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the Chinese having their baggage pulled apart. breaking stride. After all, people in RSL (that is Returned Servicemen's League) blazers wearing lurid hats emblazoned with emus and kangaroos and the word "AUSTRALIA" are unlikely to be smuggling dope or curry- powder or anything like that. I later wished I had been smuggling opals, which I could have easily sold at some profit, but at the time the only dubious goods I had about me would have been my precious jar of Vegemite. to tell me there was a nice young man to meet me, with fair curly hair. Eric Lindsay! So began my continual meeting up with Eric or Carey Handfield (and often both). The almost constant presence of at least one familiar face – especially when attached to someone determined to look after me – was unexpected, but one of the reasons my trip went so smoothly. me away to their beautiful house in the hills above Oakland, After watching Charlie paste up LOCUS (and after my first encounter with that extraordinary American invention the padded toilet seat) I collapsed into a double bed and slept for about twelve hours, I awoke at the perfectly reasonable hour of 10 a.m. and never suffered in tke slightest from jet- lag. I spent the day admiring the books – beside my bed stood a bookcase full of first-edition Rider Haggard - and the view, not necessarily in that order. From the Browns' sundeck you can watch t.he police patrol by helicopter, when you are not dodging pinecones thrown by presumably xenophobic squirrels. All over North America I never tired of the squirrels, which seem in some areas to be as tame as cats. The Browns had a cat, which was not allowed out in case she killed birds or a racoon killed her. They also had a frog called Gerrard, which I promised to mention. The phone kept on ringing all day. In the evening there was a little party attended by the Silverbergs, the Brownsteins, Marta Randal and Jerry Jaques. I recall much serious discussion on health insurance schemes (San Francisco fans have a style of t.heir own) and Bob Silverberg was ordered to smile for me in order ta compensate for any false impression I may have had as a result of his gloomy demeanour at AUSSIECON. He duly smiled at me, Boris Karloff style, and made enigmatic remarks about wombats. bus trip he was too tired to come on the afternoon's expedition. Charlie and I went down with the Lupoffs, in 1,heir ancient but trusty Volvo station wagon, to see Berkeley. The only word for the place is "incredible", uttered with a rising inflection. We ate at a place called Bernini's, where I discovered tkat American salads are concocted for (or by) rabbits. Whatever sort of salad you order seems to be 75% lettuce. Salads are in fact, like glasses of iced water, an absolutely basic item on every restaurant menu. That is badly phrased – actually they aren't on the menu, they are complimentary, and are served right at the commencement of the meal. One is always offered a choice of dressings; Italian, Thousand Island or French. "French" turns out to be a curious pink concoction that tastes rather sweet, instead of the vinaigrette that an Australian expects. not to gawp too openly at the inhabitants who ranged from the merely eccentric to the truly weird. In Berkeley they not only have Hare Krishnas, they have Sufis who slaughter goats in their backyards! They also have
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