Guide us, O Hugh.

We are in Melbourne, staying at Urban Central Backpackers, southwest of the city centre. The weather in Melbourne has been fairly capricious. It started out grey and drizzly yesterday morning, after we stepped off the Spirit of Tasmania ferry. By the end of the day, the weather was crisp and cool and sunny with pretty blue skies.

We drank tea and vanilla chai and ate cheese toasties (the cute Ozzie name for grilled cheese sandwiches) in a small cafe, before trekking to the Ian Potter Museum, a collection of Australian and aboriginal art. I took several photos of paintings and artwork that we found interesting, which I'll try to upload later. We also tried to visit the Australian Centre for the Moving Image, a new, trendy cinema/museum for film.

They had set pieces from the Baz Luhrmann film Australia (which we're kind of obsessed with) and other Australian films, but it cost $15 to view them and we didn't think it was worth it so we passed. But Jeanne did cast one backward, longing glance at the Centre, in hopes that Hugh Jackman might appear in all his Drovah glory. (See Baz Luhrmann's Australia movie for further info).

By the way, we've universally decided that Hugh Jackman is a good omen for our travels in Australia. Any appearance by him--weather in an ad, billboard, or poster--has been followed by an amazing cultural experience.

When we were hopelessly searching for a decent but cheap meal in Cole's Bay, a remote village on the fringe of Freycinet National Park, we were stunned to discover a photo of Hugh splayed on the front cover of a newspaper, with big bold leaders reading: "How I Got My Hot Body." Jeanne's jaw dropped. "I'm so buying that."

And directly behind Hugh, gleaming in the sunset, lay a charming little Italian restaurant.

We ended up eating a beautiful meal there, splitting a gloriously steaming pot of chamomile tea, and the best veggie pizza EVER, complete with onions, mushrooms, green peppers, feta cheese, and of course yummy olives. I'm convinced that the vegetables and fruit in Tasmania are the freshest around.... I was continually amazed at the quality and freshness of the vegetables while we were there. Even a funny old man watched our pizza arrive from the kitchen and he gave us a thumbs up, clearly appreciating our culinary experience as much as we were about to.

The second Hugh Jackman omen was when we arrived in the Melbourne city centre. We've been kind of reserved toward Melbourne, since we loved Sydney so much. But the large, bright flashing advertisement for "X-Men Origins: Wolverine" as we arrived near Federation Square was cause for some excitement. Comic book nerd/enthusiasts Walt and me are thrilled, and future Jeanne Jackman is of course squealing with joy and delight from the backseat.

The third Hugh Jackman omen was when we arrived at our hostel. A large bus was parked in front of the hostel wiith a gargantuan advertisement for "Australia" emblazoned on all sides. A massive Hugh Jackman making out with Nicole Kidman (sorry, Jeanne) greeted us.

Hugh Jackman? A good omen, indeed.

For this hostel is way cooler than any other hostel we've stayed at so far. It's actually a sweet place to hang out. There's a bar downstairs with a lounge area, pool tables, foosball, TVs, an Internet cafe, a kitchen always lively and active. We walked in there and people have their ingredients spread out and it's like Food Network in there.

We are impressed.

They have free BBQs, pizza nights, gyro nights and all kinds of cheap, yummy food options. I am a fan.

This morning, Jeanne and I went downstairs to check out the free breakfast that they provide here. There were stacks of bread for toast, a few canisters of cereal and milk and orange juice. We made some toast and sat at one of the tables. There were bowls with large heapings of butter, marmalade and Nutella.

Nutella is the one food item America unfortunately remains completely unaware of. I first became aware of this foreign breakfast tradition of putting Nutella on toast when I studied abroad in Austria 6 years ago. For those of you who are unfamiliar, Nutella is chocolate hazelnut spread. It goes well with bread, pretzels, strawberries, anything you can think of. It's portable chocolate fondue. And It's basically a thinly veiled excuse to slather chocolate frosting on bread and call it breakfast.

I slathered some butter and marmalade on one slice, then proceeded to lump a whole bunch of nutella on another slice of bread.

As we sat there eating our toast, Jeanne commented, "I can't believe this hasn't caught on in America."

Then we realized that in fast food culture where the portions are twice as big as they should be anyway and where every meal seems to be accompanied by fries and a Coke, this probably would only add to the problem.

I eyed my Nutella toast, and took a huge bite of it.

With a dawn of realization, I realized what I had eaten. Jeanne watched my eyes widen in shock and disgust. I was paralyzed by this awful taste in my mouth.

"What?" Jeanne asked.

"Feh - ee -- eye," I tried to garble out, my mouth full of toast.

"What?" she asked, puzzled.

"Fesh -- ee -- MY." I said, trying to enunciate. I was afraid that the more I moved my mouth, the more I would taste it.

"I don't understand what you're saying. What?"

"FESH. EE . MY."

"What are you saying?"

Vegemite. That awful, salty yeasty by-product of beer making that for some unknown, godforsaken reason, Aussies love to slather on their toast.

And it was IN MY MOUTH.

Giving up on trying to tell Jeanne what the heck what was going on, I made a mad dash for the kitchen. People were swarming all around me, carrying dishes, taking out trash, toasting more bread. It seemed like I was running the gauntlet, with every obstacle impeding me from reaching my desired goal: the trash can.

Unfortunately, people were hovering around the trash and social etiquette prevented me from barfing into the trash can. I grabbed a paper towel and tried to discreetly remove the awfulness from my mouth.

I refilled my glass of orange juice, desperately trying to swish out the horrific taste from my mouth.

I return to the table, where I heard a snatch of conversation of Jeanne laughing and trying to explain to the British girl next to us what had happened to me. "...she thought it was Nutella." Jeanne later told me the Brit had interpreted what I had been futilely trying to say earlier: "Vegemite."

Australia, I love you. You give us Hugh Jackman as a kind of fortuitous sage, guiding our path to the best of all Australia has to offer.

But you also gave me Vegemite. And dear Vegemite, how do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways....

I bet if there were a picture of Hugh Jackman on that bowl of Vegemite, it would have magically turned into Nutella.