Doubtful Sound Cruise

   The oddly-named Doubtful Sound received its moniker from none other than Capt. James Cook who, while sailing New Zealand’s west coast looking for a harbor, and after watching the breakers on the rocks and tracking the prevailing winds, came to the conclusion that it was doubtful that he could get his ship out easily once he sailed in.

   However doubtful, the sound is inaccurately named since it’s not a sound, but a fjord. A fjord is a valley carved by a glacier and then filled with the water from the glacier melting. A fjord typically has a rise where it meets the sea, a moraine of silt left behind. This moraine is usually under water.  

Stefan the travel agent had mentioned that I would want to take a cruise on either Milford or Doubtful Sound, and after reviewing the materials, I knew I wanted to take an overnight cruise on the Navigator, a schooner ship that accommodates only 70 people and offered an affordable quad-share room. (I didn’t have to come up with the four people, they put four together.) The price was a bit of a splurge, but this is the part of the trip where I really did become a tourist. I had come to understand that if I was going to see the countryside and its scenic areas, the choice was either rent a car or pay for tours. Since I’m not quite sure about driving on the other side of the road and hadn’t done the planning, I was quite pleased to have Stefan handle it for me. Not a bad way to go, as much as I abhor traveling on a coach with hordes of other people. Then again, I learned a lot and met a couple nice folks and achieved my objective which, after all, was to actually see New Zealand.

   The trip to Doubtful Sound is a series of over land and over water excursions that takes the better part of a day. We left Queenstown at 7:30 a.m. under a partly cloudy but mercifully dry sky, stopping a couple places along the way, including the Kingston Flyer, an old steam locomotive-driven train that has been restored, along with the tracks it rides. The train held little fascination, since the twisty-turny road had left my stomach a little green. Instead, I found a ginger beer (a much more potent and tasty version of ginger ale) and settled in with Spy, the resident Border Collie. Spy was great company, and we chatted about the train and all the people he meets. Spy, however, would not sit still for a photograph, saying that he and his buddy, a Jack Russell Terrier cross, needed to get back on patrol.

   Most of the track that used to accommodate the Flyer has been removed, but plans are in motion to convert that piling into a path for push bikes (that’s a bicycle to you and me). Bike traffic out of Q-town will follow a route taking riders through Wye Creek and up to Kingston where the Flyer is, and then riders can take the SS Earnshaw steamer back to its dock in Queenstown. Great way to bring revenue to the surrounding towns. I’m confident that there will be some sort of extreme version of riding that track developed soon.

   The coach arrived at the Lake Manapouri dock around noon, and I had 20 minutes to grab a quick bit at their limited café. (Digression alert! If I never see another toasted sandwich again, it will be too soon. Every café in Australia and New Zealand has a version of a “toastie” that is usually ham and cheese and tomato on a packaged white bread or croissant, spread with margarine and flattened into submission on a toasting iron. Perhaps a few months from now, I’ll be interested in a combination of Honey Baked Ham with a fine brie and thinly sliced Granny Smith apples on a chewy sourdough. Maybe.)

   The voyage across Lake Manpouri was gray and misty, since it was (surprise!) raining again. I guess they call it a rainforest for a reason. Once we crossed the lake, we were met by another coach that took us the rest of the way to Doubtful Sound on another twisty-turny road – gravel this time – which slowed the bus down. Along the way we were allowed opportunities to traipse out into the rain and take photographs of stunning waterfalls gushing down the mountains. 

   At the Navigator we were welcomed by the crew and treated to afternoon tea complete with homemade raspberry muffins. (Second digression! New Zealand – and Australia, to a lesser extent – has a thing for muffins that contain chocolate chips and some sort of fruit. Chocolate chip and apple, chocolate chip and pear, chocolate chip and berry, white chocolate and apricot, chocolate chip and banana, chocolate chip and salmon … What is with that? The only muffin I’ve found that is untouched by this craze is the good ol’ blueberry, which probably could use something to snazz it up. As much as I love chocolate, it has no place in a muffin. Or a pancake. Clearly, these sweets are for those who can’t take their chocolate straight up. Would you put ketchup on fine, aged filet mignon? Amateurs.)

   Anyway. For my money, I got: 1) picked up at the hostel, transported to and from the ship on coaches that were comfortable and driven by people who had terrific commentary on the area; 2) excellent food, including an arrival tea, soup service, a buffet dinner that included prime rib and lamb, and a complete breakfast buffet, 3) a cruise with the nature expert in a smaller boat, plus another interpretive presentation about the areas geological history after dinner and just about constant commentary throughout the cruise about where we were sailing, what we were seeing, who was there first, why it’s cool, and so on. They also had a stock of jackets for those who had none, or hadn’t the type for the cold, rainy weather.( After this cruise, I understand why wool is for sale year round in the southland.) An incredible value and a wonderful experience. Not to be an advertisement, but really, it was an amazing cruise, despite the rain and cold. I’m Norwegian and Swedish. You think the Vikings whined about a little rain and cold? And those guys were wearing skirts.

   As we cruised, the weather broke and we were treated to a little sunshine. The captain made a point of getting close to waterfalls and flora for photo ops, and a nice older gentleman offered to take my picture by one of the water falls.  At the soup service after the boat excursion, he approached me with several photos he had taken of me (without my knowledge) while we were out on the nature cruise, and wanted my email address so that he could send them to me. He even saved me a seat at dinner. I waved from where I was sitting with my quad-share mates.

   The southwestern edge of the South Island is called Fiordland, because there are fjords there, obviously. Most are referred to as sounds, although we went over that already. All were formed by glaciers growing and receding over the millennia, carving out valleys in the granite. Glaciers still exist a bit farther north, pushing right up to the tree ferns and mountain beeches in the temperate rainforest. 

   The ship motored all the way out to the mouth of the fjord where we could feel the swell, past the rocks and breakers that Cook saw, past a seal colony where we think there was a female giving birth, this being the season and all. Our overnight anchorage in the cove was smooth, and the engines started up again at 6:30 a.m.

Queenstown

   Flying standby from Auckland to Queenstown was a great option, considering that a regular flight cost $200, while standby cost $79.  Gee, that’s brain surgery. So I went to the airport between the hours of 10:00 a.m. and 3:30 p.m. and reported to the standby ticketing counter which was conspicuous around the corner from the baggage claims, behind the carousels, facing the opposite way of the traffic pattern. I was asked to sign a document which appeared to be a huge disclaimer of “if you don’t get on a flight at the time you want, that’s too bad.” I signed. Then the ticket agent asked if I wanted just a seat or a seat and a bag. Since I was going on the standard of the U.S. where you can still carry-on a carry-on size bag, I requested a seat.

   I took my signed piece of paper to another counter where I would hopefully be issued a boarding pass.

   “This says you requested just a seat.”

   “Yes,” I replied.

   “Let’s weigh your bag.”

   Well, okay. The woman looked just a little bit superior. I rolled my bag over and placed it on the scale where it was shown to weigh a mere 16 kg. The limit displayed on the sign above the scale allowed a weight of 23 kg. The agent directed me to yet another counter with another piece of paper.

   “You’ll have to check the bag.”

   “What?”

   “You’ll have to check the bag. It’s over 7 kg.”

   “But the sign says …”

   “Yes. That’s for checked bags. You’ll have to check this.”

   Off I rolled to the third counter, where I assumed I would just check the bag much like is done in the States with a gate-checked bag.

   The woman pursed her lips. Why is it that women are so good at pursing their lips in disapproval?

   “That will be $20.”

   “What?” Quick on the uptake, I tell you.

   “Twenty  dollars.”

   Fuzzy-headed and fever-sweaty, I handed over $20 and tried to explain that I didn’t understand this wasn’t considered a carry-on size.

   “You were given this information, right?” She pushed the form I had signed a few minutes ago across the counter.

   “Yes.”

   “Did you read it?”

   I gaped. “Well…No.”

   “Don’t you read things before you sign them?”

   “No.” Not always. I was just sick enough to where my editor was not employed.

   “You don’t read things before you sign them? You should always read things before you sign them. Here’s your receipt.”

   At the windows by the entrance, there was a ledge-type thing with vent units spaced intermittently which was the closest things to a chair that I could find, so I sat and read the thing. The document stated clearly that there was a charge of $79 or $89, depending upon whether a person wanted a seat or a seat and a bag fare. After reading it thoroughly – twice – I found the same woman, and stated that I shouldn’t have been charged $20; I should have been charged $10. No, she said. Yes, I said. Nowhere does it state that I am charged an additional $20. No, she said, it doesn’t have to because $20 is the charge for any checked bag. And in fact, they didn’t have to take the bag at all, considering that I didn’t claim it when I should have, which the airline might see as a suspicious action.

   Although the policy of restraint of pen and tongue has been impressed upon me for years, and although arguing in public is a crass action that embarrasses the arguer, the arguee and those unfortunate enough to stand within earshot, I argued. About $10. While at the mercy of two women who could put me on a flight or not, take my baggage or not, arrest me or not. Something in my consciousness finally clicked. I stopped.

   “I understand.” I said.

   “We don’t have to take the bag. This is what the airline charges, if you had read –“

   “I will fight no more forever.” I held up my hand in a sign of peace.

   “The airline policy is that – “

   “I. Understand.”

   And walked away and tried not to burst into tears.

   Well, those women were professional enough to get me a boarding pass and check my bag. And I shut my mouth and got on the flight. At least it was a beautiful day, and the view of Auckland as we took off was lovely. And although I got the center seat, the women on either side were quiet, and I dozed until we landed in Q-town.

   Where it was just starting to rain.

   But the shuttle driver was nice, and the same woman who had sat next to me on the plain got into the van and sat next to me again, chatting the entire time about what to do and not and where to eat and not and, oh, don’t know where the hostel is, she wouldn’t know anything about hostels, but have a great time, luv.

   Queenstown was named for Queen Victoria and is situated on the shores of Lake Wakatipu, a natural glacial lake that stretches 80 km (50 miles) and is edged by the Remarkables range of mountains, site of many “Lord of the Rings” film shots (much of the entire country is, Peter Jackson being a Kiwi). The mountains surrounding the lake also played host to the early scenes in “X-Men,” where Hugh Jackman  (yum) as Wolverine found Rogue hitch-hiking.  A vintage steamship, the SS Earnshaw, takes regular cruises across the lake and up the rivers that feed and empty it.

   The town was overrun with young backpackers, probably because it is the jumping off point for just about any extreme activity you might want to endanger your life doing, including bungee jumping and sky diving and the world’s largest swing (a different application of bungee cords) parasailing, speedboats up the river that specialize in full 360-degree spins, a zip line and, for those who prefer something more staid, a gondola ride up the mountain. In the surrounding bush (woods) there are numerous walking tracks (hiking trails) where those who enjoy having no running water or toilet facilities may bury their own poo to their hearts’ content.

   The city is not just attractive to backpackers, though – it’s one of the premier destinations in the world, hosting about 1.2 million people every year. The Maori passed through the area first, collecting jade, what they call green stone. They also hunted a now-extinct bird called the moa (moh-ah), a large ostrich looking thing that couldn’t fly. The Maori simply set fire to the bush and nabbed the creatures as they ran out. No wonder they’re extinct now. After the Maori, William Rees was the first European there, and the pioneering settler. He leased land from the government to graze sheep, and stayed after the lease was up. Before roads were built, the lake played an important role in farming since the quickest way to get livestock to market was taking them across on a steamboat. Thomas Arthur and Harry Redfern found gold in the Shotover River not long after the town was settled, which set off a boom until the early 1900s, when the town went bust again, left with a population of about 200. Now about 8,000 people live there. 

   It is a lovely little town, and I probably would have had a better time there had I not been sick and sleeping with five other people, one of whom was a snorer of truly epic proportions (who would not wake even with poking and prodding – and yes, I got out of bed and tried) the same guy who came in at 2 a.m. and turned on the lights, then went out and slammed the door, in again and slammed the door, and out again, and in again. Not that I noticed.

   After two nights there, I was off to embark on an overnight cruise on lovely Doubtful Sound.

Welcome to New Zealand

   Maybe I’m getting old and  crotchety or maybe I’m just tired and am ready to go back to the States (I can’t say “go home” because I haven’t got a home right now …) but I sure turned into a cranky pants once I arrived in Auckland. How does one adjust to a new place after the wonderful experiences in Melbourne and the over-the-top New Years in Sydney? Poor Auckland hardly stood a chance.

I’m sure that Auckland is a very nice place. Most of the people were certainly nice. No – all of the people I met who live in Auckland were terrific. Okay, one was a little flaky. And I can’t say those who were visiting from other countries were great.

   In the quest to keep costs down, I’ve mentioned using some different Web sites – WWOOF, HelpExchange, hostelworld, couchsurfing, etc. There’s one more. Crashpadder.com, a site for those individuals who have a room, mother-in-law quarters, guest house, or sofa-bed to rent for a night or week or month to total strangers with ready money. I fell into the total stranger with ready money category, and secured a room with a lady who lives in a western suburb of Auckland. My understanding when I booked was that she was going to either pick me up herself, or arrange for a shuttle/taxi pick up. Since I had trouble getting Internet access at the Sydney airport, I thought I would just check once I landed in Auckland.

   The flight from Sydney to Auckland is not a long one – only three hours. But there’s a two hour time difference, so you really lose five hours. My flight left at 5 p.m., got in at a 10 p.m. But we ran a bit late out of Sydney, and then I had to get a bag and clear New Zealand Customs. By the time I got to a computer terminal, it was getting on close to 11. But yes, there was Internet and yes, there are computers right there but no, they won’t, for some reason, take an American debit/credit card so no, I could not check my email to see what shuttle company she secured or if someone was waiting for me somewhere outside – in the rain.

   So I trot out into the drizzle (not exactly cold, because it’s summer, but still uncomfortable) and chat with the shuttle driver, who speaks broken English with a Chinese accent, but is very kind to me and tells me no, no one has reserved a shuttle for a Kimbel Westerson (I won’t attempt the phonetics on that) but he will call to make sure, and no, they don’t have a reservation, either. Since I don’t know the number of shuttle services in Auckland, I figure I should call to make sure I’m not taking off and getting stuck with two fees, one for the shuttle I didn’t take. But no, I don’t yet have a phone that works in New Zealand, so I find a pay phone but no, I don’t have any New Zealand coins. I remembered to exchange Australian for New Zealand dollars, but didn’t think to get coins. So the shuttle driver, who calls himself Michael because his Chinese name is too difficult for most white people to pronounce, gives me a dollar coin so I can call this nice lady at 11:15 p.m. who tells me, oh, no, she didn’t reserve a shuttle – didn’t I get the email?

   So Michael, bless him, takes me to Henderson, Auckland, New Zealand for the price of $48. A cab would have cost me $80. Along the way, he talks steadily about his job (okay, I was asking him questions) how it’s hard to make a living as a driver, he’s planning to quit at the end of the month but hasn’t told his boss yet, but he’s quitting because sometimes he makes as little as $8 on a run, and the airport charges a fee each time they enter the premises, but his girlfriend works at Subway (Subway?! Gawd, the things that America exports …) and she can get him a job there for minimum wage. Which is about $18 an hour.  Better. Much better.

   He also explains to me that drivers don’t want to go to the western suburbs because it’s more expensive especially for a single fare. There’s better money going east through the city center where there are lots of hotel drops. But he’s okay with taking me. I asked him if he was missing out on a better fare, and he said no, no. It’s okay. He got me to the address (of course he did – he had a nifty navigator on the dashboard of the van) and R. was still awake, with her friend C., who is visiting from Canada. They’ve been friends for 30 years. Both of them used to be flight attendants for Air Canada.

The one nice day when I was in Auckland ... by the Ferry Building downtown.

   The house was immaculate and looked just like it did in the photographs online (praise be) and the room was quite comfortable. She had mentioned that only the single room was available because she had a couple other “girls” staying in the double, and she couldn’t kick them out. Of course not. The single was just fine: tiny bit clean, a cozy down comforter on the bed, just fine. R. fretted about her coughing and hoped it didn’t keep me awake. “Oh, this virus is awful – I’ve been sick since before Christmas!” That comment went over my head at the time. The only concern that crossed my mind as I was dropping off to sleep was that there were four women in the house and one bathroom between all of us. I needn’t have worried about the bathroom.

   In the morning, R. was keen to feed me espresso, but I declined due to the caffeine. I like my coffee, but have to have it decaf. (You don’t want to put jet fuel in a Toyota. The results are astonishing, but only for a short period of time.)  R. was going into downtown Henderson, so she offered me a lift and a brief tour. The tour was brief – a mall, a couple blocks of shops and cafes, the train station and bus stop. Ta-da!

   Since I had managed to find another house sitting gig, I did all the necessaries to get a phone, and proceeded to the train station to check on train times. R. had warned me that train service is reduced on the weekend. She didn’t warn me that train service was currently reduced to nothing. Auckland transit system is in the middle of upgrading their trains to be all electric (instead of steam driven?)  and repairing track, so buses are replacing trains until January 19. January 19?! But, no worries, helpful transport personnel were on hand to sell me a ticket and get me to the right bus. Happily, K., half of the couple for whom I was house sitting, was picking me up at the train station closest to her. The three of us met, had a cup of tea, chatted, agreed on when I would arrive, and M. gave me a ride back to Henderson where I found some pretty darn good Indian food.

*

   When I met C. the night before, she was wearing red, black and white plaid pajama pants; when I saw her the next morning, she was wearing the same; when I got home at seven o’clock she was wearing them and whether she changed out of them or not during the day is a matter for speculation. Built like a potato held up by slender toothpicks, with blonde hair skinned back into an untamed bun on top of her head, she shifted on the sofa like a child, shushing us as R. and I talked about the state of U.S. and New Zealand politics. She interrupts occasionally to tell me that I’m wrong about the U.S.’s policies. She calls George Washington “idiot boy.” She tells us that American schools no longer teach history, and she doesn’t say that in a, “Sheesh! Schools nowadays!” sense, she means that literally, U.S. schools have stopped teaching history.

   R. finally says “Stop it!”

   “Well, they don’t.” C. pouts

   “C., stop it. I mean it.”

   Something is happening here that I don’t understand. C. ignores R. completely. Canadian curriculum is counted off a finger at a time in detail: Grades 1, 2, 3: Nova Scotia history. Grades 4 and 5: Canadian History. Grades 6 and 7, U.S. History (she emphasizes “U.S.”, forcing the last letter into sibilance).  She snaps her fingers at me, tells me what Americans don’t know, shakes her index finger at me, “No! No! Nonono. You don’t know.”

   After I tell her that I know, firsthand, for sure, that at least one American school still teaches History because I have seen a student’s grades in the subject, I do my best to bite my tongue, or at least keep it still. Finally, I ignore the running commentary and shushing from the couch while R. glares in that direction.

   C. gets up, goes to her room, comes back to the kitchen, returns to the couch with a glass of water – wait - (sniff)  … vodka? Aaaahhhhh- that explains it. The petulance, the impatience, the bad manners, the insults. Of course. She’s a drunk. I so badly want to give back to her what she’s been dishing out, but I haven’t any real desire to be rude, dismissive, ill-informed and insecure. She can’t help it. She’s a sick pup. I can help it. So off to bed I go.

   The next morning C. is fast asleep when I get up. R. asks me if I’m okay, not to take it personally, that C. just gets like that sometimes. Of course. I understand. And I find that it works to my advantage that R. feels bad about a paying guest being abused in her home, because I have to tell her that K. and M. need me to house sit a couple days earlier than I thought, and I’ll have to leave tomorrow. The problem: I’ve already paid R. for the six days I wanted the room. We agree that I’ll return after the house sitting job and stay the remaining nights.

*

   K. and M.’s place is in the suburb of Blockhouse Bay and yes, close to the water as the name implies.  The house is situated down a steep slope, so the car is parked at the top of 43 – yes, I counted – stairs. At first glance, the place looked a little dodgy, as they say here. Tiny. Oh, sheesh. What have gotten into? Pleasebeokaypleasebeokaypleasebeokay … And it was quite okay. The structure has a tiny footprint, but is three stories of comfort. Hard wood floors, a large deck, great view of the water, natural landscape (what M. called “bush”) hydrangea blossoms big as melons, tree ferns and other lush green things that I can’t identify. The cats were content, as were the fish, although I was told that the fish didn’t like to sit on your lap and purr in the evenings. Ah. Good to know.

   New Zealand’s North Island is considered sub-tropical and has acres upon acres of rain forest. Consequently, it does rain on occasion. In fact, right now, most of the North Island is experiencing record rainfall. Wettest summer on record, matter of fact. And I saw nearly two weeks of it. Happily, I was ensconced in K. and M.’s place with the cats, who managed to bear the wet quite well and the fish, who , it turns out, don’t mind being wet.  I did laundry, hung out, got a lot of work done, was on Facebook more than I ever have been. And K. had generously offered the place if I needed it for another night after she returned. I needed it.

   While house sitting, I took a day trip with the other guest at R.’s, M. We drove off to Helensville one day, in the rain, and cold, to see … not much of anything, really. One main street stretched several blocks and boasted a couple (bad) cafes, and a few antique stores, only one of which was actually an antique store. The other two were more like pop-up garage sale sites. Bored with Helensville, we drove out to Shelley Beach, where the inclement weather had not changed, and had (bad) snacks at the café there. Finally, we gave up and left. During this excursion, I heard the news from R.’s place – both she and C. had caught R.’s contagious crud. I was glad to be gone, and did not want to return. My experience is that the Universe tends to grant wishes, and sure enough, I received a phone call from R. who said that I really shouldn’t come back, everyone was sick, she’d be happy to return my money. We arranged to meet at a halfway point, after which I would trek down to the Ponsonby neighborhood to find accommodations.

   Although K. and M.’s place was quite comfortable, getting anywhere from there was challenging. A good 15 minute walk would get me to the shops where I could catch a bus to the nearest train station to catch another bus or train somewhere. Yet the public transportation was surprisingly expensive and inconvenient – three different bus companies provided service, and not all trains were running yet. After an unfruitful day in Ponsonby (where I bought things I probably shouldn’t have, but some of them were gifts, so I couldn’t feel too bad about it) trying to secure lodging at a hostel (eeewww), I stumbled back to Blockhouse Bay. The standard shops line the main road – bakeries, cafes, pharmacies, a grocery store. And a travel agency.

Shelley Beach.

   Stefan, or Herman the German as his mates call him, was sympathetic and checked into an earlier flight home for me. The price? Yikes. That much? Nope. I’ll tough it out and find somewhere to stay. Stefan asked if he might make a few suggestions. Of course.

   So I walked back to K. and M.’s place delighted to have information about the South Island with me, and some of the destinations there. All I had to do was select and they would take care of the details. Nice. But strange – when I opened my mouth to tell K. about it (because she was back by now), strange croaks issued from my mouth.

   “Are you okay?” K. asked.

   “Uh … (ahem)…(cough, cough) …Yeah. I think I might be getting what everyone else has …” and told her my sad story about staying at the sick house.

   But I looked at the info, and chose, and the next morning with a head that felt like it was wrapped in cotton and legs that made me feel like I was wading through mud, I sloshed down to the agency to book my next two weeks and see if there was a doctor who would be kind enough to prescribe an antibiotic, should I need it in the immediate future. Yes, and yes, and $105.90 later, I had some lovely erythromycin to complement my meals for the next 14 days.

   Stefan booked me a whirlwind expedition to points of interest on the South and North islands, and I sweated my fevered self back to K. and M.’s to finish packing and meet the shuttle at 2:30 so I could stay a night at the airport, store one of my bags, and fly standby to Queenstown.

Everyman

   I visit the dead.

   I do not visit the war dead.

   This is not a political statement or a protest – it is merely a fact. I do not visit shrines or temples or chapels or other stone monoliths or mausoleums built for those who have died in the glory and the carnage of war, those who sometimes have not even left physical remains behind.

   I’ve been in Washington, D.C. more than once, but have not yet paid respects at the Viet Nam Veterans’ Memorial, although I’ve heard it is a potent experience. Arlington Cemetery has not yet made it onto my itinerary. My family has in it a number of good and true who have served their country. However, they served and came home.

   So visiting the Shrine of Remembrance in Melbourne was sheer coincidence on an afternoon that was to contain other stops to shops, cafes and notable homes along the Number 8 Tram route. As it happened, I had no patience for premier residences and beautiful people lining sidewalk cafes after seeing the Shrine.

   The monolith stands on a hill, visible from St. Kilda Road, a pyramid that could be a Victorian formal garden monstrosity or some sort of memorial, a big stone something-or-other whose presence is inescapable yet repellent. These places tend to be austere and solemn, providing only the most basic information – this nation did this, that leader did that - they are temples to Mars, not Athena.

   I enter through a low door, a courtyard and a hall full of medals symbolizing in their count the number of Victorian Australians who served – for each medal, 100 served and six died. There is a sign that directs me to the garden courtyard, the crypt, and/or the sanctuary. I haven’t any idea where I am now, but it is a dark place with a concrete floor and red brick columns a meter square that disappear into a black void. Banners hang on each column, they are muslin with paintings simple as a child’s drawing, elegant as calligraphy. Each depicts a scene from World War I, and a poem. By the artist? No, by soldiers who were there, Englishmen, Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon, writing in a trench or between marches.

   The columns are too close together, the room is too dark. I can’t get a photograph that would allow me to walk through with efficient speed on my way to the next tram stop. I must sit now, write it now, feel it now, not distance myself from this place where a child’s trantrum echoes, a cell phone rings, an Asian voice answers, one of the two women who were a pain in the ass on the tram. The child is sitting on the floor, leaning against one of the long banners while his mother cajoles him and takes a flash photograph. Before I can scold them for touching the art and using flash photography, they are gone, as if they felt the wrongness of that and are uncomfortable in this place with no convenient photo ops.

*

   Now I have become a pest; either that or the staff and volunteers here are well above what other volunteers I’ve met. I asked for a catalogue of the exhibit – one does not exist. An older gentlemen with brilliant white hair, mustache, side burns and aged ivory  teeth approaches me as I’m watching the orientation movie that I ignored on the way in, gliding past on my way to  - what? I didn’t know until I got there. He tells me that the curator is coming to speak with me, and I’m amazed and immediately self-conscious. Really? The curator? Sheesh. I really have put a bee in someone’s bonnet.

   Neil Sharkey, curator, walks toward me. I’d love to know the origin of his family name. He is thin as a rake, dressed in long, square-toed shoes, skinny jeans the color of sand, a black (of course) shirt, black mop of hair with bangs that flop over his eyes. He keeps brushing them away, or tossing his head. He tells me that no, there is no catalogue of “Everyman” available, largely because there is not an extra $5,000 or so lying around. (I think to myself that $5,000 sounds like a bargain to produce a quality catalogue.) There must be someone with five grand – maybe five someones with one thousand each to put together an amazing piece of this art. Really? Seriously? After working at an art museum I know that there is a story that goes along with this catalogue drama. I would have purchased one. Fifty dollars. Easy.

   I tell Neil that I keep a blog, that I really want to write about this and use images – that I would have taken photographs, but it’s too dark, my little iPhone won’t do it, I can’t get far enough away to show the whole image because of those wonderful brick pillars. Neil phones Craig Barrett, the artist.

   “Listen Craig, there an American woman here who is really interested in “Everyman” and wants to use some images on a blog … yeah. Yeah. Well, I suppose we could … Yeah. I have images of everything. Mmhmm. I have her right here.”

   He covers the mouthpiece.

   “Kimber …?”

   “Kimbel.”

   “Right.”

   “Kimbel. Here she is.”

   I love speaking to artists about their work. Most of them are approachable, unlike the people who represent artists. Craig Barrett tells me that he returned from Spain to Melbourne in 2002 and looked at the new area just opened at the shrine and immediately wanted to create something specifically for the space that he saw as a cross between catacomb and cathedral. He said he didn’t know how gas worked, so he researched it. He said that the first tanks were used in the first World War, so he researched them. He immersed himself in the details of trench warfare.

   Craig Barrett created this work because he wanted to make artwork specifically for that site. The staff and board of the Shrine loved it, and after the exhibit opened, he gave the entire set of work to the organization. This is the fifth time it’s been displayed. Well over half a million people have seen it. I wonder if I’m the first person who wanted a full catalogue?

   Four men from Barrett’s family served on the Western Front of what was once called the Great War, the War to End all Wars. His great grandfather and three great uncles fought at the Somme and at Ypres. One great uncle remains there. The others lived to return home.

   I, like Barrett, grew up knowing little of what these men had witnessed. My hormonal yearnings during American History distracted me from the relevant information, no matter how earnest Mr. Money was about imparting his knowledge.

*

   I am given permission to use images of “Everyman” on this blog, and thank Craig and Neil profusely. Then I wander through this Hall of Columns, as I have learned this room is called, to the Crypt where the fighting units of World War I are commemorated, where the colors representing 25% of Victoria’s regiments have been retired, where the elegant folds of forty-six Light Horse regiments’ guidons drape. No air current stirs them here.

   I want to reflect, look more closely at "Father and Son," the bronze sculpture that represents the two generations who fought in the First and Second World Wars, silk poppies mounded at its base.  A clear shot of the sculpture is all I want, but I am surrounded by a horde of Asians with cameras. A toddler fiddles with the poppies, pushing some to the floor. She watches them fall then walks away. The other kids race around the perimeter of the room, touching all the brass plaques that commemorate the ships lost. I step forward involuntarily saying, “oh, nononono…” No one hears me over the chatter and clicking of Nikon shutters. I want to tell them that this place is sacred, now that I understand.

   Finally, they are gone. I place the fallen poppies back on the statue's base. I take one with me.

   One of my grandfathers fought in The Great War, shipped into France in a boxcar, The 40 and 8 they called them because they had a capacity for either eight horses or forty men. He came back, raised a family and died of a stroke before I became an adult. I hear that he sat with me at Disneyland after Mickey Mouse scared the crap out of me. But I heard no stories of France and the Western Front, and probably would never have been old enough to even think to ask questions.

    What of the glory of war – does war give some sort of meaning to our otherwise small lives? War is at once dehumanizing and humanizing, brutal conflict breeding a love between brothers in arms that defies the understanding of one who has never experienced foxholes and mortars. For most of us, bombs bursting in air is only a 4^th of July event. And for most of us, that’s all we want it to be: the melodic romanticism of a mythic battle.

   Barrett says that he created “Everyman,” “as homage to all those who have witnessed such events, to the poets and soldiers Owen and Sassoon, and to (his) Great Uncle George whose name is written along with his brothers in the Books of Remembrance here in the Shrine.”

   I visit the dead. I visit the war dead.

Dulce et decorum est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime. --

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs

Bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, --

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

-Wilfred Owen