are flipped in the Southern Hemisphere, so while August is the hottest and driest month in the Northern Hemisphere, in the Southern, it is February.

Over the last ten years, Australia has been gripped with a terrible drought, of almost biblical proportions.  With an average rainfall in Melbourne of 22 inches, only two of the last fifteen years have been above that long term average.  The last two have been below the 10^th percentile.

And it has been hot.

Looking at the averages, it can be a bit deceiving.  On a yearly basis, the average high is a comfortable room temperture 69 degrees Fahrenheit.  But is the numbers inside the numbers that are alarming.

2009 saw the absolute highest temperature on record (some say about 120 degrees Fahrenheit last February.).  Over the last fifteen years, the average temperature has increased by over three degrees Fahrenheit….which over a hundred years of yearly averages is saying something.

When I hit the tarmac in November, Melbourne was going through the longest warm streatch in November.  Ever.  The temperature was over ninety degrees Fahrenheit.

Five days on the ground, it rained.  It rained hard.  And the hot temperatures broke.  About three days later, there was another good soaking rain.  The temperatures remained moderate.

“Its been raining since I came here!” I exclaimed one day.  “Maybe I brought it with me.”

“Mate, if the rain follows you, there will always be a warm bed for you at my father’s house.” A co-worker, born and raised on a farm, replied a bit mockingly, but with a hit of sincerety in his voice.

November rainfall was the highest in ten years.  In the 90% percentile overall.  Dispite a wet December (light rain seemed to be falling all the time), December was realatively dry on average for the last ten years.  January and February were below average, but in the upper end of the range over the last ten to fifteen years.

And March?

In the first nine days, we are in the 95% percentile for rainfall, double the average, and the second wettest over the last fifteen years…the third wettest over the last forty.

Most of that rain came in one large deluge that flooded streets and was accompianed by large hail and driving winds.  Streets ran like rivers.  And its not alone.  Even the driest of the interior is suffering some of the worst flooding on record.  The parched, dry, interior has been almost tropical.  The wet season in Queensland, far to the north has been down right Biblical.

Talking to a wise, older gentleman at work today over the phone, I made the comment that it was amazing to see the country go from horrible drought to raging floods.

Without prompting, he started reciting the poem, ‘My Country’ by Dorothea Mackellar:

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of ragged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.
I love her far horizons,
I love her jewel-sea,
Her beauty and her terror -
The wide brown land for me!

How very fitting.  How very, very fitting.  But I still hope that warm bed is waiting for me.

 Moving to Australia for a year, I packed light.  Two suitcases light.  And two small carry on bags.  So technically, two big suitcases, one backpack, and one computer bag light.  In addition to the clothes, there were a host of other things that I packed - an assortment of books, a few files, two laptops, a host of other small electronics, and a few other random odds and ends.

But about seventy-five percent of the lugage was dedicated to shoes and clothes.

Three pairs of shoes, one pair of sandals, twelve button up shirts, four polo shirts, eight white t-shirts, two grey t-shirts, four miscelaneous other t-shirts, four tank tops, three pair of dress pants, two pair of dockers, two pair of jeans,  three pair of cargo shorts, three pair of sports shorts, about twelve pair of underwear, eight pair of white socks, eight pair of black socks, two pair of swimming trunks, one zip up jacket, one pull over sweatshirt, and one long sleeve t-shirt.

In short, well thought out and a broad range of clothes that should suit me well on my adventures and journeys.

I want to be very clear - I did no shopping for this trip.  It was all about what was in my closet and dresser.  Some of this stuff was well aged.

When I unpacked on that warm November day, the first thing that I noticed was the unexplained red blotches on one of my polo shirts and one of my button up shirts.  Then my socks started wearing through.  The collar frayed on two of my white t-shirts…almost down to the chest, one of my tank tops got ripped while getting out, no escaping, from a bar called, and I’m not kidding, the ‘Snake Pit.’

This was all in the first forty-five days.

Since then, one pair of cargo shorts was snagged (ripped), one pair of dockers was snagged (ripped), one more t-shirt was frayed beyond recognition, one tank top was ripped (while taking it off for the night), and a hand full of socks (some new since arriving) have been lost to shredded toes.

One polo was lost thanks to a fantastic, but greasy, breakfast at Victoria Market (one of the few grease stains I’ve been unable to get out).  One button shirt had a loose thread…that has been slowly unraveling to a point where I could no longer in decenty wear it. 

I’ve got two more button shirts that are seeming to be wearing out, one polo whose collar is getting frayed, two white t-shirts whose collars are frayed (and armpits worn out), one pair of dress pants whose hemm is starting to blow out, and the last pair of dockers that is in intense rotation, starting to show a lot of wear.

Needless to say, the more clothes that get thrown away…the more that the remaining close get put into heavier and heavier rotation, meaning that even clothes that two months ago seemed brand new, are now seeming, well, a little worn.

I’m planning a trip home in late April - and I’m bringing both suitcases home with me…and it is a good thing, if I’m not able to replenish my wardrobe, I may be naked by the end of May…

 After watching one American triumph to the cheers of the Australian crowd (who cheered on the underdog until the final result couldn’t be denied), it was going to be interesting to see how they would greet the next American’s to grace the court.

The Bryan brothers, Bob and Mike, from Oxnard, California, have been on the circuit a long time, playing on the world circuits since 2001.  Not only are they brothers, they are twins, with Mike being two minutes older, but Bob being an inch taller. 

But they are also not your normal tennis players - they play in a band.  With their father.  And other tennis players.  They have also walked away from a fair number of matches.  They were forced too.  During their individual careers, their parents made them take turns defaulting if they ever had to play each other.

Playing together through most of their professional tennis career, they have rancked up an impressive performance - over 96 grand slam finals with 58 wins.

With that record, they were clearly the favorite to win, but not of the fans.  The fans at the start were firmly behind Canadian Daniel Nestor and Serbian Nenad Zimonjic.  The underdogs of the competition.

Though I do have to talk about the fans.  They left.  After the Women’s Finals, the place cleared out.  And I mean cleared out.  Maybe 20% of the orginal fans were there - and that might be streatching it.  The place held only the hardest fans, or those too drunk to drive home.

I was amazed.

I was even more amazed as the match started.  It made the speed of the singles seem, well, slow.

Instead of one person on each side volleying back and forth to each other, this was a blur of rackets swinging and hitting with the ball seemingly to rarely touch the ground.  Like some big, fast, ballet on a tennis court being played out in high speed.

While at the start, the crowd seemed to be with the underdogs, it was clear soon after the first match started that the tide was turning against the underdogs, both from the court and from the fans.

They Byran brothers were doing things that only brothers could do: chest bumping, high fiving, playing around on the court.  Regardless if they were ahead or behind, they looked like they were, well, for lack of a better phrase…having fun.

As the beer, pop, and water flowed, what was left of the crowd cheered them on to their ultimate victory.  And they were gracious about it in the end.  Taking their trophy graciously with the one hundred camera men, the twenty people in the stands, and the eight of us left in the sky box watching on.

You go boys.  Go USA.  Even the Aussies were impressed.

 After watching one American triumph to the cheers of the Australian crowd (who cheered on the underdog until the final result couldn’t be denied), it was going to be interesting to see how they would greet the next American’s to grace the court.

The Bryan brothers, Bob and Mike, from Oxnard, California, have been on the circuit a long time, playing on the world circuits since 2001.  Not only are they brothers, they are twins, with Mike being two minutes older, but Bob being an inch taller. 

But they are also not your normal tennis players - they play in a band.  With their father.  And other tennis players.  They have also walked away from a fair number of matches.  They were forced too.  During their individual careers, their parents made them take turns defaulting if they ever had to play each other.

Playing together through most of their professional tennis career, they have rancke

 In many ways the Australians are like the Americans - we love the under dog.  We cheer for the under dog.  We are both little countries - ok, relatively big countries with small populations when we started - that could.

That carries over into the Australian Open for the Australians.  When it came down to a choice of who to cheer for, the number one ranked American tennis super star who came and dominated the tourneyment the last several years - the impeccable Serena Williams, of the plucky little unranked Belgian, Justine Henin, who had spent the last year in the African bush after being tired of the tennis circuit the year before, the Australians had a clear favorite…and the very vocal Belgians (for a little country - the fifteen of them in the arena made a lot of noise - waving their flags and cheering her on).

As the ladies made their way onto the court, we were served our last round of beverages before the match started (notice tennis novices use of official tennis term).

The first set (ah - notice again), William’s power came through and Henin was on the defensive most of the way through.  She wasn’t making mistakes as much as just countering the power of Williams’s serves and volleys.

The second set was a different story.  Henin’s finesse and style really come through.  Versus the previous set, where she seemed dimuniative compared to Williams, this set, she looked graceful.

Let me explain the crowd that I was watching this with - they were Australian.  Not just Australian, these were true Australians.  Sports fanatics, polite, yet crude, calm, yet excitable, from the country, but living in the cities, country boys - yet movers and shakers in their industries.

In short - they were representative Australians…and being the only American in the room, they were rubbing my nose in the fact that Henin was giving Williams a run for her money.

The Australian’s image of the average American is being loud mouthed braggards.  As the second set wore on, and the razing continued, and took it without winching, without cringing, passively.

“Why aren’t you cheering now?” one of the Aussie’s asked me.

“Because like most Americans, I’m quiet and retiring.” I replied.

As Willaims struggled through that second set, I knew that she too was an American…and like me, she would take the set back, she would quietly take the jeering crowd, and she would come out in the third set quietly, respectfully, and composed, and kick some butt.

Williams didn’t disappoint.

She came out composed and determined and she did in fact kick butt.  The Belgians didn’t have much to cheer about that last set and the Australians suddenly discovered that they knew that Willaims would win all along, that she was clearly the champion, and that they were in her corner all along.

It was a proud time to be an American…

The Victor

 Rod Laver Arena was built and designed for tennis, in a country that is small in population, but where tennis holds a special place on the pedestal of sports.  Constructed in 1988 with seating for almost 17,000 people, it was renamed in honor of Australian tennis great Rod Laver, who won three Australian opens, four times at Wimbledon, two US Opens, and several French opens, and a host of other titles in his almost three decades on the tennis courts of the world, seven of which (1964 to 1970), where he was ranked the number one player in the world.

Not bad for a boy from Queensland.

While built for tennis, Rod Laver Arena is used for a host of other events - concerts from Taylor Swift to Swiftknot, Motorbike races and World Wrestling events, once it was even used as an aquatic center for the commonwealth games.  In short, it is adaptable, but the place was built for tennis.

Which is why I was there - for the grand slam of the Asia Pacific, the Australian Open Womens Finals and the Men’s Double Championships.

For an American, it was proud moment, the two favorites for the night were American, Serena Williams and the Byron Brothers.

I had managed to get tickets in one of the box seats - in the upper reaches of the stadium, but air conditioned with free food and beverages.  And lets face it, the view wasn’t bad.

The arena sits within the Melbourne Sports complex, in the shadow of several other stadiums, including the world famous “G,” - the Melbourne Cricket Grounds.  Showing up early, I made my way through the grassy grounds in front of the arena where I met several others from the party.  We commented on some of the free entertainment that was performing over the next couple of days, specifically a group known as the “Rogue Traders” which for a group of commodity traders found a special part of our sense of humor.

Walking into the arena, it was impressive.  The retractable roof allowed players to play under the bright sunshine of the Australian sky, but protected it if the heat became too much to bear, or if rain, normally welcomed in drought plagued Melbourne, should try to interrupt play.

The concourse area was not just clean, it was spotless.  The ladies final was the second to the last of the events that stretched out over two weeks, and the place almost seemed to shine with the grey and bright blue hues, seemingly polished each night by an unseen army of cleaners.

Taking the elevator up to the suite level, we were met by a slightly older lady that immediately offered us refreshment - some of Australia’s finest beverages.  Mixing and mingling with the crowd in the small suite, eating an assortment of appetizers of cheese and seafood, followed by a good meal of beef, chicken, and lamb, we visited and discussed the play and the finesse of the two players that would meet on the floor of the arena this evening.

I must admit at this point, that I’m not a tennis fan.  Haven’t played the game, and have only sparingly watched the events as I scanned through the television set.  But I did my best to bluff my way through the conversations, which tended to be easy as the others in the suite either were in the same boat that I was, or where so die hard fans, they wouldn’t even let me get a word in edgewise.

With the early stages of twilight showing through the opening in the roof, the big windows in front of the suite were opened and the greatest ladies tennis players in the world made their way onto the court.

 I hate buying shoes.  They are expensive, it is hard to get a right fit, and from the training that I received in my youth, they are a major investment.  I think I still have the work boots that they my folks bought for me back in 1991.  They are good boots - and expensive - must have cost about a hundred bucks.

So as luck would have it, one of the first things that I had to buy in Australia was a new pair of tennis shoes.  Five kilometers (about three miles) walking one way to work, and being heavily used before moving, I should have saw it coming.

It took for two aching ankles to figure out what was wrong.

Walking into the Footlocker in Melbourne the day before Christmas, I was met by two, young, attractive, female sales associates…in soccer referee uniforms…I wasn’t in the US anymore…

“G’day sir!  How can we help you?” One of the young attractive women inquired.

“I think I need a new pair of shoes.” I replied.

“Well then, you’ve come to the right place. Do you know what size you are?” She replied.

“Only in US size.”  I replied.

“Well, good thing we have US sizes down here too!”  She said, “But we better check your feet to make sure.”

Instructing me to take off my shoes, she gauged my stride and my foot length and width.  Then we started looking at some of the shoes carefully placed on the wall.  Picking out several that I liked, she retreated back into the back room to gather the required size.

I was inspecting the now smooth bottoms of my old shoes, looking up at the young, cute, sales associate, I said, “I do a lot of walking.”

As she knelt in front of me, she innocently asked, “Do you wear thongs?”

My jaw dropped.

“Have you ever tried them?  They are really comfortable.” She said looking at me.

My jaw dropped even more.

“You really should, they look good too.” She continued to my astonishment.

My mouth was moving, but I wasn’t making any words, my eyes continued to grow big…

“Plus, they are really good for your feet, and if you get used to wearing them, you won’t wear down your expensive Nikes.”  She replied.

“You mean flip-flops?  You mean sandals?” I said coming back to my senses.

“Ah yes, you refer to thongs as flip-flops in the US.” She said perkily…seemingly unaware of the near shock she had me in.

As I paid for my new shoes, I thanked her for her advice and wished she and the other good looking sales associate a Merry Christmas.

Walking out, I realized that sometimes, a rose by any other name sometimes creates a little confusion…

 We sat in the bar in north Melbourne, having the place almost to ourselves, we had a good time.  We laughed, told stories, discussed politics, relegion, and other touchy subjects.  We saw the flash of the lightening and the distant fireworks, the sounds of the blending of the thunder and the concussions of the explosions.

We were a motely crew celebrating New Year’s Eve, but by the time the barkeeps served us the last of many, many pots, the crew had thined to about ten of us celebrating the ringing of the New Year.  At Midnight, the waiters finally kicked us out into the light rain and mist…”Come’on mates, we’ve got parties to go too as well!” they said as they pushed us to the doors.

Those of us left, the Australians and the few foreigners were a good bunch of people.  The Aussies from mostly the same country towns or friends from University.  They are good people.  Honest people.  Salt of the earth people.  They reminded me of mates from back home - hard working, intelligent, sensible, with a good dose of compassion - but that liked to blow off a little steam once in a while.

Grabbing a cooler out of the boot (aka truck) of one of the cars we had driven up there, we hopped a tram to head to a house party.

The house party was a friend of a friend - it was a three story townhouse with a great view of the sky line.

We found out way to the top as the rain had almost stopped and the sky was clearing.  In the coolness of the evening, we drank, and talked until the crowd dwindled.

With only a few of us left, one of the owners of the house came up to see how we were doing.

“Anyone like a line for the New Year?”  He said as he took a little baggie out of his shirt pocket.

My mouth fell to the floor.

A few people tried to start the conversation again, my mouth was wide open…the baggie disappeared, and so to its owner.

My mouth was still hanging open…

“Come on, lets go downstairs.” One of the Aussies said.

In the kitchen, we proceeded to throw a lemon around the kitchen - how we did no damage, I’m not sure.

Soon, we not a host in sight, we decided that we should head for the door, but instead of the smart thing and head home, we headed to a bar.

On the walk over, one of the Aussies told me, “Just a shame, he was decent guy, but comes to the city, gets a good job, and gets too good for us, then gets involved in stuff like that.  Bloody shame.”

A beer or two later, with the sun now only an a couple of hours away from creeping over the horizon, we decided that we had celebrated the New Year enough….

We were lucky enough to grab a cab, and equally lucky that these guys that had taken me around town, fed me, gave me beer, also managed to get away with paying for the cab at the end of the night….

As I fought the crowds leaving the Docklands Stadium (the all night rave dance party still had a couple of hours left…but the thousands of people in once white clothing were in about as good of shape as me), I was happy to say good night to the old year…and welcome to the new.

 New Year’s Eve typically isn’t my holiday.  It has always been a bit of a melancholy holiday for me, more a night for quiet reflection then mayhem and destruction.  This year was going to be perhaps even more so, being half way around the world in a new city, my expectation was that it was going to be a quiet night at home.

Much to my surprise, as the New Year’s approached, the invitations started to roll in.  By the end of the work day, there were four invitations from co-workers and friends.  I took up one from friend Sam and his girlfriend to join them for a barbeque at a park with some friends.

Low key but social.  That seemed like the Australian way.

Sam and friends picked me up from my apartment about six o’clock New Years Eve, just as the ominous clouds broke over the skyline from the west.  It had been hot all day - hitting almost forty degrees…Celcius for those of you in the states, or about one hundred degrees Fahrenheit (for comparison’s sake it was almost forty in my home town on New Years Day back in Minnesota…forty below…at that point, really doesn’t matter if it is Fahrenheit or Celcius).

We made our way through the streets of Melbourne to the slightly eccentric northside - young, and hip…and slightly broke and a little rough around the edges, it seemed to be the perfect place to watch the fireworks.

The group grew to a large mix of people, both Australian and foreign (American, English, Indian), and some fantastic food and some adult malt beverages. 

Here I must stop and put in a disclaimer - wanting to pace myself, I followed the rules I was given - BYOB, so I brought along a six pack…trying to pace myself for the evening - I should have known that Australian hospitality was much too much for myself discipline and the slabs of beer (aka the 24 packs) were freely distributed.

One of the folks walked in and dumped out box of wooden blocks on the ground…and it transported me right back home to our family gatherings in northern Minnesota.  The game was the exact same as the one we played, imported by distant family and distributed through the family - some call it Chub, some call it Cub, some call it Kub, or Kube - in the end, I just call it fun.  It involves a big grassy area, wooden blocks that you must try to hit from your firing line on the far side of field, and a little bit of skill.

It was fun.

In between beers, bits of lamb and fruit and Cornish sausages, we managed to beat to opposing team - victorious!

Just as the rain started to fall and the lightening started to flash…

Or about fifteen minutes before the expected fireworks.

The entire group made its way to local establishment a couple of blocks away from the park.  Scrambling into cars or running for the awnings along the street, within fifteen minutes, we had all reconvened in the bar.

Nine o’clock in the evening, New Years Eve, with the fireworks crashing out of view in the distance…and thunder and lightening crashing around us…we toasted our friends old and new.

This is where things get hazy….