The skies outside the window of my carriage were steel gray, the same rain-leaden clouds that had been overhead for the past few days, creating brilliantly bright lightening over Melbourne at night. We rolled past fields of dry yellow grasses and bright green ones, pastures filled with cattle and soggy sheep. Here and there were eucalyptus trees, sometimes singly, sometimes in clusters, reminding me of the oaks that grow on the grassy hillsides of the Coast Range back in California. All the colors, from the grasses to the dark green eucalyptus trees and their pale tan peeling bark, had been dulled, rendered in that green-gray light that comes with a storm.
I hadn’t really decided beforehand if I was going to get to Sydney by rail or by plane, but I think that going by rail had always been in the back of my mind. I can’t say why; maybe it simply seemed an effective way to see a large amount of the Australian countryside in my limited time. Even then, what I saw was just a small scratch of a huge country; it would be akin to going from Los Angeles to San Francisco and saying that you’d “seen America.”
Some things are universal, though: the train was running 90 minutes late.
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