I've been having a fairly quiet time in Montreal - hopping around Old Montreal, sitting in cafes, feeling relieved that they serve good coffee! It's snowing here this morning (only lightly) and my plan is to find another cafe, and hole up there for the afternoon. I should listen to The Tragically Hip. "It's pretty snowy in Montreal. Snow is so merciless." More to the point, I should listen to some Leonard Cohen and Julie Doiron, wrap myself in a scarf and read and write over a good cafe au lait.

I went to the Atwater markets here yesterday - quite a long walk down Rue Notre Dame in the rain. Just grocery shopping really - but some fancy groceries! Also bought one of the best chocolates I've ever eaten - it cost $1.50 for a tiny piece, but it was worth it. One of those extravagant treats that I can always remember...

After that I walked up Greene ave - again quite a long way - to a bookshop specialising in Canadian authors. Heaven - all the books of Margaret Atwood's poetry I've never been able to get in Australia, the Brick books edition of Anne Carson's Short Talks, Jane Urquharts poetry... Got talking to the lovely people who ran the place, and they made me a cup of tea, and gave me information about all the literary events happening while I'm here - just in time for the Quebec literary festival. Looks like some interesting writers on the program. As I was leaving, it was still raining, and they felt bad about seeing me wander out into the wet again, and so they gave me a free umbrella.

Walked down Rue St Catherine until I reached the Forum, which is their major cinema complex - both blockbusters and arthouse. Went to see "Far From Heaven", which I loved. Hoping to go back sometime during the week and see a few other films I've been meaning to see. When I got out I was very glad of the umbrella as I trudged home. Getting bck to the Auberge Alternative I put on a load of washing and made a simple risotto, settled down with a glass of white wine and ate a lovely meal. Stayed up reading, and talking to two girls from Munich, before finally collapsing into bed after my long day of walking.

I think Vanity Fair is going to take me a while to get through, but I am loving it - oh, how much I've always wished for a Becky Sharp to whirl through the pages of a Jane Austen novel, and show them all how it's done! She's at Queen's Crawley at the moment, negotiating the awful Sir Pitt.

Montreal

Montreal, and it's not as cold as I'd anticipated. Got in after a ten hour train trip yesterday - absolutely beautiful. If I come back to the US I'd like a chance to explore upstate New York a lot more. The light was beautiful the entire way, and the frame of the window made the journey a moving postcard. Got to the hostel at about 7pm, tired and very hungry. Forgot to buy a couple of bagels at Penn Station yesterday to eat on the train - the US $2.50 I had left amounted to a muffin, which I'd eaten by 10am. So arriving 9 hours later I was ready to eat.

Went wandering down Rue St-Pierre, into another street, and found a restaurant called "Gibby's". I'd passed one or two others, and rejected them as looking too expensive - unwittingingly managed to pick the most expensive of the lot. Laughed a little at myself, and then decided that I'd sit down and enjoy it, then explore the local bakeries for a day or two. It was a good decision - the house red was wonderful, I ate the best salad I've ever eaten, and the pasta was delicious. Had a talk to the waitress, who, upon hearing I was from Australia, started talking excitedly about "Kangaroo country". Managed to get out of there for what I'd expect was about half what you'd usually pay, and felt "fat and happy" enough to just tumble into bed.

My last few days in New York were great, although somewhat overwhelming. After meeting Paul, Tina and Les for lunch, we wandered around the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a while - every room we walked through a complete overload. Tina showed us the tapestry she's been restoring - working on it for several years. Something to do with "Phillip the Handsome and Joanna the Mad". Now there's a marriage that sounds doomed if ever there was one. I was in the middle of walking down a set of stairs when Paul mentioned that it was a Frank Lloyd Wright staircase...

Les invited me to join them going to Queens College, where he was given a reading, so at 4:45pm a driver came and whisked us away. The reading left me a little out of sorts - terribly homesick. A great reading, just the result of such an amazing day, and such a strange situation, and the reminder of home.

After the dinner we went to Mandicati's - described as "the most authentic Italian restaurant in New York." Apparently it was relatively unknown until an episode of "The Soprano's" was filmed there. After an evening out with everyone, another driver drove me back to the hostel. Arrived not long after midnight, and fell into bed.

Annabel and I went have "Breakfast atTiffany's" the next morning. Got our coffees and wandered around outside until they let us in. It was just like in the movie - and everyone was lovely to us, even though I must have looked like a little street urchin in my outfit and wild little pigtails! After wandering around for ages, I eventually decided I had to buy something from Tiffany's - settled on a beautiful keyring, with a little dogtag requesting "if found, please return to Tiffany's". Also has a serial number, so I can register it with Tiffany's, and they can return my keys if they ever get them.

Largely a day of wandering around and resting after that - ending the day with a bag of Cracker Jacks. And yes, they DO still have prizes in Cracker Jacks.

Don't know that I'm going to have any great adventures in Montreal today - more likely to just rest and figure out where things are. Maybe even take a "wild, [girlish] fling at writing".

Montreal

This time it's the East 96th St Branch of the library. Two blocks from the hostel, three blocks to Central Park. This afternoon am going to the Met to meet with Paul for lunch, and then I think I might go to the Empire State Building. I've been tossing up since I arrived whether I would bother, and now I think the answer is "Yes."

I went to the Museum of Modern Art yesterday, which is temporarily in Queens, and saw the rather amazing Picasso and Matisse exhibition - placing their works side by side, to see the development of the two painters over time. Looking at so many pieces it really began to hit home how much I've had enough of Picasso for the time being. I feel like that's not the sort of thing I should be saying - like the man I heard at the Frick on Sunday, commenting "Rembrandt is really not one of my favourite painters." When I turned to see who had spoken, he looked at me and laughed and said, "You're really not meant to let anyone hear you say that." Well, Picasso isn't one of my favourites. Looking at so many of his paintings I realised how much more I enjoy his prints and drawings - alongside the Matisse pieces the colours just looked overdone and wrong. It was beautiful to see so many paintings by Matisse together though. I liked the story of the initial pair of paintings in the exhibition: in 1907 Picasso and Matisse exchanged paintings. Gertrude Stein suggests that they each chose a rather bad painting by the other - perhaps to gloat. Picasso chose a portrait Matisse had painted of his daughter, Marguerite. Apparently there is evidence that Picasso's friends made fun of the Matisse portrait, and threw fake darts at it, though Picasso was later to regret this disrespect and label the piece a "key" work of Matisse's.

I finished reading The Heart is a Lonely Hunter, and then read two books of poetry by Carolyn Forche - The Angel of History and Blue Hour, both wonderful. I read the first in Central Park, then went to Barnes and Noble one night to read the other there, since I couldn't afford to buy it. I feel like I'm going to start writing again soon - I feel like it's been so long since I haven't written that this feeling is a real relief. Now I'm reading Washington Square . I went to Washington Square and read 100 pages of it there. Lovely. Got stopped by a guy who was advertising a hiphop theatre show based on the Book of Job, and he said. "You're reading Washington Square in Washington Sqaure? Cool. How self-referential."

New York

Another branch of the New York public libraries (Midtown) and I've still go the problem of only half an hour to try and get things together in a vaguely coherent fashion. We'll see what happens.

Ok, I've been wearing a little hair clip since I was about six, acquired from I don't know where, that says "I love NY". It's true, though I was skeptical, after hearing P complain about the city. But what can I say - everyone's been quite lovely to me, they have cherry strudel and cherry pie everywhere, and the bagels are really cheap, and really good. Of course, the galleries are expensive, and I've been pushed a little over budget - so that I'm relieved tomorrow will bring me lunch with poets, to help me slow down after a rather frenetic experience. Another of those serendipities, Les Murray is in town, and meeting with Paul Kane for lunch tomorrow. I was meant to be meeting Paul on Wednesday, but just got the email asking to reschedule. I wonder if the reschedule qualifies as a one-day-off Wednesday lunchtime club meeting? (Though after meeting Michael Ondaatje I'm thinking of forming a "Thursday Coffee Club" - I think I'll just wait until after I've left the US. The coffee here is pretty ordinary - my only real disappointment.)

Saturday I went to the International Centre for Photography - got me a little inspired to take some pictures, as visiting galleries and museums always seems to. After browsing there, and finally buying a book of Nan Goldin's photography I've been looking for for 18 months (her series of photographs of empty interiors - beautiful) I hopped on the subway down to Bleeker St and had a good old wander in Greenwich Village.

Walked into the Old Village Gourmet, and "Brand New Key" by Melanie was playing. Fabulous. They have amazing looking cherry pies - I'm having one with my lunch today. I wanted to have it with "black coffee - and HOT" to make it a real Twin Peaks kind of thing, but have already expressed my views about the coffee so will move on.

I ate the most amazing icecream of my life, from a shop called "Cones" on Bleeker. "Artisans of fine icecream". Their dark chocolate icecream is like my amazing chocolate mousse, only icecream-ier.

Went up to Chelsea to hear Maxine Kumin read at the Dia Centre - another wonderful place. I found the reading almost by accident when flicking idly through the "Village Voice." Wouldn't have stumbled on the Dia Centre otherwise, but instantly fell in love. A bookshop and a gallery. Also wandered into a number of private galleries to see the most recent in the New York art scene - new work by Nan Goldin! Enormous prints, and a slide show in a little theatre out the back, with music by John Taverner and Bjork. It was surreal, just wandering in to find so many things I love just coming together.

Late that night I wandered across the Brooklyn Bridge - gorgeous. Annabel, a girl from Spain via New Orleans who's staying in my room at the hostel - and I are going to see a Billy Wilder film in Brooklyn tonight, so I might get to wander across the bridge again...

Yesterday spent the day frollicking in Central Park - listening to Beatles in Strawberry Fields - and at the Frick. My first real encounter with Vermeer's work "live" if you will. Had an interesting time looking at the disputed "Polish Rider" of maybe-maybe-not Rembrandt. Very much liked a series of portraits by Whistler. Ended up talking to one of the security guards about what he liked best - for him it was simply "the place." Like a museum of opulence, a nineteenth century 5th avenue lifestyle. I think I should get some blueprints and send them home, so we can start fixing up our place a little! After the Frick I returned to Central Park and played with a bunch of kids on the Alice in Wonderland sculpture. I was concerned that the March Hare seemed to be missing. Maybe he fell in the butter. (It was the best butter.)

And with that attempt to catch up, my time runs out. Remember:

"Speak roughly to your little boy
And beat him when he sneezes.
He only does it to annoy
Because he knows it teases."

New York.

I'm sitting in the New York Public Library typing away. Thought I'd get free internet access in one of the world's great libraries. Good to know the world's great libraries appreciate the pilgrimage I made with Anna and Paul to Canberra last year, when we slept outside the National Library and got into the "Treasures of the World's Great Libraries" exhibition at 3 am!

Nothing much happened Thursday, except the flight. Of course, with the first strike on Wednesday night, security at the airport the following morning was insane. After checking in (in the wrong lobby - the girl at the counter took pity on me and quickly put me through) I had to line up for security, and say a confused, rushed goodbye to Cassie. Had to take off: my hat, my scarf, my belt, my two sweaters and my shoes in order to go through the security checks. Decided, after redressing, to get into a New York kinda mood with a bagel on the other side of the security barriers. Five hour flight. Nothing interesting there. Listed to: Doris Day, Edith Frost, Elvis Costello, Elliot Smith and Gaslight Radio on the flight.

Managed to negotiate the subway and get to my hostel. Bought a metropass for the week - $17, unlimited transport. The subway is fantastic - trains so frequent, running all night, and going everywhere.

The hostel is nice - though tiny, Upper East Side, East 94th St, between 3rd and Lexington. A couple blocks from the park, with a nice cheap diner on the corner, and a farmer's supermarket nearby, which sells, among other things, amazing hommus and REAL (non-orange) cheese.

Yesterday went to the Guggenheim on 5th. Matthew Barney's Cremaster Cycle is basically taking up the whole museum - OI studied a little Barney last year, but everyone kept saying how it was inadequate to study other work, when the Cremaster cycle is the thing that makes him major, and, at the time, there wasn't really anyway to see the films - I think there are something like 8 sets of the cycle. So I sat in the cinema at the bottom of the museum and watched the first film, then wandered around the museum at all the installation that went with it. Amazing still photographs and sculptural objects. A crazy installation. I didn't really get a lot out of the work of Barney's I saw last year, but I found this exhibition amazing. If I had have been staying in New York longer I would have spent the whole day in the cinema and watched all five films. As it was, the world seemed very different when I emerged from the museum.

Went to the Whitney - wasn't so impressed with the current exhibitions, though some of their pieces from the permanent collection were great. Then to St Marks bookstore down in the East Village, and wandering around Midtown. Saw the Chrysler building, almost by complete accident!

TodayI'm off to the Internation Centre for Photography and then to a poetry reading, and, if the nice weather holds, I think I'lll ride down tot he Brooklyn Bridge this evening.

New York

Have to get up early to get to the airport tomorrow for the flight. We're allowing a lot of time, since the war began tonight, and I'm a bit unsure what the airport will be like tomorrow. Repacked my bag for the first time tonight, with a little assistance from Cassie, without too much trouble.

The second Wednesyday Lunchtime Club meeting took place today, with Cassie making an honorary appearance at the table. We ate at David's, the Jewish delicatessen on Geary St again. Wandered around getting myself prepared for New York - or at least getting directions to get to my hostel using the subway tomorrow night. I'm still not quite sure what my plans are while I'm in New York. (Please send your suggestions on a piece of batter pudding.) A rough plan was to visit galleries in the mornings, and wander in the afternoons. We'll see how that pans out.

Have started - only just - Carson McCullers' "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter." Not very far into it, but thought the novel of a twenty-three year old literary star might help me get started on my own work. I love it as a way to start - "In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together." Such a beautiful, simple first sentence, and so evocative. I'm looking forward to reading it on the plane tomorrow.

Finally got around to listening to a little Joni Mitchell this afternoon, and that put me in mind of a few things I'll miss about San Francisco:

Listening to Joni Mitchell singing "California" on a drizzly evening.

Cheap Mexican & Salvadorean food in the Mission.

The masses of postcards everywhere I turn.

Sitting on a crate at City Lights, sneaking occasional glances at Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

Talking myself out of buying Fraggle Rock t-shirts on Haight Street.

Poetry swapping at a civilised hour, with a fabulous collection of food.

A sense of a history of political activism.

Robert Smithson's sculpture at the San Francisco MoMA, followed by homemade lemonade at the MoMA cafe.

The amazing farmers' market outside Embarcadero station.

Lime flavoured honey straws.

The amazing room and work going on at 826 Valencia.

Doing Oxygen at the Oxygen bar.

Chatting with Cassie at all hours.



San Francisco

Tuesday night, and San Francisco is zooming right past me. Tomorrow is my last full day, before I leave my first city behind. I've been dubbed the "Energizer Bunny of Australian Tourists", because I somehow managed to avoid jetlag, which means I've managed to pack a lot in. Not a lot of days off.

Yesterday I started a bit late and decided to take myself off to Berkeley before meeting up with Philippe Tapon in the late afternoon. Berkeley a lovely campus (with a great bookstore) and more great postcards in the strip of shops leading up to the University from tne BART station. At the entrance to the bookshop they listed poetry readings they've got organised this semester - 2 weeks ago it was Adrienne Rich. I told Cassie this in a state of excitement, though she took it calmly. Apparently Rich reads quite a lot in San Francisco. But I can't help it - I get starstruck over these poets!

Met Philippe at 826 Valencia, on Valencia St in the Mission District. He volunteers as a tutor at this program set up by David Eggers - apparently they only take on published writers as tutors. So these kids are getting published writers to help them with their homework! And what an amazing set up. It's the most gorgeous room - I think it may just be my dream room. High ceilings, and high bookcases. A ladder leading up to another level. Swanky Macs everywhere on the desks. A little Arabian nights-style swirl of material forming a kind of tent in part of the room. A raised level with a few comfy armchairs in front of a fireplace. (I couldn't tell whether or not the fireplace ever gets used, though.) Framed on the walls, pages of manuscripts from well-known writers - a page of Eggers' own work, and I also spotted a framed page by Michael Chabon among others.

After grabbing a bite with Philippe, we headed down to a great little record store, Aquarius Records. I spent ages talking myself into, then slowly out of buying a number of things, until I finally caved and bought the new Aislers Set album, How I Learned to Write Backwards. I justified this by acknowledging that I've been continually thwarted in my attempt to purchase Margo Guryan's "Take a Picture" while in San Francisco. Had a listen to it today, and I would now like to add that I have No Regrets.

Philippe told me that he didn't understand irony until he went to Europe. I've noticed this with other people I've been talking to around the place. Sarcasm just doesn't register a lot of the time. Very troubling for me with my slippery scale of earnestness and irony always on the move!

Also took the opportunity to tell Philippe about MOLLY! magazine. Am hoping to get a contribution out of him by the time I get back, to help turn MOLLY! into an international publication. I was going to ask Michael Ondaatje to sign a photograph of Molly for it too, but couldn't quite find the courage.

I was particularly indebted to Philippe for his fashion commentary, as the Mission is a bit of a hipster destination. Passing one guy in the street, Philippe rated him 8 out of 10 for a San Francisco boho look, with a slightly pigeon-toed walk and an "I love lesbians t-shirt". I asked what he needed to do to perfect the look. Step closer to androgeny sums it up, really.

Today we went down to the wharves, for a ride on a boat Cassie described as "a leaky tub", which could carry a maximum of 6 passengers. After a gorgeous lunch of clam chowder in a sourdough bowl, and a few delays, we got on the boat and headed around Alcatraz, then under the Golden Gate. Cassie told me just before we reached it that you're meant to make a wish the first time you go under the Golden Gate. We'll see if that one comes true...

After our boat ride, Cassie took me back to Valencia St for a quintessential Californian experience - doing oxygen at the Oxygen Bar. Sat in this small, funky bar with tubes up our noses, breathing and drinking wonderful herbal concoctions for 40 minutes. A fascinating way to relax.

Made my major San Francisco purchase today, and invested in a red fuzzy Jesus. I suppose that requires a little further explanation - it's like a religious ornament of Christ, only instead of being made of something sensible like porcelain it's surface is red and fuzzy to touch. I've been thinking about it for days since I first saw it, and I'm not sure I ever laid my eyes on anything so kitsch before - which inevitably led to the fact that I just HAD to own it. So now I do.

I spoke with P briefly last night, and my mother this evening. In Melbourne it's already her birthday, though there's still an hour or so to go before it hits 19 March here. Lovely to speak to both of them, and also to try to get an idea of the feelings from home when it comes to the war it looks like we're set to have. I'm meant to fly out of here for New York on Thursday - I can just imagine how weird the atmosphere will be.

I've nearly finished reading Janet Malcolm's "The Purloined Clinic" now, after a couple of days. A fascinating series of essays and book reviews. A particularly juicy essay about the New York art world - like a strange series of gossipy anecdotes, or a soap opera even, where all the players editors, critics, collectors and artists. Like a bunch of insufferable, yet stranegly compelling extras in a Woody Allen scene at a gallery opening. Well, I'll be there in a few days time.

San Francisco

Have been having a leisurely Sunday afternoon, after a lovely morning of poetry swapping with a group of interesting San Francisco poets. An informal workshop. As well as Cassie and Timothy Yu, our host and guide for the Stanford adventure of Thursday, and co-president of the Michael Ondaatje Fan Club, the other poets I got to meet (after hearing a lot about them beforehand) were Del Ray Cross, our fearless host for the event, and the editor of a lovely little online poetry journal, Shampoo, Stephanie Young (approximately 5'4"), whose own blog can be found here, and Jennifer Dannenberg. Sitting down for a few hours intelligent and fun conversation about poetry was just what I needed today! So far my adventure is delivering just the right thing at just the right moment. Del's apartment is wonderful, and the food was great too. And everyone knows that conversation and a full stomach make Kate happy...

Stephanie drove me back to a BART station after we'd finished up, and before I said goodbye she said she'd been curious about my interest in Gidget, as I mentioned to Michael Ondaatje on Thursday. Which made me realise I've got some catching up to do!

But first of all, Gidget. I don't know that there's much to say. "She may be pint-sized, but she's quite a woman." She appeals to me in the same way Doris Day appeals - it's that peculiar genre of film which is all about proving the virginity of the leading lady. Somehow a character that is almost despicably wholesome comes under scrutiny when word gets around that perhaps, after all, she's not so chaste. Plus they've got surfing. Except "Gidget Goes to Rome". And frankly, it's a much poorer film for its lack of surfing!

Since Thursday I've had a few other adventures - on Friday I went to the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. So many amazing pieces there. The first exhibit walking up the stairs were eight recent paintings by Gerhard Richter, a favourite of mine. A couple in particular were amazingly intense - one all in red and deep blue, the drag of paint reminding me of night, another in greens and yellows and whites, the haze of a garden. Like some amazingly out of focus, slightly off-colour proceeding had taken place behind the veil of the dragged paint, and if only you could see the scene properly, not be put off by its apparent incomprehensibility, you would understand.

I've seen posters of the large Rothko in the collection here, but I wasn't quite prepared for the size of it - about four times larger than the few Rothko paintings I've seen in collections in Australia, I felt like dissolving into tears in front of it. So luminous, so still, so spiritual. The intensity of its shade of orange is not at all clear in reproductions of the work, and neither is the sheer scale. It made me understand more of the angle the colour field painters took on the sublime.

I thought I was in heaven when I discovered fifteen pieces by Robert Rauschenberg in the collection - Rauschenberg a new hero of mine It wasn't my favourite of their Rauschenberg collection, but it made me smile to see an apparently infamous piece made in collaboration with John Cage. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that with Cage's participation the piece should have gained such notoriety! Rauschenberg painted the tyre of a car, and then, laying out several pieces of paper, asked Cage to drive across the paper. It made me smile to see the resulting tyre-print framed in that context!

And also a work by Robert Smithson, who, since studying his "Spiral Jetty", has become a favourite of mine. A sculpure comprising a set of mirrors and earth quarried from Essen, Germany. The Smithson was so unexpected, because so often his pieces were fleeting, site-specific earthworks. I walked about "Nonsite (Essen Soil and Mirrors)" for quite a while, wishing I could just reach out and put my hands in the pile of dirt. I wanted to talk to a conservator about the approaching to moving and storing a piece like that... If the dirt on display is the original Essen dirt Smithson used.

Went to see "The Sea & Cake" play at the Fillmore on Friday night. Got searched on the way in, and then given red apples. A big basket of them just inside the entrance. John McEntire's drumming is something to see live! So glad I went.

Yesterday I went to the massive peace rally in the city, and walked from the Civic Centre to Jefferson Square. I spotted Michael Ondaatje again, walking in the same section of the crowd as me. When we got to the park I sat down on the grass, and listened to speakers ranging from Martin Sheen to Cynthia McKinney, the first African American woman voted into Congress. A strange feeling - both as though the everyone felt the declaration of war in the next week or two is inevitable, but also as though everyone's spirits were buoyed to see the turnout.

On a different note, I finished reading "Armadale" on Friday. A glorious romp! I was particularly taken by the following two passages from the diary of the red-headed villain, Lydia Gwilt:

Shall I tear out the leaf on which all these shocking things have been written? No. My diary is so nicely bound - it would be positive barbarity to tear out a leaf. Let me occupy myself harmlessly with something else. What shall it be? My dressing-case - I will put my dressing-case tidy, and polish up the few little things in it which my misfortunes have still left in my possession.

And:

I shall write no more, today. If so ladylike a person as I am could feel a tigerish tingling all over her to the very tips of her fingers, I should suspect myself of being in that condition at the present moment. But, with my manners and accomplishments, the thing is, of course, out of the question. We all know that a lady has no passions.

I've had a busy few days, rushing around. I feel like everything has been so intense, I've hardly had a moment to sit down and think about any of it.

On Thursday I took an excursion to Stanford with Cassie, where we were met at the Palo Alto Caltrain station by her friend, the poet Timothy Yu. I commented, driving up the thoroughfare leading to the university, that I'd never really imagined an Ivy League school with palm trees. Tim explained that Stanford isn't technically Ivy League. So it's a Palm League University.

We ate lunch with Tim in the Humanities Centre. He's on a rather quaint sounding fellowship which includes as one of its conditions that the recipient must eat lunch at the Humanities Centre everyday. Something about fostering an academic community. Wouldn't want to be avoiding my supervisor with a condition like that! Apparently people have a tendency to play hooky, though, and in recent weeks a decline in attendence has been noticed at lunch. Someone took it into their head to find ways of promoting this free lunch, and Tim informed us when we arrived that our presence at lunch had been "announced" that morning. But as he later noted, it seemed to have a negative impact, because no-one would sit with us!

While on campus, I briefly met Peter Stansky, an historian, and a friend of Ian Britain. He has the kind of office I dream about - lined with books, floor to ceiling (of course) and old postcards floating around the room everywhere. I'm hoping I'll get a chance to see him again before I leave for New York.

The real object of the visit to Stanford, though,was to say hello to Michael Ondaatje. My visit was well timed - Thursday was his last day on campus. When I arrived Monday morning, the first news Cassie gave me was that Michael Ondaatje was in town. I was overwhelmed by the idea of once more being in the same city - I only just finished reading "The Conversations" a few weeks ago, his new volume of interviews with the film editor Walter Murch. So I emailed him, and he told me if I dropped by about 2pm, he should be there. Arrived at the appointed time, and we headed over to the Stanford Bookstore, which, in civilised fashion, has a cafe upstairs. Decent coffee too. Michael paid for my caffe latte, and we sat down and chatted.

I often wonder what I'll end up saying in these situations - sitting down with one of my favourite authors in the world, chatting over coffee. He asked me what I've been reading lately, and do you think I could remember any of the intelligent books I'd read? Of course not. No mention of Janet Malcolm or John McNeil's "Something New Under the Sun". No mention of poor old Wilkie even. What did I come out with? Actress biographies. I told him all about the fabulously awful biography of Doris Day I read a few weeks ago, by Eric Baum. Really an account of Mr Baum's own deep love of Doris, written in the most fantastically name-dropping manner possible. Eric Baum's voice always intruding - "when I first saw the film"... etc. Mr Ondaatje seemed amused by this, and I think I detected a twinkle in his eye. I also mentioned that I want to write a poem about all the actresses that played Gidget. He thought it worthy of more than just a poem - a thesis much more appropriate. He was also pleased when I mentioned how much I enjoyed an interview appearing in a recent issue of Brick: Michelle Orange interviewing her father on the day he finished a 9,000 piece puzzle of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. One of the best interviews ever.

I didn't quite know what to do next. How to calm my nerves, post-Ondaatje? When I first spoke to him in Adelaide, and he told me he thought my poems were good, I ran to the top of the hill, threw myself on the ground, and alternately screamed and cried for a few minutes. There's just no adequate way to process such moments.

Later, after taking the Caltrain from Palo Alto into the city, I went to a poetry reading - Carolyn Forche at the City Lights Bookstore. A wonderful reading, and wonderful question time afterwards. The air here a little electric, as it draws closer to the March 17 deadline given by Bush. She described the mood in Washington at the moment - police cars have been instructed to run their lights all the time. Apparently its caused lots of traffic problems - no-one knows whether they're being pulled over or not.

Haight-Ashbury. Of course there's a t-shirt shop on the corner, (Haight-Ashbury memorablia everywhere) and a GAP on the opposite corner, but it was still good to spend the afternoon "Slouching towards Bethlehem" after the first solo international Wednesday Lunchtime Club meeting was held at the Crepe Express on Haight St. Small crepe place, one guy behind the counter, and a lady cooking the crepes. Occasionally they'd break into an unexpected flurry of French.

I think Haight St must be the postcard capital of the world. I was in a kind of kitsch heaven - movie and music and comic book memorabilia galore. Shops that seem to have been there forever, and shops that are cashing in. A couple of great secondhand record shops - no Margo Guryan, though, so no purchases - vinyl's not the most sensible thing to lug around the world! In lieu of buying the thousand things that caught my eye I found myself instead with a small stash of postcards and half a dozen photos on my camera. Got there just as a guy was pulling some somewhat trampled looking flowers out of a Janis Joplin tribute on the sidewalk, and planting some new ones. It was both strange and touching to see such day to day devotion to someone at the double remove of being famous and dead.

I started to walk back to the city, as there wasn't a bus in sight, and passed a few anti-war posters in the windows of people's houses - some specific to Iraq, and to the anti-war protest this weekend, and some more generally in favour of peace. A large poster of Gandhi in one window. After hearing about a man in New York forced to leave a mall by security for wearing a "Give Peace a Chance" t-shirt (apparently public expressions against war were against the policy of the shopping centre) it was good to know that dissent is still allowed in some areas... Although with the history of Haight street it might be that dissent is expected, more than allowed.

I didn't get to read as much of "Armadale" as I would have liked today, but I looked up at a girl as she was getting on the train this morning, and she held up her book - another Wilkie Collins fan. Having read "The Moonstone", she's halfway through "The Woman in White." We exchanged tips about the other novels of his we'd read. She was very taken with the idea of the female villain in "Armadale" and vowed she'd pick up a copy when she'd finished with "The Woman in White". I should have told her to look out for Mary Braddon if she was after something to smash the classic image of the Victorian heroine!

I've taken quite a liking to Mr Armadale's lawyer, Mr Pedgift Senior. He comes out with all kinds of gems. I like him so much, find his cynical lawyerly ways so endearing, that I can't bring myself to contemplate whether his attitudes towards women are entirely what they should be. "When you say No to a woman sir...always say it in one word. If you give her your reasons, she invariably believes that you mean Yes."

San Francisco

I suppose it is typical that when thinking out what I wanted to do, I should decide that a visit to the City Lights bookstore would be my first order of business. Upon waking shamefully late I left the house pretty quickly to hop on the train to the city and, getting off at the Montgomery St stop, I walked up Montgomery and Columbus to find myself there in front of one of the world's great bookstores. Walking in, everywhere I looked there were handwritten signs on the walls - "Take a seat and read".

And I suppose it is the habit of someone who spends such a large proportion of her life in bookstores - there's always a small list of titles I've only ever seen in one or two places. I use these as a kind of test of a new bookstore. City Lights is the first place since the Melbourne University Bookroom that I've seen Fleur Jaeggy's "Sweet Days of Discipline" on the shelf, and it was only at Melbourne University because it was one the reading list one year. City Lights should win a place in my heart for that fact alone!

Walking around a bookshop that has so much history, I started wishing I could work in a bookshop again. The world always makes much more sense to me when I can reach out and run my finger down the spine of a book I'm yet to read.

I also found a strange little antique shop while climbing up Columbus street - I initially went in because I noticed a pile of old postcards on the bench as I was walking by, but it was the most fascinating place. Boxes of old postcards and photographs, old badges, numberplates, typewriters, toys... A place full of treasures. Found myself talking to the proprietor, George, for a few minutes - he'd been to Sydney and Melbourne before, and wanted to hear a bit more about them, and about my travelling plans. I could have spent all day exploring the little shop.

Later in the day I hopped on another train to the 16th Street Mission stop, to take a small walk in the Mission district. Stopped in a crowded restaurant to order a vegetarian burrito. Waiting for my order to be called, I noticed all the certificates and articles on the wall, proclaiming it the best burrito in the Bay area. For $3.20, I wasn't about to complain. After that I hopped on the train again and went home.

The next few days should be interesting - on Thursday I'm going out to Stanford University. Upon arrivign yesterday, Cassie told me that Michael Ondaatje has been in town, teaching at Stanford. I'm going to drop by and say hello then. On the weekend there's a big peace rally which I'm planning to go to, and on Thursday a chance to meet with Cassie's poetry swap group.

In the mean time, I'm planning to knock over the Wilkie Collins tomorrow, and start in on one of my City Lights purchases - Janet Malcolm's "The Purloined Clinic."

San Francisco

Flying into San Francisco, my first glimpse of America took me by surprise - looking down through the clouds all I could see was water, looking away again, it caught the corner of my eye. I almost felt like crying, because I suppose it made it real that I'd left, and was finally making a journey that I think I've been planning for a decade. I suppose it is appropriate that this first glimpse was accidental, just as the feel of planning this trip has been somewhat haphazard - simply because it has been so long in the offing. Growing in the back of my mind, I feel like I did my panicing before, and was calm yesterday morning, after a night with Pete, Georgette and Molly. Georgette asking every so often, "Are you nervous yet?", and the strange realisation each time that - no, it still hadn't hit me. Seeing off P and my parents at the airport - at the non-descript door, the anticlimactic jumping off point from what I know, and what I'm going to find out, at last a few tears. I felt my face crumple, as mum took another photo. I find that I keep wondering how she framed the shot.

I remember someone told me a year ago that they'd made a similar journey when they were my age, and that it was that trip which made them what they were today. Thinking about that on the plane, I realised what weight those words carry. I still think of myself as I was when I was fifteen - I catch myself at it all the time. Leaving I felt like I was learning something about myself - I don't know that I'll ever feel any more grown up, but I think it is true that I'm learning to trust in my own capabilities more than I have previously.

Of course, being met at the other end by Cassie took the sting out of this arrival. She hustled me into a taxi, while I briefly wondered why a strange man was getting into the passenger seat before I realised he was the driver, and remembered a thousand television jokes about whichever is the "wrong" side of the road. Taxi to Daly City, train into town. Looking more awake than previous arrivals visiting from Australia, I decided I was up to eating lunch in the city before heading out to Fremont. David's, a lovely little Jewish deli. My backpack gave me away, and within a few seconds of sitting down, a man at the next table welcomed me to America, and explained that Las Vegas (his home) was the greatest city in the whole place. I answered apologetically that I wouldn't have time for it this trip. I was bitter about vegetarians not qualifying for French toast on the flight, so took this opportunity to tuck into some pancakes - any excuse for some maple syrup.

I'm now sitting in Cassie's apartment out in Fremont, the hills close by. With a balcony overlooking Mission Peak, it's a beautiful spot. Staying with a writer is always so civilised - next to my bed there are two bookshelves, filled with a writer's selection. Between Philip Hodgins, Eavan Boland, John Ashbury and others, I'm in a kind of browsing heaven.

But in the mean time I'm only halfway into Wilkie Collins' "Armadale", which, right on form, is simply thrilling. This time it's not the story of two women who share a face, as in "The Woman in White", but the story of two men who bear the same name, the name of Allen Armadale. Already there's been murder, treachery, shipwreck and prophetic dreams - and according to the blurb, there's also the promise of bigamy, possibly coupled with more murder. (I suspect the character of Lydia Gwilt will be not dissimilar to the blonde-headed "madwoman" Lady Audley, of "Lady Audley's Secret". Though I wonder if, as in the case of Lady Audley, the reader will sympathise with the difficult position of women in Victorian society. Lydia Gwilt seems to bad through and through - certainly not another tiresome angel in the house.) Among the many reasons I love a good 1860s Sensation novel, is the fact that you can depend on them. Normally I shy away from the so much plot, and the kind of extraordinary coincidences which makes me what to throw "Jane Eyre" across the room when St John Rivers enters the scene - but Wilkie just uses it so shamelessly. When Allen Armadale (the one masquerading as Ozias Midwinter - and no, I don't know how Mr Collins dreamed up such a name) decides that since he's never fallen in with the ship La Grace de Dieu in his years working on the sea, he can forget about the fatalism revealed in his father's last letter to him - well, when that happens you can depend on the ship making an appearance before too much more has passed! And upon it's being confirmed about 20 pages later, that Mr Armadale has indeed fallen in with that foul vessel, what does he give us but "a scream of horror."

"The boat!!!" And yes, they were Wilkie's exclamation marks. All of them.