The third leg of our journey took us to Newcastle, a scant 45 min drive outside of the Hunter, and also home to Liz’s parents. There was the slightest bit of trepidation for this visit, as Liz’s father is an Anglican minister, and Ben and I are godless heathens. In the end there was nothing to fear, as Ben and I both behaved, and we were well received. Liz’s dad has a subscription to Time magazine, and loves American politics, so he had a field day having me around. Ben noticed a woodcut on the dining room wall, and asked Brandon and I for a confirmation. It was indeed the Last Supper.

We had a lovely dinner, walked around New Lambton a bit with Gus, the yellow lab walking Ben, and watched the Darjeerling Limited. The next day we went downtown to the harbour and had a ginger beer at the Brewery. It was quite a refreshing change after all the wine. Who am I kidding, we’re a bunch of alcos, and it was still great to have a beer at 11:00 am.

We headed home, and I made my request to stop in Brooklyn on the way for some cheesy photo ops. We weren’t sure there was even an exit, but indeed there was and we got off. It turned out to be a nice little town complete with a pub, police station, post office and train station. Everyone was a bit peckish, so we decided to eat lunch as well. I made an inspired choice of local prawns, whose heads I had to rip off. But they were amazing. After the requisite photos, we headed back down to Sydney.

All in all, an awesome trip. I hope my liver thinks as much.

In typical fashion, a road trip to wine country in Orange and the Hunter Valley turned into a slew of random references having nothing to do with the actual event. In addition to sampling the amazing wines of Orange and the Hunter Valley, we reconnected with our childhood by watching Ghostbusters and Ghostbusters 2 in one sitting. But we did it while drinking quality wine and gorging ourselves on awesome cheese.

Orange is one of the few cool-climate wine regions in Australia, specializing in grapes that do not fare as well in the warmer regions, such as Pinot Noir, Gewurtztraminer and Reisling. We missed snow by a few days and got incredibly beautiful weather. Upon checking in, we rushed to Bloodwood, one of the highlights of the trip with the Schubert Chardonnay and Maurice Cab Sav/Merlot blend (which also lead to singing Steve Miller Band all week).

Our best tasting came the next day at Cargo Road, where James Sweetapple gave us a full sampling and history of the vineyard. Hesitant to let us try more than a few wines at first, he quickly brought out more once he figured out we knew more than the average punter, and sat us out on the back veranda overlooking the vineyard for a good hour, sampling the wine and having a great conversation. He even made us coffee. We bought a sampling of some brilliant wines, including some of the best Gewurtz and Reisling I have had, and a true Zinfandel, not that pussy, sugary rosé shit.

Tuesday night was our food highlight of the trip at Lolli Redini. Quite possibly the best meal I have ever eaten (porcini risotto with crispy panchetta. Mmmm. And a honeycomb parfait.) Also, quite possibly the most expensive I’ve ever had. But it was well worth it, and we paired wines really well. Plus, the staff was full of cute kookaburras.

We took the scenic Putty Road through the bush to get to the Hunter, complete with fantastic scenery. We tried some new places in the Hunter, but it was the old stand by that was by far the best for me. Petersons is by far my favorite vineyard anywhere, and they are consistently amazing with just about every varietal they produce. Plus, it is always a shitload of fun to go there. When we took a second to decide what to sample, the guy says “I know what you want. EVERYTHING!” We went down the entire tasting menu, plus a few not on there, and got completely ME (mentally excited, for those of you not yet versed with this acronym). After buying more wine than could really fit in the Astra, we headed down the road to Savannah, an offshoot of Petersons. The woman there was awesome as well, and got us pretty buzzed, and gave us a pub suggestion to try and pickup at later. We were in a great mood for dinner that night, though not obnoxious. Unfortunately, three hours of dinner left us with no time to go to the pub. Alas, the girls of the Hunter Valley will never experience our awesomeness.

We took our time getting out the next day and headed to Newcastle for a night at Liz’s parents.

World Youth Day begins here in Sydney next week. The city has been swarmed with Catholics waiting to walk around and find the Pope. Luckily for us, we will be out of town for the first go at having a real vacation while I am here. In honour of this holy occasion, Ben and I headed to the Cross. King’s Cross, that is. I will let the pictures do the talking for this story, as there is just too much to recap. We talked to heaps of randoms, and were highly entertained.

Yesterday was Ben’s Nana’s 80th birthday party here at the house. Heaps of fun were had by all, and heaps of wine bottles were emptied. Hung out with Ben’s cousin Megan for the first time in twelve years since she was in the states.

Tomorrow we depart bright and early for Orange, a cool-climate wine region in North Western New South Wales. We’re there for two days, then depart for the somewhat warmer Hunter Valley for another two days, and finally a stopover in Newcastle so Brandon and Liz can pop in on her family.

So no updates for the next week while I’m gone. Jicks, you better have a facebook album of photos from your Philly trip up soon. Ben and I can’t be the sole idiots adding pictures.

Not much to report here. I’ve been banging away on the Leyster article all week in the surprisingly well stocked research library at the Art Gallery of New South Wales. Claus Grimm’s Hals monograph is incredibly nutty.

In the Australian Cultural Exchange portion of my trip, Ben and I have just finished watching the first season of The Librarians. It’s basically The Office, in a library, and nearly as funny. Unfortunately, this is the closest thing I can find on Netflix.

In the yuppie portion of life, Ben and I went to the GPO Wine and Cheese Room, which is in a beautiful old building on Martin Place (Sydney’s Wall St) that was originally the first post office in the city. Or I think that’s what the plaque read. Regardless, this was an amazing place. We each went for one of their paired cheese and wine ‘flights’ - Ben opting for the “White Flight” in Belkin’s honour. I went for the classic flight. Them shits were amazing. Perfect pairings of wine and cheese, plus I got a boisterous (not the actual one from that link). And the cheddar was kick ass.

And by now, everyone I know has sent me this Times article about my ol’ buddy Alan Harding. Wooo, Smith St reprazent. Good reading.

Well, it’s off to bed to dream of sugar plum possums dancing on the roof.

And btw, I think I’ve officially graduated to being a real blogger, since this post was basically links to other things.

We’re right in the middle of the 2008 Biennale of Sydney, so naturally there are signs and fliers and advertisements everywhere. And as anyone who has discussed art with me for more than about three minutes knows, I despise most anything created post WWII. There are obvious exceptions, such as Warhol, and a decent amount of photography. Of course, I’m willing to be proven wrong, if anyone should take offense at my close-mindedness. I’m sure I also have a heavy handed reaction due to my first hand experience around self-important jackasses I encountered in art school. I absolutely can’t stand the self-aggrandizing used car salesmanship behind most anything created today, where the art is not the physical creation, but the game of coming up with the best psuedo-philosophical, socially conscious, inner genius explanation behind the pile of trash you found on the sidewalk and then piled in a gallery that contains zero percent craftsmanship, 100% bullshit.

On this note, I walked into the Art Gallery of New South Wales this morning to begin some follow-up research on the article I’m writing in the gallery’s library. As I am checking my bag, I notice a small TV showing something connected with the Biennale. And out of nowhere, I recognize the artist’s name. It was my design teacher my first year in art school. Who happens to be one of the biggest art-related wankers I have ever met. This is also not the first time I have randomly encountered his work in my normal life either. A few years ago, he was responsible for this, which some of my Brooklyn compatriots may remember. This time around, down under, he is doing this. On paper, both of these projects actually sound interesting, but knowing the douche behind the work really spoils it for me.

All of this is terribly ironic, considering a cornerstone of my art historical work is based on investigating the biographical nature of artists in the 17th century. Current scholarship is obsessed with historical context and messages for contemporary viewers in Dutch art of the Golden Age, yet shies away from the older, romanticized viewpoints that inaugurated the genre in the 19th century. I will spare you my normal polemic here, as I should save that for the actual article. Of course, while looking through catalogues today, I found a painting I’ve never seen before that I think should be attributed to Leyster. Just what I needed, a new distraction.

There is one thing I am forced to eat my words about; Ben kept urging me to look at gallery shows in case I wanted to visit any of them. I dismissed this out of hand, saying I fucking hate contemporary art, etc, it’s a waste of time. What should Ben leave out a few days later, but the art listings in the Sydney weekend magazine, highlighting a galley show of German Expressionist prints. Well fuck me, I love this period, especially Grosz’s drawings. I will happily admit defeat and finally go to a gallery next Sunday in Woolhara.

This will be my second trip to Woolhara in a week. Yesterday while Ben went into the office to work on a freelance job, I tagged along and went exploring the city for a few hours. I made my normal walk up Oxford St on the way to Surry Hills, but this time kept going and walked through Paddington and Woolhara, two incredibly nice neighborhoods right outside of the city center. There were countless small streets with old houses right off of the high-end shops on Oxford St. If Newtown is the Sydney equivalent to Carroll Gardens, this was more like the West Village. Although I did find a Smith Street in Woolhara. I made my way back through Darlinghurst back to the CBD (Central Business District) and then home.

I’ve noticed with prolonged exposure to Aussies, I’ve taken on a good deal of slang or alternate ways of saying things. Not necessarily in an effort to fit in, but simply because that’s the way I’m hearing all these things said. ‘Heaps’ has replaced ‘A Lot’, ‘Massive’ has replaced ‘Huge’ (and is a good occasional substitute for Fatty), and I will occasionally ‘Reckon’ rather than think. I’ll definitely stop using some of them when I get home (how much more pretentious do I need to be?), but some I quite like. Heaps especially. So be prepared for me to sound more obnoxious than normal when I get back. Then again, you can’t have pretentious without Prete. *rimshot* Ah hahaha, I crack myself up.

Anyway, my favourite saying may be the equivalent of “What’s up?” - “How ya goin’?”, mostly because it reminds me of the German “Wie gehts?”, how are you, or literally, “how does it go?”. That’s about it for my linguistic observations at the moment. As per usual, Ben and I have developed our own lexicon as well, complete with acronyms and New Zealand accents. Which I may stick to, since it was reaffirmed last night that my American accent just isn’t very special.

Our original plans were for cheap Thai and the corner bar in Newtown (a bar that has been alternately referred to as Cornerstone, and finally Court House, possibly its actual name), which has a nice beer garden and a relaxed atmosphere more to our liking. Oh, and heaps of attractive girls. But this was derailed by our French connection.

Ben’s mate from work, Franck, kept us at the Shelbourne for after work drinks that lasted until 9:30. He is quite possibly the most hilarious Frenchman I have ever encountered, with a cliché lack of inhibition when wanting to talk to girls, or about them. His polka dot shirt clashed with his adidas striped jacket, topped with a San Francisco Giants hat. Awesome. He approached one group of girls by asking them if they knew how to lower the outdoor heater we were standing under. And then pretended to fiddle the switch without actually touching it. A choice quote about his game: “You know, ze girl, she come over to my place, and next thing you know, my dick is in her mouth.” That is just how he rolls. I think I’ve found a mentor for Belkin.

This approach also had its downside, as when he dragged us in to a group so that he could talk to one of the girls, leaving Ben and I to fend for ourselves with the leftovers. At this point, all we wanted to do was get to dinner in Newtown, but Franck was waiting for some other girls he had blackberry’d earlier in the night to get to the bar, and implored us to wait with him. Earlier in the night my accent was compared unfavourably to Franck’s and also Ken’s Scottish accent. So of course, one of the girls Ben and I are entertaining on Franck’s behalf proclaims that she loves American accents! Just my luck. She also loved cricket, so I had her explain the rules to me until we were finally relieved of duty and could make our way to Newtown.

So we met up with Brandon, Liz and Raj at the Alfred, Brandon impressively recognized a Kinks song from my air guitar, left Raj, had some Turkish fast food. Of course the Court/Corner House/Stone was closed by the time we got there (Australian liquor licenses are tiered, and many close at midnight, this one because it is off the main strip in a residential street). We found Raj again in time to go to the Zanzibar, home of lesbian night hot dogs, which was uneventful. We popped into Kelly’s, haunt of Vicky from Marricksburgh, and ran straight into a karaoke contest. We left, singing the song down the street until parting ways. We will do up the Stonehouse at another time.

This morning we hit up Campos for some amazing coffee, and I picked up a bag of the Obama Roast. A rich, dark roast. Tomorrow, a 15k bush walk into Sydney Cove. I will report on that if I don’t expire first.

Bis später

Ben and I just devoured a massive plate of sushi and sashimi at Matsuri. It was fucking amazing. I hope my mom doesn’t faint from the shock. And we went to Trinity for about the fifth time since I’ve been here. I’ve found my local. Not a shock that I’m drinking.

Apparently tomorrow night will involve French people. I am apprehensive. More to report this weekend. And full sentences too.