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We woke at 7am to the sound of thousands of little girls slamming doors.  It turns out we booked the Central Sydney Hostel for the one time of the year that performing arts schools from all over the nation meet to show their talents at Sydney Exhibition Center. After Lanaea and Natalie have elbowed tweens out from in front of the bathroom mirrors, Nate and I decide to see if we can wander over to the Google Sydney office, but once again, are foiled by the Australian sense of scale.  We spend an hour walking around without ever catching sight of the office, sweating like dogs in 30C heat, before deciding to grab some food and catching the train for the flight to Melbourne.  I don’t know if it’s changed since the “Underwear Bomber”, but airport security was actually reasonable:  no shoe, belt, and watch removal, personably security, anddefinitely some behavioral profilers on hand and the standard X-ray and metal detectors.  Much more pleasant than having to re-dress after being gruffly herded and nearly stripping like in LAX.

Tullamarine Airport is about an hour outside Melbourne and amounts to little more than a paved runway and a moderately sized building.  If you miss the bus back to the city … well, you better know how to spend a couple hours without entertainment or food anywhere in sight.  Fortunately, we were able to jump on just in time and walk the few blocks from the Southern Cross station to the Melbroune Central YHA.  This particular hostel wasn’t in Lonely Planet, but was absolutely one of the best places to stay in the central district:  new, modern, spacious, all amenities, and connected to a kick-ass bar and restaurant called Bertha Brown.

Melbourne is a city undergoing dramatic growth.  There are more construction cranes in operation than NYC, and the entire central business district is a mesh of ultra-modern and classic european.  There’s slick metal leaning bridge entrances right down the road from the classic Flinders Street Station, pedestrian-only laneways of outdoor cafes right across from stark minimalist over-priced bars, and hipster galore mixed among office executives and blue collar workers.  Despite the incongurencies, it works — and prices are generally better than Sydney and the attitude more relaxed, even though the attire and attitudes are a step up on the classy scale.

After a brief wander around the CBD and some food, we both agreed that we already like Melbourne better than Sydney; it just fit our attitudes better.  We were a little sad to be leaving in the morning, but the Great Ocean Road beckoned, and we’d have more time in Melbourne once we returned.

I can’t recall what Lanaea had for dinner, but I know it yet again had bacon on it, which she graciously delivered to my plate, commenting, “They put bacon on everything here!”

“I know.  It’s a glorious country.”

We woke early again — although we still hadn’t adjusted to the time yet, so we didn’t really have a choice in the matter — to head into downtown Sydney to meet a man with a van and plan:  a Hunter Valley wine tour.  Hunter Valley is a few hours outside of town, so there was a little chatting amongst the passengers, as encouraged by the friendly tour guide, but overall it was a pretty uneventful trip.  Essentially, we hit three wineries, a cheese shop, and had a mediocre lunch break, all over the course of 8-10 hours or so — and we only really liked one winery and the cheese shop.  Not to mention, we probably quaffed a total of perhaps 2 glasses apiece for the entire day.

The first place, Petersons’ Savanna, wasn’t very good, the last place, Ernest Hill, was acceptable, and the middle one, Iron Gate, was fantastic.  I normally don’t prefer white wines, but the Mellenio and Chardonays were exceptional.  And the “Smelly Cheese Shop” lived up to it’s name: very smelly, very delicious.  Highly recommend the Danish Viking Blue.

We powernapped on the way home and check into the Sydney Central Hostel.  It was much more like a hotel than Bondi Beach, but it also high a nice rooftop sauna and pool.  Nae and I sweat out some wine, showered up, and Frenchie magically appeared at our room.

Thanksgiving dinner was traditional Irish at Paddy McGuires, after which Nae, Frenchie, and I hit up the rooftop and broke out a bottle of Millenio from Iron Gate.  While the wine was fantastic, Nae got bit by a spider, eventually had trouble breathing, and spent the rest of the evening in the ER waiting rooom.

Um, Happy Thanksgiving?