I had been to travel writing conferences, and book festivals, but until this past weekend I had never been to a travel writing festival.

It seemed about time that travel writing got its own celebration. And a wonderful celebration it was. (Put on for the first time, and pulled off with great elan, by Jackie Dutton of the University of Melbourne.)

Of course I'm biased, since I participated. I gave a talk at the start, which unfortunately caused me to miss Elaine Lewis's session about her time running an Australian bookstore in Paris (which she charmingly records in her book Left Bank Waltz).

Someone questioned my remark about the declining popularity of travel books, noting that in Australia they are doing very well. I had noticed that, actually, on my visits to Melbourne bookstores. I told him that in the big chain bookstores in the States, the shelves of travel narratives had gotten smaller over the last few years. And -- though I didn't say this -- we don't have travel writing festivals.

In the afternoon I caught Angus McDonald's slide show of Indian hill trains. His stunning photographs -- accompanied by classical Indian music -- beautifully transported his audience to the subcontinent.

Since Melbourne is the home of Lonely Planet, three of their authors conducted a lively conversation on the workings of guidebook writers.

Sunday I taught a four-hour workshop, which made me miss more interesting authors: Arnold Zable, Josiane Behmoiras (on a subject dear to my heart: slow travel), Robert Dessaix. But my students were fascinating in their own right, revealing, in brief asides, travel experiences that humbled my modest exploits. (One woman casually mentioned a few years spent in Ethiopia.) I once wrote a column calling the Germans the "world's best travelers" but I may have to change that to the Australians. (I haven't heard of any travel writing festivals in Germany.)

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I've been told by authoritative sources that I don't need to leave Melbourne to find wildlife.

I'm staying in Carlton, about a fifteen minute walk from downtown, and apparently in the park in front of my hotel you can see possums at night. Flynig foxes prefer Lincoln Square, a few blocks away. And all sorts of exotic birds can be seen in the botanical gardens.

I found some exotic potato chips in the local 7-Eleven, with flavors like Lime & Black Pepper, Sweet Chilli and Sour Cream, Honey-Baked Ham, and Tzatziki.

The Australian dollar is about equal to the U.S. dollar, which makes things convenient but not very cheap. I paid $34 yesterday for the Lonely Planet guide to Melbourne -- one of their slender city guides -- and, at that price, will read every page.

Carrying the precious guide back to my hotel I passed a woman in a hijab who was pushing a stroller with both her hands and talking on her cell phone at the same time, the phone conveniently held on her cheek by her tight head scarf.

At the entrance to the Royal Dental Hospital of Melbourne I found the Toothpick Cafe, which had a nice selection of hot and cold foods, plus two types of gluten-free cookies.

This morning I woke up at 5 a.m. and the possums suddenly made sense, as Melbourne, I remembered, is Dame Edna's hometown.

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"Do you know where I can get a good meat pie?"

The man at the information desk of the State Library of Victoria looked a bit surprised. I had wandered around the magnificent building -- marveling at the great domed reading room, with its warm rays of wooden desks spreading out from the center, illuminated here and there by elegant green banker's lamps -- and now was hungry. And I have a thing about starting my visit to a place with local fare.


The man thought a while, asked his assistant, and eventually they sent me to a little food court in the bottom of the building next door, where I had a nice pie of steak, bacon and cheese.

Afterwards, I wandered up Little Bourke Street, and then down Bourke Street, marveling anew at the range of restaurants. The first street turned into a little Chinatown with traditional Chinese restaurants -- a water tank in one displayed the largest crabs I have ever seen, sort of like footballs with legs -- and more modern bistrots, like the Post-Mao Cafe.

Bourke Street had some wonderful looking Indian restaurants, full of Indian office workers and the smell of curry. Pelligrino's Bar was a narrow room with people squeezed at the bar wolfing down plates of pasta. Back on Swanston Street I passed a Chinese dumpling place directly across from a Vietnamese noodle house.

Something tells me I'm going to go easy on the meat pies.

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The nice thing about the barebones U.S airlines is that they make flying foreign airlines seem luxurious.

Stepping off my American Airlines flight at LAX and boarding Qantas was a bit like moving from coach to first class, even though -- in row 46 - I was far from the front. I showed my boarding pass and was directed to the back by a flight attendant who addressed me as "Mr. Swick."

Once in the air we were fed dinner -- a choice of seared salmon with snow peas or chicken with orzo salad. Before going to sleep, we were each handed a little bag containing a bottle of water, a dried fruit snack, oatmeal cookies, and M&Ms. To help us through the night.


I slept, talked to my seatmate -- a Qantas mechanic flying back to Adelaide -- and caught up on movies: Smart People, The Band's Visit, Charlie Wilson's War -- shown on the screen embedded in the back of the seat in front of me."

We had two breakfasts -- the reward for stopping in Auckland -- and arrived in Melbourne a little after 9 am -- about 26 hours after I left Miami. If there are any typos in this, that's why.

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"Are you done?" I asked the man leaving the lobby computer.

"I'm out of here," he said. "I'm history. Soon moving into myth."

I'm staying at the Graduate House on the campus of the University of Melbourne (to sort of help explain that dialogue).

Though this is my second time in Australia, this is the first time I've felt that I've come to the other side of the world. It's not that planes have gotten faster. It's because nine years ago I flew straight to Cairns and the heat and humidity, the lush vegetation, were -- after 20-odd hours of sky -- right where I'd left off.

This time I arrived in wintry Melbourne. Yesterday was a lovely day -- partly sunny, in the high 50s -- but the slanting sunlight on facades, gray clouds seen through a web of leafless branches -- were things I hadn't seen in years. It is the landscape of my childhood, but one I associate with the time right after Christmas, not right after the Fourth of July.

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Wednesday began as every day could (as far as I'm concerned) with a two-yolk sunny-side up barnyard egg accompanied by a patty of trout sausage. I'd give you the name of the bed and breakfast if it were a bed and breakfast, but it's not - it's the home of friends who used to live in Ft. Lauderdale.

Yesterday Bruce and Lyn took us across to border to Tennessee, where we white-water rafted down the Pigeon River with a guide who had the slightly disconcerting name of Wade. Happily, none of us had to.

Today, having had our fill of fish farms, ranches and rapids, we drove into the big city (see if you can guess the name). We saw the building that housed the psychiatric clinic where Zelda Fitzgerald died, and a newer facility where James Taylor spent some time (and, I presume, wrote "Fire and Rain.")

We stopped into the Grove Park Inn -- the huge lobby with its walk-in fireplaces, the picture in the hall of F. Scott Fitzgerald in a Rooster tie - and ended up in Biltmore Village. Here our friends Graham and Donnette led us to Rezaz, where we had a delicious lunch - lamb patties with polenta fries, Turkish pizza -- in a simple, elegant setting for about $11 a person. The waiter graciously took care of the celiacs, making sure that nothing on their plates contained or had come into contact with wheat. I had lobbied for 12 Bones, but barbecue is everywhere here and how often do you get to eat the excellent creations of a Persian chef in the mountains of Carolina?

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Out at 8:30 with our friends to the Sunburst Trout Company in Canton. "Processing fish by the grace of God," read the sign in front of the small building. Inside, workers fileted trout that had been deftly decapitated by a machine that produced a little stream of bloody water.

After a tour of the raceways -- Sally Easley giving us handfuls of feed to throw in the water to create a frenzy -- we returned to the building for a taste of hot smoked trout and cold smoked trout (both delicious). We bought six filets for dinner, along with trout sausage, trout dip, and both varieties of smoked trout.

After lunch we headed to a ranch of Scottish Highland cattle to pick up some grass-fed beef that Lyn had ordered. The rancher refused payment, saying that he prefers people taste it first, and then if they like it, they can pay for the next batch.

Hania asked if we could see his cattle, and we drove up a dirt lane behind his pick-up to a little pasture where three woolly females grazed with a calf. The view, down the hill and across a valley to ribbons of mountain, was spectacular.


We drove a little higher to the rancher's house, with another spectacular view and a bull named Maximillian in the front yard. He called to Max and he slowly came up to feed (the long porch was high enough he couldn't climb onto it).

(Photo taken by Donnette Yeaton)

"When I come back," the rancher said, "I want to be either a herd bull or a house cat. They both got it made."

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