McAfrica

A foreigner lacks for narrative. In a city where one has no history there's little in the way of context, and so experience accrues mostly as a list of discrete moments, observations, sights:

On the platform in the small train station at Newport, a girl yelled across at a bushy haired boy. "Sam! ... Sam! ... Sam!" When he did not respond, she said in a worried aside to her friend, "why doesn't he hear me?" She tried again. "Sam! ... Sam! ... Sam!" I was tempted to try adding my voice to hers but then Sam saw her. "It's me, Dessa!" she shouted, waving, "Dessa!" He nodded sheepishly in return.

I came out of the Southern Cross train station onto Spencer Street. Two men dressed all in black riding black Vespas passed. Behind them they pulled trailered signs, double the size of the scooters, advertising iPods.

Instead of "Restrooms" here in Australia the signs are more blunt, reading "Toilets." In the men's you pee against long metal walls, a type of communal urinal you used to see in the States but not anymore.

At Queen Victoria Market a group of young people with matching jackets reading "Paraguay" sat on a curb with their backs to a group of Peruvian steet musicians. Then they got up and crowded together for a photo, and at the last minute one of the girls in the group came running up and flung herself down in front of the others, spreading her arms and smiling, as if to have missed the photograph would've been a great and important loss.

I looked all through the market for a neck gaiter, but though there were many hats and scarves, I could not find what I wanted. Later in a small outdoor store I did find one and bought it. Two doors down in another shop I saw another that I liked better. When I tried to return the first, three minutes after purchase, I was told that I could only have store credit. Apparently the Australians have not yet learned to fully accommodate customers. I tried not to act annoyed but I was.

On a morning tv show a young American woman in pigtails and purple Grand Ol' Opry dress tried to teach the two hosts how to yodel.

In Fitzroy Gardens one can visit Captain Cook's Cottage, a small house brought over from England brick by brick. In the back garden is a bronze statue of Cook in naval outfit with sword; just beyond is a large board painted with three figures in period costume--father, mother, and daughter--with faces cut out to allow contemporary people to pretend for the camera.

In a bookstore I waited for a young couple to move so I could look for a Trollope book in the classics section. But they took a long time. Finally the woman said, with exasperation, "It doesn't matter, let's just go. You're going to kick yourself if you don't pick one, and if you do you're just going to be angry later about your choice." She walked away in a huff. The young man watched her, then looked back at the shelves. He hesitated, then reached down War and Peace and took it up to the counter where the woman had paused to wait for him.

When I visited in the evening, St. Patrick's Cathedral was dead quiet. But later at home watching the news I saw footage of an angry group of banner wielding people charging down the aisles and disrupting the morning Mass, upset that their preist, at a church in a working class neighborhood, had been transferred suddenly and without explanation.

On the Southbank Promenade along the Yarra River, a toddler stood up in his stroller, gripping the front bar and flinging himself back and forth, and shouted over and over "Rock and Roll!"

A middle-aged white couple sat outside a cafe eating french bread sandwiches and drinking coffee. Their fifteen-year-old arrived with a bag from a nearby McDonald's. In a city with so many thousands of interesting places to eat I've been surprised to see the McDonalds and Subways always busy. I went inside one of the McDonald's and learned that a Big Mac cost $5.75 (the exchange rate is about 98 cents US to $1.00 Australian; restaurant food and books are substantially more expensive here). Advertised above the counter was a burger called a "McAfrica"-- essentially a Big Mac with "Africa sauce." There was no explanation.

I could go on....

Bella and Sarah returned in the morning before I thought they would, and I was just getting out of the shower. I'd said I'd be gone early this morning, but then I couldn't get a ticket for today's train, only tomorrow's. Bella was lovely about the change, but I thought it best to head off into the city and leave them to their house.

I took two trains to St. Kilda's and walked down Carlisle Street looking in the small shops. I ate a quarter chicken and too many french fries at a place called The Feast. Down the street I hung out at the Public Library for a bit. I walked along the harbor and it started to rain and after awhile it stopped. I walked and walked, up Chapel Street until I decided I'd had enough of shops and restaurants, no matter how picturesque. I made my way to the Royal Botanical Gardens. Rain started falling again, and the lowering clouds led to a premature dusk, so I didn't get to see the grounds in their full glory.

Eventually I reached downtown again, hung about Federation Square for awhile, then decided it was ok to go home again. Bella had gone out to dinner, but I joined Sara in the living room, which felt a little odd, so I asked questions about her job as a flight attendant and she had a lot to say. For example, captains think they are royalty, but a put-upon flight attendant can have revenge--a couple eye drops in the coffee apparently causes serious diarrhea.

In the morning I'm off for Adelaide.