As much as I’d like to report that the turkey swirls in the other direction here on Thanksgiving, I’m sad to say that’s just not the case.

Besides, it was duck, not turkey since the Financial and Menu Adviser’s father dislikes The Bird What Gobbles.
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Before last weekend, the whole time I’ve been in Australia I’d been on the bench.

The star pitcher was tossing fastballs, sharp breaks and snagging line drives to the mound and there just wasn’t much for me to do.

But then, a bit under two hours into the drive to Rutherglen, she began to tire. Her eyes drooped a bit, the car swerved just a hair too much to be comfortable – although not enough to be dangerous – and the call came.

It was my turn to drive. Literally.
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“Surely,” you might say, “there must be more to Victoria than just Melbourne’s friendly denizens and their coffee-drinking ways!”

“Two things,” I would reply. “One, not in Melbourne. And two…”

“Don’t call me Shirley.”

Yes, yes, I know. You’re all stunned by my wit and savoir faire. Anyway, it turns out not only does Melbourne remind me more of San Francisco than any other city I’ve been in, but Victoria (the state, not that shameless hussy down the street) reminds me more of California than any other place I’ve been.
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I’ve been in Melbourne one week, and there’s not a whole heck of a lot to say.
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I was quite surprised to hear my travelling companion complain about Qantas Airlines, since their word-of-mouth reputation in America I had always thought to be positive, generally. Or at least, I imagine the average American’s knowledge of Qantas is still limited to that bit from Rain Man where Dustin Hoffman freaks out about being on any other carrier than the Big Q because of Qantas’ safety record.
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