I need someone to hold my hand when I cross the street

In a new city, especially outside North America, I am curious and uncomfortable. I want to walk everywhere and look at everything, but at the same time I experience an underlying dread--the result I suppose of being so untethered from my familiar life. That feeling of being lost is not all bad, but it's not alway pleasant either; it's a reason both to go out into the world and to go home.

I imagine traveling with a compaion would anchor one to the familiar. On this day the only conversation I had was with a surly teenager with Billy Idol hair who wanted to know if I had "an extra couple dollars."

One substantial source of unease is simply crossing streets. You wouldn't think it would be so hard to get used to, the fact that cars drive on the "wrong" side and so are always coming from an unexpected direction. But it is. At every intersection I first and automatically look the wrong way. I guess my brain has worn pretty deep grooves concerning traffic safety. It is a serious matter of self-preservation. But I can force myself to adjust, right? Yes, of course, but I never cross a street here with confidence; my head is always swiveling back and forth, my heart rate and anxiety level just a little elevated.

A corollary of the traffic pattern is sidewalk etiquette. Again, my own habits are so deeply ingrained that changing them takes constant effort. I'm forever drifting to the right side, only to come up against other walkers. They shift out of my way with expressions of annoyance, and for a time I remember to walk on the left. But then I forget again. See, this is what I mean by discomfort--I don't even know how to walk down the street.

But repetition does begin to tell. I took the train into the city again this morning--first using the ticket machine without a hitch, then reading during the trip instead off watching anxiously for my station, and finally making my way from the platform through the station to the street without hesitation or reliance on signs.

I walked north through downtown to Queen Victoria Market, a large collection of pavillions. Beneath the long roofs crowds milled down aisles looking at and sometimes buying a great variety of merchandise. Here are some of the things I could have but didn't buy: corn on the cob, candles and incense, luggage, Spanish donuts (churros, actually, and very popular), dress and athletic and work shoes, lambswool slippers, socks, arty picture frames, arty cutting boards, Japanese or Chinese toys, teddy bears and teddy bear art, sunglasses, leather belts and jackets, lace, whole cow skins (including Holstein), hand-carved flowers, a camel ride, candy, Indian trinkets, vitamins, Australian souvenirs (boomerangs, stuffed kangaroos, digeridoos, personalized mini license plates--no Winston or Jackson or Capper), jeans, buddhas, sports team jerseys, dog toys, parrots, live chickens, fruit and vegetables, Your Name in Japanese, umbrellas that say "Shit! It's raining," jewelry, a foot massage....

There was a separate building devoted to meat and seafood stands, and a deli building where glass cases were full of olives and nuts and cured meats and pastries and and pasties and dozens of other delicious-looking items. I saw several people with brats, and the space in front of the Bratwurst Shop was packed, and I am suggestible, so even though I don't usually like brats, these ones looked good and I got in line. When my turn came I was once again humbled by my ignorance. The girl tonged my brat into a bun, then asked "which mustard?" She gestured at four pots, arranged in a square pattern. Everyone else put a name to their choice, but I could only point, then say, no, the other one, then, no, the other other one.

The weather was overcast and gray and windy, with occasional spitting rain, but it wasn't too cold, probably about fifty. In the afternoon I walked through Firtzroy Gardens, a large park where giant leafless sycamores stand near tall royal palms. I can't quite get a bead on the fauna and climate here....it's so foreign.

At dusk I walked along the Yarra River, on the Southbank Promenade. Like last night, the streets downtown were packed. I noted that moussed hair is overly popular with both boys and young men in Melbourne.

Eventually I ended up at the Flinders Street station and took the Weribee train home. In the refuge of Monti Cottage I drank a large bottle of Foster's purchased at a shop nearby, and watched the first stage of the Tour de France. And I say Frahnce not Frants.