I took it easy on the morning of the 13th and slept in a bit.  Before I was picked up and chauffeured out to the leafy suburbs of Sydney for a lunch of prawns and cheese and Shiraz, I went out to Woolworths and purchased the elusive Bushells.  From one of the ridges I could see the Blue Mountains off in the distance, which apparently look more bluish when the weather’s hotter, but since I had brought rain to Sydney they looked like regular wooded mountains. 

My next stop was back in the city, or almost, at the main campus of the University of Sydney, where I stopped by the physics department 3rd year lab to visit our customers.  We set up the STM (scanning tunneling microscope) to run beautifully and I showed some equipment which I hope will one day also sit in that lab and keep students busy.  I enjoyed the atmosphere of the lab, emptied of students but full of equipment, and talking to the men excited about instructing the students. 

I walked from there to Redfern station and caught the train to Normanhurst, where James McFarlane picked me up.  His wife Amanda had prepared a tasty lamb roast and Allie Beckett joined us for the dinner, where we talked about my sister and their baby son and silly wickets.  James was kind enough to drive me home, which meant I got some sleep before getting up early to pack and leave at 7:15 on the 14th for the airport.  Beat gave me a lift there, and we made good time, so I could post a load of postcards and educate the Qantas employee that my JAL Mileage Bank card now accepted Qantas (athoughI am almost convinced I’ll get no miles out of these flights because of the booking class).  I read a little more in “Babbitt,” and to give a flavor of the book’s satire I’ll quote a short passage. 

When, beyond hope, the pitcher was empty, they stood and talked about prohibition.  The men leaned back on their heels, put their hands in their trouser-pockets, and proclaimed their views with the booming profundity of a prosperous male repeating a thoroughly hackneyed statement about a matter of which he knows nothing whatever. 

[…]

“[T]he trouble is the manner of enforcement,” insisted Howard Littlefield.  “Congress didn’t understand the right system.  Now, if I’d been running the thing, I’d have arranged it so that the drinker himself was licensed, and then we could have taken care of the shiftless workman — kept him from drinking — and yet not’ve interfered with the rights — with the personal liberty — of fellows like ourselves.” 

I spent my flight in the company of Babbitt and his friends.