Since childhood, the dream of visiting Australia, the land of kangaroos and rain forests, filled my mind. A place of mystery and enchantment, where the seasons reversed from my own familiar ones make my holiday traditions useless. Where legends of sharks so huge they could consume a fleet of ships are woven with mysteries of giant clams in turquoise waters of the Great Reef. Of platypus (or should that be platypi?), nature's quirky creation of spare parts frolicking in clear streams; of scorching deserts that pay homage to the primitive tribesmen who tame her ruddy ways. A place of ruffian men with thick alluring accents and sturdy women with equally strong characters rode carefree atop wild horses. There, roaming the great rocky slopes that separate the cooled lush growth of the coast from the relentless air curling heat of the outback. This was my image of Australia. Storybooks, travel brochures and movies, forgetting not the infamous crocodile hunter; all give glimpses (though hopelessly stereotyped and admittedly tainted) to this remarkable land and all who call it home. Seldom does reality live up to the idealistic fantasy of a child. Especially such a long lived one, but I must say I was not disappointed. Well, okay. Just a little.

New South Wales: Hunter Valley: Wine, Roos and Dead Wombats.

Peppers is an exquisite wine country resort and I don't drink . . . not much anyway. (hic) Boy, that was like putting a mountain climber in a pair of swim fins. At least a hundred wineries complemented with inns and cafes filled the valley. " How can you be staying in the Valley" natives would muse aloud, "if you don't like wine?" So I dutifully availed myself of a token cellar simply to get people off my back. Lindemans cellars complimented my every breakfast during the Olympics with a glass of the "official champagne of the games". A custom I have to admit I rather enjoyed, but beyond that, I ventured more into the woods than the vineyards.

Hunter Valley, nestled in the mountains some 150 kilometers north of Sydney, filled my senses with new sights, sounds, smells and tastes daily and it became an exercise in sleuthing to uncover the many hidden treasures of this place. Stepping out into the back yard through the French doors of my nicely appointed room every morning was exhilarating. My lungs greedily filled with the mists of dawn, laden with rich eucalyptus, and my ears perked to bird songs and unfamiliar sounds of nature. Australia is a birder's paradise; filled with huge flocks of cockatoos, groupings of galahs, lorikeets, giant white pelicans, pairs of black swans, and hundreds I have no names for. So I vigorously imagine I am Audubon as each unknown flitting specimen alights to sing for me. One, just as familiar as his Colorado relative, was the magpie who became quite intimate with my travel companion as she swooped to draw blood from unwary intruders. (Always wear a cap in springtime unless you want to be scalped by a magpie. Paradise does have a price.)

Walkway posts and tin roof eaves hung overflowing with blooming wisteria and budding grape vines whose trunks were as thick as a man's wrist, gnarled and charactered by years of climbing. Rose gardens and exotic palms readied for spring grew lustily in the lengthening daylight. Every hill rolled with row upon row of carefully tended vineyards, just sprouting the succulent greens of spring in the poor, dry and rocky soil. Hills gave way to plains and hidden in them was the first true notion that I wasn't home anymore. A distant mob of kangaroos, numbering about two dozen, leisurely bounded across fields of wintered grass just as the sun lay to the edges of the blue-green peaks. Actually, I had seen 5 dead roos already along the roadside and a few wombats besides. Ghastly sights, but just as our road kill consists of raccoons and armadillos (has anyone ever seen a LIVE armadillo?), so they have roos. Ah, but living, wild, free-range roos in the waning daylight made the day perfect. My childhood land was before my eyes and brought me grins a-plenty.

As for tastes, Australians do know how to cook. Never mind the fact that I enjoyed fine dining in a five star restaurant every day while at Peppers. There were plenty of bakeries and hole in the wall restaurants that were simply grand. It was an "all you could eat" buffet of experimental delights for my ever-adventurous palate. I couldn't find anything over the edge like roo-stew or flying fox soup, but I enjoyed things I don't often partake of here at home (I'm a glutton for mutton, never partaking of beef while there. Well, except for Hungry Jacks, which is the Burger King of Oz).

HOWEVER, let me warn you now, the rumors are false; Vegemite is nothing like peanut butter. Who on this green little planet of ours ever thought you could eat that stuff was definitely visiting from another terrestrial orb and had some evil plan devised to conquer the planet while we were all sick. If I had not been in the above mentioned fine eating establishment, I would have surely duplicated the scene from "Big" where Tom Hanks unabashedly spit out the offending taste, tongue flailing and wiping it off with a napkin. Eeew. . . it gives me goose bumps just to think of it again. I brought home a year's supply in a convenient little .5 oz packet to share with my friends, but only the ones with an exceptionally good sense of humor.

Forgive me, our loyal Australian readers (there is bound to be at least one of you), but missing from my overall experience were the carefully studied idioms and the burly accent of shortened words, dragged out vowels and odd pronunciations. Where was Steve Irwin, Crocodile Dundee or even Mel Gibson? The residents of N.S.W., though obviously Australian, spoke not with the accent I so anticipated, not even the casual greeting "G'day". By crockie, they say "hello"! Disheartened, I recalled the kangaroos, glimpsed flocks of screaming sulfur crested cockatoos and the gut tightening effects of driving on the left side of the road, and reminded myself I was not in the states visiting my beloved Colorado.

Sydney my Sydney, Where is Thy Opera House?

I will not bore you with a rehash of the Olympic games. You, no doubt, saw copious quantities, though I'd venture to say I had more fun doing it. The privilege of seeing our girls take home gold in softball, silver in women's' football, gold, silver and bronze in track and field and bronze in dressage was exciting, in spite of the long hours spent commuting in the relentless rain. Nothing can replace the feeling of being there, meeting new people, being part of history, or the welling up of a patriotic heart as our national anthem is played for all to hear. I cheered and yelled till my voice was raspy. That's why I came, at least in part. But to be in Sydney and so close to downtown, the harbor, the bridge, the gardens and the opera house without actually seeing any was unacceptable. I had my days of play in the Hunter Valley sunrises and now wanted to see Sydney, most of all the Opera House.

From Circular Quay Station to the Opera House was a short trot and the sun, finally, decided to shine and scattered clouds gave way to the bluest sky I had seen since landing. No better backdrop to accent the setting of the glistening sails of the Opera House. The texture of the stationary regatta shimmered and gleamed; breathtakingly beautiful. Inside the teak woodwork and airy glass transoms towered allowing the daylight to fill the halls. Busy with residents and visitors as they bustled to and fro in sunlit foyer. Outside, on the walkway that jutted into the harbor, propped upward gazing visitors along her sea walls from every nation. Not so unlike any other day of this most visited structure, except that I was there, marveling at the beauty of what was built from a discarded piece of scribbled paper found in a rubbish bin. Do I have the most spectacular photo of this historic landmark? No. But I do have one taken by me, as I stood at the bottom of the stairs and beheld the silent stillness of the sailing of Sydney's most recognized architectural icon. What sounds well in the heart of this building will have to wait to be discovered in another trip. For now, I can only imagine.

Australians: A People Untraveled

"Sorry mate, can't tell you how to get there. Don't know the way." Or worse yet, they tell me how to get there and it is all Greek to me. I met, on my flight to Sydney, a family from N.S.W. that had just spent a month's holiday in the United States enjoying the sights of our western states and of course, Disney Land. Gladly, we shared vacations adventures, theirs done, mine just beginning. A comment was made that I came to appreciate once I got in the navigation seat of the rental car and embarked on a six-hour tour of places I didn't want to be. The wife told me that she really liked how easy it was to drive in the US. "All your roads are numbered and marked." She stated with a huge smile. I thought she meant our cities were easy to navigate, and wondered why it was such a big comfort to her. After three hours of being lost in Sydney, glimpsing, circling and even passing under, but not quite reaching the bridge, our only egress to the north, and that; with a map, I understood her delight.

Now I consider myself a dog-gone good navigator. I read maps well, know my orientation (well, except in the mountains, I get a bit twisted about). City driving and navigating is easy for me. HA! I met my match in the streets and freeways of Australia. Unmarked roads, similarly marked highways (there are 2 "1's" that run north and south, it can boil down to luck as to which one you can find), freeways with multiple names and the lot about drove me nuts. Round abouts made my head spin and heaven forbid they should tell you if you are going north, south, east or west or even what road you were actually on. It was difficult enough to remember driving on the left side of the lane shifting roads, but this took the cake. I have no problem asking for directions either and so I did. That's when I discovered that Ozzies seem never to venture far from home. Waltzing Matilda is of days gone by. I got squiggles on paper with landmarks and shop names. "Pass the bakery, round to the school and off to the left, not the far left, but the eased left..." Good grief! It took three different maps and an hour plus to traverse some 70 kilometers to get to the train station where we began our two-hour commute to Sydney for the games. The trick is, and mind you use it if you should venture onto the roads wheel in hand, to simply know the next city you wish to get to. Follow the arrows as they indicate the passage to the next dot with a name on your map. Don't just look for the big towns (and I use the term loosely), hence the necessity for a multitude of maps, but the smaller villages along the way as well. It is the easiest way. Many a native marveled at the adventurous gals from the states that disembarked a plane and took straight away into a car and lived to tell about it. Obviously, the bridge was found and escape from Sydney was expedited, but it took three hours longer than expected. By the time it came to leave N.S.W. and return the car, my companion and I were pros at it, but I will never complain about our map or roadway systems in the United States again. (Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a compass in my eye...) I should have paid more attention to Robert Miller's "Orienteering" article in our February 2000 issue.

Queensland: Brisbane: Land of Hokey Tourist Traps and Wide Eyed Wonders.

It is befitting I should enjoy this part of the trip, after all that is what I was, a tourist. A wonderful sleeper coach railed into downtown Brisbane at 5:30 a.m. (An hour different because Queensland doesn't use daylight savings time. As if I was not screwed up enough with the adjustment of losing an entire day already.) Just outside the terminal was the hotel where, for a single night, I would rest my head some 14 floors above the bustle of this little, big town. I found it most charming with the international flare of Sydney, even more so in some ways, yet it maintained a small town appeal. European influences everywhere, sparking the old romantic in me. Backpack hostels, charming downtown cafes, endless outdoor adventures and all within 50 kilometers of the main rail station. You could do anything from this location, a vacationer's dream. I really liked it, though I spent precious little time in carousing the streets. I did manage to find a great used book store where I was able to secure a couple of Australian poetry books. Why I collect hard back books on a trip like this, I will never understand, but they were "must haves". This was also ground zero for the hokey tourist coach tour of the day. Just two hours after arriving, the coach departed for adventures that began with the Big Pineapple. Tourist Mecca, similar to Florida's alligator shaped reptile amusements and South of the Border's giant sombrero. A plethora of wearables, shareables and edibles; all pineapple and macadamia themed or flavored. You name it, it was there. Though I have to admit, I didn't see any Big Pineapple snow globes. . . maybe they're an American thing.

Queensland is the land of the American stereotypical Ozzie accent, drawn and exaggerated, just like our coach guide's. He was brilliant and carried us along on puns and antidotes to the most anticipated stop of the trip, the Australian Zoo. Home of . . . you guessed it . . . the crocodile hunter, Steve Irwin. His toothy, wide eyed, surprised grin plastered the roadways in "Visit Rock City" style. Though not as disliked here, in his native state, as he apparently is in New South Wales, most Australians seem to cringe at the mention of his name. "In America he's an icon, worshipped by all who are devoted to Discovery's channel, Animal Planet." I chimed in as we pulled into the zoo lot. Well, you can just imagine the heartbreak I felt when the driver of the coach enlightened me to the fact that his shows are generally staged. I was crushed! He proceeded to distress me even more as he elaborated on the fact that Santa Claus isn't real either and the tooth fairy doesn't keep my baby teeth. Oh, the disillusionment! (I quickly recovered.) Actually the zoo, though rather small, is a credit to Steve Irwin's passion for his native country and the unique wildlife that calls it home. Education is his main focus and hands-on is available throughout the park. Of course, that would be hands-off in the crock pens, especially after seeing a feeding demonstration conducted by an Irwin clone. I have to admit, he trains his staff well. They act like him, yes, nuts to the core, jumping in and out of the enclosure enticing Murray and Molly (the saltwater crocks on display for the day's feeding) to grab a bit of fresh hausenpheffer.

Visitors are able to mingle up close and very personal with roos, camels, koalas, snakes and Tasmanian devils. The coat of a kangaroo was surprisingly soft to the touch. I was expecting something more on the lines of a short-haired dog, coarse and prickly. I scratched behind an unusual albino's bunnyish ears and along his back to the single toed legs and was amazed at the density of the undercoat and softness of the fur. I later found that you can get a roo pelt as easily as a rabbit here, but I am glad I stroked a living one first. However, much to my dismay, there was no platypus for me. I wanted to see (you might even say I obsessed over the thought of seeing) this most odd creature that surely was a science experiment gone awry. What a compilation of oddities gathered in one specimen. I wager they could support the big bang theory completely based on this single species. That experience, too will have to be saved for another trip.

Our final stop for the day was the Undersea World Aquarium located near the only deep-water marina in Brisbane. We have similar parks in the states such as Sea World and Marine Lands, but I have to hand it to the planners of this establishment, I liked it so much more than our own. Australians are serious about their conservation and they do it best through education. This aquarium had a seal show, individual tanks and a mammoth reef tank equipped with all the creatures we love to be frightened by as we tunneled under their private world. It was purely educational. No silly games, no "they do this for real in the wild, but we had to teach them to do it here" excuses. I delighted to see children marvel more at the power of a seal or the mastery of his ballet underwater, than how many times he would bark for a fish. And the reef display! There are no words to describe the magnificence of it, as I strolled beneath the sea life filled reef with every imaginable tropical guppy. Huge rays with toothless grins drifted over the tunnel top silently. I couldn't get enough and had to take the walk a second time and, if the clock had not been so dictating, would have several times again. It was the precursor to my snorkeling, and now I couldn't wait to see it for real in the wilds of the open ocean.

Next month, I will wrap up my trip by visiting the Tropics of Cairns. I will take you to the Great Barrier Reef (barf bags included) and then to the wilds of the untamed rain forest and endless gift shops of "original" Aboriginal arts and crafts. Finally, off to Fiji, the land of swaying coconut palms, horses in the road and machine gun wielding military guards. I promise, more pics, more adventure (well, as far as I can on a canned tour) and some good laughs.

Gail Boysen is a regular contributor to Get Lost Magazine. Which is good because she gets lost a lot.