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.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Sunday, July 6, 2008
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.
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.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Melbourne is a proper big city
In City Square downtown I came upon a large protest against a proposed desalination plant. Several people held up a long yellow banner, others handed out literature, many more milled about in solidarity; the press crowded around a spokesperson giving a statement. The group objects to the large amount of energy required to transform sea water into fresh water. Here in Melbourne, in the newspapers and on tv and in street protests, I've noticed a substantial concern with climate change.
Later in the day in the same square I paused to listen to a Chinese marching band, the musicians dressed in blue fleece jackets and blue ball caps. They were part of a protest against the behavior of the Chinese commumnist party. In nearby Federation Square another large group had gathered to listen to a speaker advocating for Tamil independence. Other groups had tables in the squares and streets, protesting uranium mining, the treatment of farm animals, and other injustices.
But politics was only part of the downtown action. Across the square from the Tamil speaker, a stage had been set up for "Wii Championships," and a boy and a woman flailed wildly, while overhead a huge screen displayed their Wii tennis match. Nearby two young people held signs offering "Free Hugs," and they didn't lack for business. Across the street on the steps of Flinders Station a mob of slackers sat, desultorily panhandling. A couple blocks away two young Asian guys with a boombox were breakdancing in front of the large Greek revival Public Library. A thick line of young woman stretched the length of one block, then around the corner and down another street, waiting to audition for a television show, Australia's Next Supermodel.
The wide streets were busy with trams and automobiles, the wide sidewalks filled with pedestrians, mostly locals with a few tourists like myself scattered in, gripping maps and looking mildly confused. The locals came in and out of shoe and clothing stores carrying bags. People sat outside small cafes at tables protected from street and sky by big sheets of clear plastic. But on this day the sun was out--mostly this time of year it's either cloudy or rainy or both. Still, the temperature was only in the fifties, and the low slant of winter sun produced a feeble light, strange to me after so recently arriving from the north and high summer.
I walked a mile or two north into the Bohemian districts of Carlton and Fitzroy in search of Alice's Books, then the Book Affair, where I bought The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollope and Hotel Honolulu by Paul Theroux. Earlier I had bought a V.S. Pritchett novel at a street book stand.
It gets dark confusingly early here, starting at five. At dusk I walked down Lygon Street, part of the Italian district, and probably the most restaurant-ed half mile on earth. On both sides of the road, almost uninterrupted for blocks and blocks, are small restaurants, one right after another, most of them quite nice, with tables spilling out onto the sidewalk, and waiters and maitre'ds out front to coax you to sit down and have a meal. On Lygon most of the restaurants are some version of Italian, but occasionally another cuisine interrupts, usually Thai or Indonesian. The number and variety of restaurants all throughout the city is astonishing. Japanese and Chinese, Malaysian, Indian, Greek, French are most common; fish and chips shops are numerous as are sushi stands and noodle shops and patisseries and gelato stands. I was stymied by the seemingly endless number of choices.... Late in the day I stopped at a sushi stand and chose a tuna roll, which a young woman placed in a small bag and handed over the counter to me; I poured some soy sauce onto one end, and then continued down the street eating as I walked.
Swanston is one of the most happening streets. I moved with the young Saturday night crowd, occasionally pulling out of the stream to the curb where I could pause to take it all in--the lighted shops and the take-away counters, the passsing trams, the street musicians playing guitar or dulcimer or accordion, the dark-skinned women roasting chestnuts on big flat skillets, the Aussie men standing by their horses waiting for carriage customers, the pack of young hipsters outside the Hi-Fi Club, and the the noise of hundreds of people talking, people from seemingly everyhwere in the world. Half the people are Asian of some sort, of all sorts, with Japanese pegged jeans and shag haircuts wielding substantial influence; a few Africans and Latin-Americans were in the crowds, Mediterranean and Eastern Europeans too. In passing I heard a mix of languages, from east and west both.
I was thrilled with the movement and lights and people and food and smells and noise--a city!
Later in the day in the same square I paused to listen to a Chinese marching band, the musicians dressed in blue fleece jackets and blue ball caps. They were part of a protest against the behavior of the Chinese commumnist party. In nearby Federation Square another large group had gathered to listen to a speaker advocating for Tamil independence. Other groups had tables in the squares and streets, protesting uranium mining, the treatment of farm animals, and other injustices.
But politics was only part of the downtown action. Across the square from the Tamil speaker, a stage had been set up for "Wii Championships," and a boy and a woman flailed wildly, while overhead a huge screen displayed their Wii tennis match. Nearby two young people held signs offering "Free Hugs," and they didn't lack for business. Across the street on the steps of Flinders Station a mob of slackers sat, desultorily panhandling. A couple blocks away two young Asian guys with a boombox were breakdancing in front of the large Greek revival Public Library. A thick line of young woman stretched the length of one block, then around the corner and down another street, waiting to audition for a television show, Australia's Next Supermodel.
The wide streets were busy with trams and automobiles, the wide sidewalks filled with pedestrians, mostly locals with a few tourists like myself scattered in, gripping maps and looking mildly confused. The locals came in and out of shoe and clothing stores carrying bags. People sat outside small cafes at tables protected from street and sky by big sheets of clear plastic. But on this day the sun was out--mostly this time of year it's either cloudy or rainy or both. Still, the temperature was only in the fifties, and the low slant of winter sun produced a feeble light, strange to me after so recently arriving from the north and high summer.
I walked a mile or two north into the Bohemian districts of Carlton and Fitzroy in search of Alice's Books, then the Book Affair, where I bought The Prime Minister by Anthony Trollope and Hotel Honolulu by Paul Theroux. Earlier I had bought a V.S. Pritchett novel at a street book stand.
It gets dark confusingly early here, starting at five. At dusk I walked down Lygon Street, part of the Italian district, and probably the most restaurant-ed half mile on earth. On both sides of the road, almost uninterrupted for blocks and blocks, are small restaurants, one right after another, most of them quite nice, with tables spilling out onto the sidewalk, and waiters and maitre'ds out front to coax you to sit down and have a meal. On Lygon most of the restaurants are some version of Italian, but occasionally another cuisine interrupts, usually Thai or Indonesian. The number and variety of restaurants all throughout the city is astonishing. Japanese and Chinese, Malaysian, Indian, Greek, French are most common; fish and chips shops are numerous as are sushi stands and noodle shops and patisseries and gelato stands. I was stymied by the seemingly endless number of choices.... Late in the day I stopped at a sushi stand and chose a tuna roll, which a young woman placed in a small bag and handed over the counter to me; I poured some soy sauce onto one end, and then continued down the street eating as I walked.
Swanston is one of the most happening streets. I moved with the young Saturday night crowd, occasionally pulling out of the stream to the curb where I could pause to take it all in--the lighted shops and the take-away counters, the passsing trams, the street musicians playing guitar or dulcimer or accordion, the dark-skinned women roasting chestnuts on big flat skillets, the Aussie men standing by their horses waiting for carriage customers, the pack of young hipsters outside the Hi-Fi Club, and the the noise of hundreds of people talking, people from seemingly everyhwere in the world. Half the people are Asian of some sort, of all sorts, with Japanese pegged jeans and shag haircuts wielding substantial influence; a few Africans and Latin-Americans were in the crowds, Mediterranean and Eastern Europeans too. In passing I heard a mix of languages, from east and west both.
I was thrilled with the movement and lights and people and food and smells and noise--a city!
Friday, July 4, 2008
Monti Cottage
Leaving L.A. around midnight, and arriving in Australia at six in the morning, I thought I'd fooled my physiological self into thinking I'd passed but a single night. But it turns out that the missing day that fell between--I left at the end of the 1st, landed at dawn of the 3rd--would not be ignored.
I held off sleeping, went to Helen's for dinner, and only took to bed at ten. I was nearly dead and figured I'd have a good long sleep. But I woke at three in the morning and didn't sleep much after that, I don't know why.
Monti Cottage is is one of four row houses sharing a white, crenellated facade. The names of each appear in raised letters along the facade, over the appropriate house: Victor, Guildford, Monti, and Leo. Through the front door you come into a narrow hallway that leads past two bedrooms and into the high-ceilinged living room; the next door going back leads into the kitchen, and past the kitchen the house splits, a door leading to a small brick patio, a passage opposite leading to laundry and bathroom. There is no heat except for a single wall unit in the living room and a couple wimpy space heaters. More would be nice, I have found.
I'd been sitting in the living room for quite some time, reading Trollope and watching morning tv news shows, before Bella and Sarah appeared. Bella put on an episode of Six Feet Under, which I'd never seen.
She let me use her laptop, and I opened an email from Alix that began, "I have some bad news"--never a sentence one wants to read. My own laptop, in Minnesota, had been stolen. Alix had been upstairs in the bathroom , with the radio on, when someone opened the the screen door and came in and took the computer off the couch. This news put something of a damper on the rest of my day. That someone would come into the house was a little worrisome, though I tried to convince myself that it had been simply a crime of opportunity. But there was no rationalizing the loss of the computer; I'd backed up my files (I think), but not iTunes, and I'm not sure about all the photographs, and I'm trying not to think of what else might've been on there. And oh yeah, it was my work computer, so actually I don't even own it. Some people are real bastards.
Around four Bella and Sarah set off with friends for a weekend at nearby Phillip Island. I was still hanging about the house, brooding over the lost computer. But finally I did go out, in the last of the day's light and walked down the strand a couple miles to Williamstown's waterfront--a park, a couple statues, a few streets of small shops and restaurants. People were out, buying at the fruit stands and fish and chips shops and bakeries. One busy pub was filled with workers from the fishing boats tied up at the docks. Among the sit-down restaurants were Chinese and Thai and Italian and French places, many not yet serving dinner. I chose a cheaper, less formal alternative, the Wok Rite In Noodle Shop and ordered the Combo Soup. Each choice was represented by a faded photograph above a long counter, behind which the cooking was done while you stood and waited. I sat at one of the few small tables and ate slowly, enjoying my first real meal of the day, and reading a tabloid newspaper.
I have Monti to myself now for a couple days. When I got home I put on The Golden Compass and tried to stay awake till ten.
I held off sleeping, went to Helen's for dinner, and only took to bed at ten. I was nearly dead and figured I'd have a good long sleep. But I woke at three in the morning and didn't sleep much after that, I don't know why.
Monti Cottage is is one of four row houses sharing a white, crenellated facade. The names of each appear in raised letters along the facade, over the appropriate house: Victor, Guildford, Monti, and Leo. Through the front door you come into a narrow hallway that leads past two bedrooms and into the high-ceilinged living room; the next door going back leads into the kitchen, and past the kitchen the house splits, a door leading to a small brick patio, a passage opposite leading to laundry and bathroom. There is no heat except for a single wall unit in the living room and a couple wimpy space heaters. More would be nice, I have found.
I'd been sitting in the living room for quite some time, reading Trollope and watching morning tv news shows, before Bella and Sarah appeared. Bella put on an episode of Six Feet Under, which I'd never seen.
She let me use her laptop, and I opened an email from Alix that began, "I have some bad news"--never a sentence one wants to read. My own laptop, in Minnesota, had been stolen. Alix had been upstairs in the bathroom , with the radio on, when someone opened the the screen door and came in and took the computer off the couch. This news put something of a damper on the rest of my day. That someone would come into the house was a little worrisome, though I tried to convince myself that it had been simply a crime of opportunity. But there was no rationalizing the loss of the computer; I'd backed up my files (I think), but not iTunes, and I'm not sure about all the photographs, and I'm trying not to think of what else might've been on there. And oh yeah, it was my work computer, so actually I don't even own it. Some people are real bastards.
Around four Bella and Sarah set off with friends for a weekend at nearby Phillip Island. I was still hanging about the house, brooding over the lost computer. But finally I did go out, in the last of the day's light and walked down the strand a couple miles to Williamstown's waterfront--a park, a couple statues, a few streets of small shops and restaurants. People were out, buying at the fruit stands and fish and chips shops and bakeries. One busy pub was filled with workers from the fishing boats tied up at the docks. Among the sit-down restaurants were Chinese and Thai and Italian and French places, many not yet serving dinner. I chose a cheaper, less formal alternative, the Wok Rite In Noodle Shop and ordered the Combo Soup. Each choice was represented by a faded photograph above a long counter, behind which the cooking was done while you stood and waited. I sat at one of the few small tables and ate slowly, enjoying my first real meal of the day, and reading a tabloid newspaper.
I have Monti to myself now for a couple days. When I got home I put on The Golden Compass and tried to stay awake till ten.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Williamstown and various Lockeys
In Brisbane I was let into the country only after a supervisor at Passport Control quizzed me on my Australian intentions. In response I acted appropriately nervous and suspicious, but he decided I could stay anyway.
At the baggage carousel a small beagle wearing a maroon shirt sniffed luggage in search of smuggled fruit.
Once I had re-checked my luggage I went outside to catch a train to the domestic terminal. The sun had risen just over the eastern horizon and the air was cool and sharp and I could see downtown Brisbane in the flatland distance. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed by the strangeness of being on a new continent, where the birds were unfamiliar, the trees oddly shaped, and people's shoes just a little different, I couldn't yet say exactly how. Until that moment, Australia had always been something represented--by maps or words or photos or film--but now it was actual. The curved metal benches on the platform, the tatty park just below, the cars driving the wrong way on a nearby road: a new place with all new stuff and practices. I felt both giddy and worried. I didn't know how anything worked yet, and it would take some time and mistakes to learn.
I flew to Melbourne, took a bus into the the city, to the train station, and called Bella, Rachael's daughter (reaching her only after twice getting change from a newsstand and burning through a couple dollars trying to figure out how the phone worked). She gave me directions, and I bought a ticket for the Weribee train, but the monitors listed no track for my train, but then a beautiful freckled woman collecting for Doctors Without Borders helped me, unasked, and I went to Platform 14 and boarded the train, which took me a half hour outside the city to a place on the harbor called Williamstown, where I again called Bella, and she walked over and got me and we walked back to Monti Cottage, the small row house where she lives with her friend Sarah. And so I came to a stop, at least for the next few days.
Bella is the same age as Alix and a student at University, studying law (which here means a five year undergrad degree). She's tall and blonde-haired and has an English accent which she hopes to maintain, though she has no plans to return to England, where she grew up. She's a friendly, social young woman and made me feel quite welcome, which I appreciated since it could've been kind've weird, to have a middle-aged American man who you'd only met briefly once a year ago and who's on his way to meet your mother come to stay at your house. But she seemed unphased, and we sat in the living room and talked for some time; later she told me I would have her room and she would bunk with Sarah. As on my last continent, I continue on this one to be amazingly well-treated.
Bella and Sarah went off with friends for dinner, and soon after Rachael's parents, Sheila and Harry, picked me up and took me to the nearby house of another daughter, Helen, for dinner. A bit strange, spending time with all the family except Rachael, but I had a lovely time. Helen lives in a new house with her two daughters, but they weren't home, so it was just the four of us--and Helen's two recently groomed Australian terriers, Angus and Rupert, who jumped up on the furniture and barked a lot.
Helen is thin and well-spoken and in her late forties; she's a doctor, a GP, which she said means she sees people with coughs. She laughed. "No, actually, it's more interesting than that."
Sheila has a white page boy haircut and an easygoing demeanor, that appears to help her deal with the bluff Harry. In the car, two minutes after we met, they had a brief dustup. She directed him to "turn here" a moment too late, and Harry snapped, "you can't tell me to turn when we already past." We made the next left, and Harry said, "this is the proper one, isn't it?" Helen said, "yes it is," ignoring his admonition and not the least bothered or apologetic.
Harry was ruddy and irascible, an intelligent man with strong opinions and bad teeth and large ears. A scene stealer. He and Sheila both grew up in Newcastle, in England, but his work as an industrial chemist for an American company had taken them all over the world. "I've worked in 35 countries," Hary said, "been to 55." They had lived in Italy for five years, in Milan, before coming to Australia in 1970. "Acrylic paint," Harry said, "we introduced it here. Quite popular, right from the start." Apparently acrylic paint had the then unprecedented ability to expand and contract without cracking, a characteristic particularly useful in much of interior Australia.
Harry and Sheila had returned to England in the late 70s, but only Rachael, the youngest of their five children, had gone with them. The rest had stayed, gone to University, established careers and families. After retiring the parents returned to Australia to be close to their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Rachael and Bella had been the last holdouts, the last poms (prisoners of the motherland), but now they have come too.
Bella arrived after dinner, as did Helen's two daughters, Madeline (18) and Becky (23). They kissed their grandparents, and Harry said Madeline was his favorite, training a gimlet eye on Bella who only raised an eyebrow. Soon after, he rose from the table and said, "I'm leaving. Anyone who expects a ride can follow."
Back at the house I collapsed into bed, no longer able to resist the jet lag.
At the baggage carousel a small beagle wearing a maroon shirt sniffed luggage in search of smuggled fruit.
Once I had re-checked my luggage I went outside to catch a train to the domestic terminal. The sun had risen just over the eastern horizon and the air was cool and sharp and I could see downtown Brisbane in the flatland distance. Suddenly I felt overwhelmed by the strangeness of being on a new continent, where the birds were unfamiliar, the trees oddly shaped, and people's shoes just a little different, I couldn't yet say exactly how. Until that moment, Australia had always been something represented--by maps or words or photos or film--but now it was actual. The curved metal benches on the platform, the tatty park just below, the cars driving the wrong way on a nearby road: a new place with all new stuff and practices. I felt both giddy and worried. I didn't know how anything worked yet, and it would take some time and mistakes to learn.
I flew to Melbourne, took a bus into the the city, to the train station, and called Bella, Rachael's daughter (reaching her only after twice getting change from a newsstand and burning through a couple dollars trying to figure out how the phone worked). She gave me directions, and I bought a ticket for the Weribee train, but the monitors listed no track for my train, but then a beautiful freckled woman collecting for Doctors Without Borders helped me, unasked, and I went to Platform 14 and boarded the train, which took me a half hour outside the city to a place on the harbor called Williamstown, where I again called Bella, and she walked over and got me and we walked back to Monti Cottage, the small row house where she lives with her friend Sarah. And so I came to a stop, at least for the next few days.
Bella is the same age as Alix and a student at University, studying law (which here means a five year undergrad degree). She's tall and blonde-haired and has an English accent which she hopes to maintain, though she has no plans to return to England, where she grew up. She's a friendly, social young woman and made me feel quite welcome, which I appreciated since it could've been kind've weird, to have a middle-aged American man who you'd only met briefly once a year ago and who's on his way to meet your mother come to stay at your house. But she seemed unphased, and we sat in the living room and talked for some time; later she told me I would have her room and she would bunk with Sarah. As on my last continent, I continue on this one to be amazingly well-treated.
Bella and Sarah went off with friends for dinner, and soon after Rachael's parents, Sheila and Harry, picked me up and took me to the nearby house of another daughter, Helen, for dinner. A bit strange, spending time with all the family except Rachael, but I had a lovely time. Helen lives in a new house with her two daughters, but they weren't home, so it was just the four of us--and Helen's two recently groomed Australian terriers, Angus and Rupert, who jumped up on the furniture and barked a lot.
Helen is thin and well-spoken and in her late forties; she's a doctor, a GP, which she said means she sees people with coughs. She laughed. "No, actually, it's more interesting than that."
Sheila has a white page boy haircut and an easygoing demeanor, that appears to help her deal with the bluff Harry. In the car, two minutes after we met, they had a brief dustup. She directed him to "turn here" a moment too late, and Harry snapped, "you can't tell me to turn when we already past." We made the next left, and Harry said, "this is the proper one, isn't it?" Helen said, "yes it is," ignoring his admonition and not the least bothered or apologetic.
Harry was ruddy and irascible, an intelligent man with strong opinions and bad teeth and large ears. A scene stealer. He and Sheila both grew up in Newcastle, in England, but his work as an industrial chemist for an American company had taken them all over the world. "I've worked in 35 countries," Hary said, "been to 55." They had lived in Italy for five years, in Milan, before coming to Australia in 1970. "Acrylic paint," Harry said, "we introduced it here. Quite popular, right from the start." Apparently acrylic paint had the then unprecedented ability to expand and contract without cracking, a characteristic particularly useful in much of interior Australia.
Harry and Sheila had returned to England in the late 70s, but only Rachael, the youngest of their five children, had gone with them. The rest had stayed, gone to University, established careers and families. After retiring the parents returned to Australia to be close to their children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Rachael and Bella had been the last holdouts, the last poms (prisoners of the motherland), but now they have come too.
Bella arrived after dinner, as did Helen's two daughters, Madeline (18) and Becky (23). They kissed their grandparents, and Harry said Madeline was his favorite, training a gimlet eye on Bella who only raised an eyebrow. Soon after, he rose from the table and said, "I'm leaving. Anyone who expects a ride can follow."
Back at the house I collapsed into bed, no longer able to resist the jet lag.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
46K is not a good seat
In the morning I was on a boogie board at Seal Beach riding waves. In the evening I was at LAX waiting for a plane. I preferred the beach.
James and I had taken Jordan and his friend Bray down to the ocean, and the four of us bobbed about in the surf together. At the crest of each wave I yelled "wooooooo!" as I shot towards the beach. We stayed in a long time, James and I outlasting the boys.
We ate lunch at Ruby's, a 50s retro diner at the end of the Seal Beach Pier. The waitresses wore short, candy-striped dresses but their athletic shoes were not period accurate. A few minutes after bringing our food, our waitress returned and said, "How's everyhting? Delicious, right?" Which I thought a bit pushy. And actually, no, my grilled cheese was mediocre.
James dropped me off at the airport at nine. Eventually I reached the departure gate at the end of a long and white and worn hall. The horrible lighting, the ugly terminal, and the time of night combined to make me feel gloomy and depressed. I hoped once I got on the plane my mood would improve and I could settle in and get some sleep. But not so fast.
I had booked a window seat but was assigned a middle when I checked in. The ticket agent did switch me to a window, but with such bad grace that I wondered if he knew just what he was giving me--the worst seat on the massive plane.
First, there was no window, just a bulkhead; second, the seat was by the emergency door, which could've been good but wasn't because the bulge of the huge door prevented the sitter from extending his, that is, my legs; third, the seat was right beside the bathrooms, which were in constant use even before take-off, the folding doors opening and closing repeatedly (greatly affecting air quality), while the people waiting a turn milled about and knocked against one's legs. I bleakly contemplated the next sixteen hours . . . then I asked a flight attendant, please, help.
She scouted around, listened to a couple other requests for switching, and came back to suggest I try for seat 40A. "But you must wait till after take-off," she said, "and after the seatbelt sign goes off. Then you can see if you can get there before anyone else." And that's what I did. When I got there the seat had just been vacated by a young woman moving to another by her friend. The sixtyish couple who occupied the row were already making themselves at home with the extra space when I arrived, but they made room for me without too great a show of disappointment. "The flight attendant told me to sit here," I said. Not really, but the appeal to authority displaces blame.
My new seat was certainly an improvement but it had its challenges too. The man and woman in my row were both quite large, and the woman, who sat next to me, spilled over into my seat more than a little. Her thigh pressed solidly against the length of mine, and I registered each shift and movement she made, and she shifted and moved seemingly without cease. I suggested putting down the armrest between us--it was in the up position--but her alarmed and defiant expression told me that this would not happen. "It's more comfortable with it up," she said. I didn't argue but thought, "more comfortable for who?"
We were fed "supper" immediately, though it was midnight. The salmon was pretty bad. Then we were given a bag with a bottle of water and candy, apparently to get us through the long long night.
Flying west, we remained on the shadowed side of the earth; the sky was dark for the entire flight, up till just before we landed at sunrise in Brisbane. A couple hours before arriving, the cabin lights had come on and breakfast was served. When the passenger in front of him put her seat back, the large man in my row cried out, "I'm eating!" But the offender wore headphones and did not hear him. He had to reach almost straight down to get at his food; with his elbows pinned at his sides, he awkwardly levered spoonfuls of eggs up towards his mouth.
For much of the flight I had slept in five minute increments, divided by episodes of disorientation and discomfort. I did not have a watch and could not discern the passage of the interminable hours. I think on long flights drugs are in order, but I hadn't planned ahead.
James and I had taken Jordan and his friend Bray down to the ocean, and the four of us bobbed about in the surf together. At the crest of each wave I yelled "wooooooo!" as I shot towards the beach. We stayed in a long time, James and I outlasting the boys.
We ate lunch at Ruby's, a 50s retro diner at the end of the Seal Beach Pier. The waitresses wore short, candy-striped dresses but their athletic shoes were not period accurate. A few minutes after bringing our food, our waitress returned and said, "How's everyhting? Delicious, right?" Which I thought a bit pushy. And actually, no, my grilled cheese was mediocre.
James dropped me off at the airport at nine. Eventually I reached the departure gate at the end of a long and white and worn hall. The horrible lighting, the ugly terminal, and the time of night combined to make me feel gloomy and depressed. I hoped once I got on the plane my mood would improve and I could settle in and get some sleep. But not so fast.
I had booked a window seat but was assigned a middle when I checked in. The ticket agent did switch me to a window, but with such bad grace that I wondered if he knew just what he was giving me--the worst seat on the massive plane.
First, there was no window, just a bulkhead; second, the seat was by the emergency door, which could've been good but wasn't because the bulge of the huge door prevented the sitter from extending his, that is, my legs; third, the seat was right beside the bathrooms, which were in constant use even before take-off, the folding doors opening and closing repeatedly (greatly affecting air quality), while the people waiting a turn milled about and knocked against one's legs. I bleakly contemplated the next sixteen hours . . . then I asked a flight attendant, please, help.
She scouted around, listened to a couple other requests for switching, and came back to suggest I try for seat 40A. "But you must wait till after take-off," she said, "and after the seatbelt sign goes off. Then you can see if you can get there before anyone else." And that's what I did. When I got there the seat had just been vacated by a young woman moving to another by her friend. The sixtyish couple who occupied the row were already making themselves at home with the extra space when I arrived, but they made room for me without too great a show of disappointment. "The flight attendant told me to sit here," I said. Not really, but the appeal to authority displaces blame.
My new seat was certainly an improvement but it had its challenges too. The man and woman in my row were both quite large, and the woman, who sat next to me, spilled over into my seat more than a little. Her thigh pressed solidly against the length of mine, and I registered each shift and movement she made, and she shifted and moved seemingly without cease. I suggested putting down the armrest between us--it was in the up position--but her alarmed and defiant expression told me that this would not happen. "It's more comfortable with it up," she said. I didn't argue but thought, "more comfortable for who?"
We were fed "supper" immediately, though it was midnight. The salmon was pretty bad. Then we were given a bag with a bottle of water and candy, apparently to get us through the long long night.
Flying west, we remained on the shadowed side of the earth; the sky was dark for the entire flight, up till just before we landed at sunrise in Brisbane. A couple hours before arriving, the cabin lights had come on and breakfast was served. When the passenger in front of him put her seat back, the large man in my row cried out, "I'm eating!" But the offender wore headphones and did not hear him. He had to reach almost straight down to get at his food; with his elbows pinned at his sides, he awkwardly levered spoonfuls of eggs up towards his mouth.
For much of the flight I had slept in five minute increments, divided by episodes of disorientation and discomfort. I did not have a watch and could not discern the passage of the interminable hours. I think on long flights drugs are in order, but I hadn't planned ahead.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
You should try the ravioli di zucca
Night before last Trish and I stayed up late talking about books; she was an English major at USC, and her book club recently read The Road by Cormac McCarthy. Last night she had me watch the The Bachelorette with her, an episode in which the woman whittled the field from three to two men. Overnight I dreamed I was on a similar show. In this one, though, there was an equal number of men and women, about a dozen of each. I was the Old Guy. James was the producer and his wife was Nicole Kidman and they had two small red-haired boys. At a garden party Nicole attached herself to me, and together we walked the grounds of a Beverly Hills mansion talking about children. She reached out and held my hand, which was nice but worrisome. Nicole was more appealing than I thought she would be.
Sunday evening James and I drove up to Los Angeles, and cruised such well-known streets as Wilshire and Sunset Boulevards and Rodeo Drive and Melrose Avenue, and I ogled the posh shops and beautiful people. We rode in an Astin-Martin Vantage F-1 Roadster, a convertible with paddle shifters on the steering wheel (James manages the Astin-Martin store in Newport Beach and drives a demo); I would've have called the body color gray but James said actually it's "meteorite." At James's urging I drove the $150,000 sports car, and I sort of enjoyed it but I was nervous too.
We ended up at the small, immaculate apartment of a friend of James', a half block off Melrose in West Hollywood. With the friend, also named James, we walked to a nearby hipster restaurant named Taste. James II asked the waiter about his accent and if he was from Australia, and the waiter laughed and said, no, England; the waiter tried not to show it but I could tell he was offended. James II is a tall, fit man in his mid-forties, who works in "product development" for an insurance company, though he used to work at "the studios" after he first got his MBA. He wore expensive jeans and an expensive t-shirt and looked at least a decade younger than his age. In the late eighties he and James worked together as stockbrokers and, according to James at least, lost lots of people lots of money.
For dinner I had orange and ginger pad thai with shrimp and snap beans; the whole fusion thing was interesting, but not as good as the original.
The following night, last night, we ate out again, James and I, this time with Trish at Poggio, a small Italian restaurant in their neighborhood. The waiter's name was Carlo, and he was from Rome, and every time he set a dish on the table he said "empreggo" (which might be how the word is spelled but I'm not sure). We sat outside on the sidewalk, and there was a white table cloth, and it was easy to imagine we were in Europe. I had ravioli di zucca; here's the description copied from the menu: "house made ravioli, filled with butternut squash, raisins, walnuts, and ricotta cheese, sauteed in sage and spicy tomato sauce, finished with shaved parmiggiano." It sounded good and tasted even better, one of the very best pasta dishes I've ever eaten.
Tonight I go to the airport and fly to Melbourne, traveling west sixteen or so timezones, and south from summer to winter. I also shift from van to backpack, which means no small reduction in gear. I'll arrive the morning of the third, so the second will be lost to me, though I'll get the day back on the return.... So here it goes. When I write again, it will be from the Antipodes.
Sunday evening James and I drove up to Los Angeles, and cruised such well-known streets as Wilshire and Sunset Boulevards and Rodeo Drive and Melrose Avenue, and I ogled the posh shops and beautiful people. We rode in an Astin-Martin Vantage F-1 Roadster, a convertible with paddle shifters on the steering wheel (James manages the Astin-Martin store in Newport Beach and drives a demo); I would've have called the body color gray but James said actually it's "meteorite." At James's urging I drove the $150,000 sports car, and I sort of enjoyed it but I was nervous too.
We ended up at the small, immaculate apartment of a friend of James', a half block off Melrose in West Hollywood. With the friend, also named James, we walked to a nearby hipster restaurant named Taste. James II asked the waiter about his accent and if he was from Australia, and the waiter laughed and said, no, England; the waiter tried not to show it but I could tell he was offended. James II is a tall, fit man in his mid-forties, who works in "product development" for an insurance company, though he used to work at "the studios" after he first got his MBA. He wore expensive jeans and an expensive t-shirt and looked at least a decade younger than his age. In the late eighties he and James worked together as stockbrokers and, according to James at least, lost lots of people lots of money.
For dinner I had orange and ginger pad thai with shrimp and snap beans; the whole fusion thing was interesting, but not as good as the original.
The following night, last night, we ate out again, James and I, this time with Trish at Poggio, a small Italian restaurant in their neighborhood. The waiter's name was Carlo, and he was from Rome, and every time he set a dish on the table he said "empreggo" (which might be how the word is spelled but I'm not sure). We sat outside on the sidewalk, and there was a white table cloth, and it was easy to imagine we were in Europe. I had ravioli di zucca; here's the description copied from the menu: "house made ravioli, filled with butternut squash, raisins, walnuts, and ricotta cheese, sauteed in sage and spicy tomato sauce, finished with shaved parmiggiano." It sounded good and tasted even better, one of the very best pasta dishes I've ever eaten.
Tonight I go to the airport and fly to Melbourne, traveling west sixteen or so timezones, and south from summer to winter. I also shift from van to backpack, which means no small reduction in gear. I'll arrive the morning of the third, so the second will be lost to me, though I'll get the day back on the return.... So here it goes. When I write again, it will be from the Antipodes.
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