Melbourne’s Yarra river weaves its way through this city of glass towers and proud old houses, of wide tree-lined boulevards and music in the air. Where you can walk through thick autumn leaves in vast public gardens, or sip Martinis with your shoes off in some secret basement bar. Where you can eat cheap or chateaubriand. Where you can watch Puccini and Ibsen, or Sampras and Agassi. Where you can leave the city behind and venture into vineyards and mountains, into the lakes and dry desert plains. Is Melbourne the end, or merely the beginning?