Ritorna-me

I am in the final hours of my sojourn in Melbourne where I have learned so much about myself, fallen for this magical place and discovered a great deal that is mysterious and strange about the power of Melbourne as a city. I believe there to be places in this world that issue vibrations which attract brilliance. New Zealand is an entire country with this quality. You only have to look at the number of talented and genius minds to issue from such a small population to recognise this. Melbourne I believe is too. This is what has enticed and inspired so many immigrants to uproot their lives and come here for the adventure it offers. There is an aura about this city, a spirit in the Earth if you like, that attracts artists and those who appreciate art. I have felt the pull of Melbourne on my soul and have been accepted by the city and it's people. Everyone has welcomed me and my project with enthusiastic interest and support.

It took me a while however to truly recognise this. My chronicles of traveling to every corner in search of a place where I fitted in and belonged have been told here in this story. I stayed for a time in the proper suburb of Elwood and became a 'Desperate Housewife'. It was too comfortable to inspire truly great writing but it provided much needed rest and an easy transition from New Zealand to Melbourne. I have fellow kiwi Debbie to thank very much for that. Time spent in her company was much appreciated.

When I left Debbie's care I stayed in the flamboyant artistic quarter of Fitzroy where every day was filled with other people's dramas buzzing around me like a nest of bees. I had originally thought that I might belong with this crowd as I had heard so much about the Melbourne arts scene but it was manic. They were crazy people living insane lives. Brilliant character material but too much to live with all the time.

Next I visited the city where my energy levels and funds were sucked like the life out of me on an unsustainable daily basis. That time in the CBD was all about spending money, vacuous passtimes, looking constantly to be entertained. The one glimmer of hope, I discovered on my first night before being seduced by the old life of retail therapy.

After a week of funds falling at an alarming rate, I moved to the strange world of the student backpackers. This is a very itinerant existence filled with travelers, seekers like me, sometimes of thrills, of life, of love, or sometimes of escape. The girls are incredible, beautiful, vibrant, interesting, eyes and minds wide open to adventure. Thank heaven then for the likes of darling Taiwanese friends Tina and Sandy, English roses Paula and Louise, Finnish Jenny and the lovely Danish nurse Annette. Some of the boys however are unfathomable, traveling to drink the night through and sleep the day away. At the end of their trip they wonder what Melbourne is like having seen so little of it. Keep up lads because the girls are running rings around you and you risk missing the boat.

It wasn't however until I discovered a very special Melbourne community that I began to feel accepted, appreciated and at home. Some of my time has been spent exploring the various communities, the Greek, the Italian, the Middle Eastern, the Asian. They received me with mixed responses but each one was eye-opening and fascinating. My search for community eventually led me to a resting place within a family of incomparable union. I use the term family because they nurture, encourage and accept unconditionally the minds and hearts of the unusual, the flamboyant, the unfathomable and mysteriosa.

I found Pellegrini's and the magnificent hearts that reside there. This is my Melbourne family whether they like it or not because in welcoming me into their hearts and minds as they have done, they will never be far from me. I believe that you must give the gifts you possess and enrich the world. If done with passion it creates a balance. I have given music, poetry, song, image and my heart to my Melbourne family and in return they have fed my body and soul with food so rich it will last forever through famine or feast in years to come.

To all those who have touched my life in the last ten weeks I thank you and send my love,
Louise.

The adventure continues...we have only just begun.

Sports Groundhog Day

I have left till last the sports theme tour because it is not my cup of tea but it is Melbourne's. Melburnians pride themselves at being the only city in the world that can host an Olympic Games with only one months notice. Now that is impressive. They are also quite chuffed at the fact that their sports parks are close enough to the CBD that business workers still dressed in suits and ties, can catch a game of something on the way home from work.

The two parks, Yarra and Melbourne on opposite sides of the river around the East Melbourne suburb, contain eight venues, the MCG, the Rod Laver Arena, the Olympic Park, The Oval, The Old Scotch Oval, the Vodafone Arena, the Hisense Arena and the Melbourne Sports and Entertainment Centre. In addition to these a new soccer and rugby park is due by opened in 2009. Again I say, impressive in an impassive tone of voice.

I took a walk from Federation Square around this expansive area, choosing not to do any of the stadium tours. I think I've pretty much finished with the guided tour thing. Some of them have been interesting but on the whole it doesn't really float my boat to be taken on a photo highlights tour. I want the juicy stuff. I do however keep meeting what seems like the same bus load of Indian tourists everywhere. I think this nationality has replaced the Japanese as the number one camera carrying day trippers.

The Melbourne Cricket Ground is truly hallowed. The first recorded game of Australian Rules was held in Yarra Park just in front of the modern stadium. That was back in August 1858 when Scotch College and Melbourne Grammar Schools played for three days straight before declaring the match a draw. You would also think that they would declare the game unsuccessful and do something to improve the rules but no, the Aussies believe in sticking at these things and – well you can tell by the popularity of the game today that they finally got a hang of the rules, even if the rest of the world remains mystified.

Actually I believe that the Aborigines should be credited with inventing Australian football as they were kicking around stuffed possums well before the white man arrived. They called their game marn-gook though and I guess the name was not as catchy.

Still you have to admit that with AFL, cricket, horse racing and tennis, Melbourne has to be considered to be sports mad. After all they are the only place in the world where a horse race is marked by a public holiday.

"Sons of the Mighty West"

Footscray. This western suburb of inner Melbourne behind the business end of the port, has a surprisingly strong sense of community for one that is best known as a point of arrival for many immigrants. Newcomers, often refugees, live in Footscray as their first home, some stay for good. It is this feeling of displacement and relief to come home that has created an essential community bond where Africans mix with Asians as they all become Australian. The cultural melting pot then is quite diverse but the stand out flavours are Vietnamese and Sudanese. Footscray provided sanctuary to the infamous boat people who risked everything coming to Australia in the 1970s. It has since sheltered people escaping conflict in Sudan and I get the sense that the Footscray community is responsible for healing many war scars.

I took a tour of this intriguing suburb with the 'GO Show' bus as my Arts Festival programme selection. Beyond the fact that I was getting on a bus to do a road trip, I didn't know what to expect and I have to say that it was quite an unusual experience. Four bus loads of people tripped around the suburb on a mid-week evening. On our first leg we were greeted by Larry a local Aborigine who welcomed us with tales of his Kulin Nation and his own story of the rights fought for here in Footscray to give him citizenship to the country in which he was born. That only happened in the 1960s, prior to that more immigrants had citizenship than Aborigines.

Our first bus stop was the Teddy Whitten Oval, home to the Western Bulldogs, Footscray's beloved AFL team. The community seems to be footy mad judging by the performances experienced here tonight. We participated in some role playing footy practise with 'the Coach' and 'Mullet', our team member who has had a few too many blows to the head. We were rallied by the passionate and dedicated Doggies cheer squad and given party pies on the balcony as we watched Mullet kicked for goal. In between we heard the team song, 'Sons of the Mighty West' and had pompoms waved at us in the team colours of red, white and blue. Everyone in Footscray seems to be able to sing the 'Go Doggies' song. Back on the bus local sports writer Steve quizzed us on footy trivia and it was at this moment that I realised I was surrounded by locals with a passion for Footscray.

The second stop was Madden Square to discover the many ways in which this precinct centre is utilised by the community. We interacted with buskers, poetry readings, rock concerts, Tai Chi practisers, clean air protests, taggers, street artists, substance abusers, hip-hoppers and rappers. The square is Footscray's focal point for outdoor activity.

Back on the bus again for a Sudanese song by Theresa relating war and homeland before arriving at the Footscray Community Arts Centre for the final performance of the tour. This leg contained an eclectic mix of performances from the young people of the community featuring dance, rap, gospel choir, word definition ballet and cheerleading. It was an interesting evening and I came away with a better understanding of what makes up Footscray.

"Dwellers of the Shipwreck Coast"

These are words from a poem by Suzanne Howard describing the treacherous area of the Great Ocean Road around the Twelve Apostles. I needed to see green. I needed to see countryside and I needed to get out of the city so I took a bus tour to the Great Ocean Road today. I have to say that it was an expensive way to see New Zealand countryside because that is what this stretch of coast reminded me of, only with flies – lots of sticky flies.

The bus picked me up at 7.30am. What? I had gotten used to being on holiday time, this is a ridiculous hour! Oh the sacrifices we must make. Our guide who I will call Fred because I can't remember his actual name, started the commentary at West Gate Bridge even before we left the city. The day started with a tale of this bridge collapsing in 1970 and ended with another London Bridge, at the other end of the line.

The section of the Great Ocean Road we traversed stretches from Torquay to Warrnambool but the whole road measures a winding 270kms and was carved by hand with the pick and shovel of 3,000 unemployed servicemen after WWI. It was thought that this would be a useful way to rehabilitate and reintroduce them to the real world. It just looks like bloody hard work to me but there was the odd perk of a shipwrecked cargo of beer to sweeten the toil. The Memorial Arch that spans the road just outside Airey's Inlet is the third erected to commemorated this engineering feat.

The first photo opportunity in this day of constructed stops, was Bell's Beach and Apollo Bay, known as the home of surfing. The tiny town of Angelsea was where the three world surf gear giants Quiksilver, Rip Curl and Billabong began. It was also the area where Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze's crew went in Point Break to catch the legendary and completely fake, 50 year storm that produced the equally as imaginary giant waves. The surf along this coast is certainly impressive. It was a glorious and relatively calm day here but still I could see the cockatoo's plume of spray streaming off the back of the waves. They apparently get up to eight metre swells here. I have to marvel at the originality with which the Aussies name places. Here we have the famous “House on a pole” and “Big Hill”. Direct rather than poetic.

The next stop is the Kennet Koala park to see some bear bums in the wild. I have to say that I have been often unimpressed with these little icons. They hide high up in gum trees sleeping lazily all day so all you get is neck strain viewing a distant rear end. But it was mandatory to take a photo – of the tourists taking photos.

As we continued the drive after stopping for lunch, I noticed eleven out of the seventeen on board missed the stunning scenery as their full stomachs convinced them to study the inside of their eyelids instead. One of the girls even brought her book along mistaking this expensive - er – sightseeing tour for a commute to work. What is with that?

The Otways National Park is famous for dinosaur skeletons having been found there in 1968 and it is here that we take a brief bush walk through Mountain Ash trees. These enormous beasts are often hollow at the base so in the days when convicts were being transported were put to use as temporary prison cells. The prisoners were made to carry their own makeshift cell door so they could be locked in at night.

Further around is the legendary Twelve Apostle rock formations, the Loch Ard Gorge, scene of many shipwrecks and the London Bridge where the day's sights end. The landbridge across from the coast to the outcrop collapsed in 1990 completing the day's tales of broken bridges. I enjoyed the sun, the scenery and the taste of home but I have to say that bus tours are not for me.

Of ceilings and Sylphs

I have been very remiss. Every day while I resided at The Nunnery I looked out the window and saw the elegant and stately Royal Exhibition building, built in 1881 for the first great international exhibition to reach Melbourne. Every day my eyes were blessed waking to see the vision of gold cresting the dome atop the Classically cruciform building, yet another example of extravagant Victorian architecture that built this city of dreams. Every day I told myself I would see inside it, soon. This is how remiss I have been. My stay in Melbourne is in its ninth week and as some will already know, the novel is finished though the book is still being written and I am preparing to come home. The chapter that created the novel is complete but the adventure continues as life always seems to find new ways to delight and inspire me even at this hour.

So it is late in the piece that I finally find the time for the feast I promised myself so early on, the Royal Exhibition Building. Melbourne was still finding its feet in the early 1880s. By this stage there was plenty of gold wealth funding projects to improve its standing in the world. Money bought artists, musicians, gardeners, architects, those who added beauty and culture. And money also sponsored events such as the two international exhibitions that launched Melbourne into the world of great cities. The Royal Exhibition of 1881 showcased everything new and great from around the world and you saw it here first folks, in Carlton.

When it was built the Exhibition hall was the tallest and grandest building in Melbourne.. From the balcony at the top of the dome the world could be surveyed in every direction, una bella vista. The highest point of the gilded dome stands 64m high above the city. The neighbouring Melbourne Museum was designed more than a century later to mirror the shape and literally reflect the original building in its exterior bringing the two together in a harmony of old and new. It is a striking effect. I do not care much for the look of museum building myself but when I see facets of the other reflected in its frontage, I appreciate it more.

Over the years the Royal Exhibition hall has served the city and people in many ways. A second exhibition took place in its cavernous spaces in 1888 and then in 1901 it was refurbished for the opening of the Federal Parliament by the visiting Duke of Cornwall and York. One of the state landaus transported over from England for the occasion can be seen on the tour of the building. During an early twentieth century conservative refurbishment artworks were covered up with the usual lack of care when bygone beauty is deemed old fashioned. A prime example of this are the Sylphs. These very Victorian paintings were eight panels of classical female characters depicting night and day, truth, justice and the four seasons. They are reputed to bear the faces of eight ethnic races and were originally nude but Edwardian modesty required gauzy coverings to be painted in.

During the 1918 flu epidemic brought back by returning service men and women, the hall was sadly put to use to quarantine the sick. A convenient underground passage removed the dead to the morgue in nearby St Vincent's Hospital. Some twenty years later in WWII it was again commandeered this time as a base for the RAAF. The doors of the hall are so expansive that they could drive small airplanes right inside to work on. The building has also been often hired for private use with one of the most notable occasions in 1930 when philanthropist Sidney Myer hosted a huge Christmas dinner for those struck by the Depression. Incidentally Sidney also donated the Music Bowl outdoor venue in the King's Domain to the city in the 1950s. Later in that same decade in 1956 the Royal Exhibition Hall was again host to a huge civic event. That was another year when Melbourne burst on to the world stage hosting the Olympic Games. The fencing, wrestling and basketball events were held in the hall. I'm imagining looking up whilst lying on a mat in a half Nelson head lock and seeing the Teutonic Romantic ceiling towering above me. How incongruous, my neck feels stiff just thinking about it!

The interior of the building was surprisingly Germanic given the Classical exterior. Returning to the antique, the forecourt houses Colonial Square, a tumbled display of Arcadian ruins much like those in the park at the top of Ponsonby Road. These are the remains of the Colonial Mutual Life Building preserved now as works of art and archaeology.

Ashes to Dust

I'm a little bit behind on my blog postings as there has not been that much to write about in the last few days. I have been asked about last minute tickets to shows, especially Wicked but with my budget living, a show at $90 for the cheap seats has not been on my agenda so unfortunately I don't know. I gulp at paying $25 for a night out. I believe that Wicked is very popular and especially since the sad news of dear Rob Guest's death, tickets will be even more sought after. In the midst of life we are in death et cetera. The only help I can be is to recall an overheard conversation at the Windsor Hotel that tickets are still available if you have the right connections and money, I guess. Sorry. Anyway, on with the late blog post.

It's Sunday and I have been inspired by all of the incredible religious architecture to attend a church service to see whether the ceremony of the service lives up to the promise of the buildings.

I chose St Patrick's for a number of reasons. One, I am familiar with the Catholic service. It is surprising how easily I slip into mumbling all the old prayers I learned as a kid. When I realise that I am doing this, I stop myself because I consider it hypocritical for me to be reciting a creed I do not subscribe to. The other reasons I chose St Pat's are because it has the most impressive architecture of the churches and because it has choral performance. It was a close call however because St Paul's Anglican does the evensong peel of bells, however I have taken them in as a incidental to being in Fed Square at the time on many occasions. As it turns out today's choral pieces at St Pat's include one of my all time favourite, 'For the Beauty of the Earth' by John Rutter. Good call then on the Micks over the Proddies.

I am late for church as I took too long wandering around the market for breakfast. Church services are around 11 o'clock here and I am out of the hostel every morning by 8.30 so there is a long time in between of which to lose track. When you share a shower with about fifty other people, you want to be first in – believe me.

So I'm late for church but I can hear the service being broadcast on the loudspeakers from well and truly down the street so I am not officially missing anything. Besides the place is so big that I am assured of getting a seat. As I enter the smoky haze of heady incense just about bowls me over. Oh I do like a good waft of incense, it is grand Gromit and I am so pleased that the Cathedral has kept up this tradition. I have to admit that I didn't stay to the end. Sorry Mum but once you've been to one Mass, you've been to them all and I was a bit disappointed that it wasn't in Latin.

It is a day where the hot wind feels as if it is coming straight off the fires hell. It is a force that savagely projects dust and pollen irritants into the eyes and noses of all around. Sneezing is the sound that prevails this Sunday. I'm told that Melbourne has the highest rate of asthma and hayfever in Australia and that this is due to the prevalent planting of fast growing plain trees. Melbourne is a city of trees. The English elm was originally the popular choice to line avenues and as many other city's elms fall prey to disease, Melbourne has the best collection in the world. The elm buds with clusters of apple green blossom that when fallen, pave the ground in brown paper petals. The streets and parks are currently covered in this organic confetti. As I passed a wedding photography session in Alexandra Gardens, I suggested that it would make an awesome action photo if the bridal party showered the couple in elm petals. One of the bridesmaids had wanted to do something similar but the bride got all huffy about getting dead leaves stuck down her ample cleavage. Killjoy, grumped the bridesmaid.

Another irritant in the city today is cigarette smoke as with the wind, it is impossible to keep this habit personal to the smoker. Smoking is another statistic in which Melbourne unfortunately leads. The councils supply butt bins and stubbing bays on regular bins and Melburnians do use them so that is at least something. I have noticed though that the street bins no matter how often emptied, do not cope with the amount of rubbish generated from disposable wrappers. The city seems to prefer employing troops of street cleaners and they are a familiar sight. It is a twenty-four hour job cleaning up after people. I'm going to have to stop there before I get on my bandwagon of ecology.

"Do you want earplugs with that?"

After two months now spent solely in urb and suburb, I desperately need some countryside so I feel that a train trip is in order. Enter Puffing Billy, the historic steam train through the Dandenong Ranges. The adventure begins at the end of the Belgrave suburban train line but for me it begins before then with the shenanigans at Burnley and Camberwell.

Weekends are the time when repairs are made to tracks constantly in use. Today it is the Belgrave Line's turn so out we all hop at Burnley to be shuttled via special buses to Camberwell to pick the train up again. Two lines share the same train as far as Ringwood where you connect with one or the other line depending on which service you are riding. These two are Belgrave into the foothills of the Dandenongs and Lilydale at the gateway to the Yarra Valley and vineyards.

So among the confusion of transferring from train to bus and back again there is also the added one of changing lines. Enter the winery set. I have already met the flossed up Spring Carnival ladies today heading the opposite way into the city for an all-dayer. Their early morning application of evening make up, sparkling jewels, high heels and fascinators seem a bit like under the yard arm drinking but they do look splendid even if out of place on a morning suburban train. A carriage would better suit them I feel.

Anyway these ladies have gone, packed no doubt onto a confused and crowded bus but the winery lot are sitting next to me. My word but they are the highlight of my day. Their hangover cure of 'V' and Berrocca is sending them over the top and spirits are hilariously high. Don't get them started, they will laugh at anything. It is these hungover ladies applying their mascara on the train that came up with the title for this piece. Voices pitched at glass shattering and loud enough to echo off the nearby hills, one told the others how she was in a McDonalds yesterday that was being renovated around the customers. As she placed her order the spotty teenager asked in all earnest, “would you like ear plugs with that?” Apparently they were being issued as a courtesy. This produced a howl of laughter from the gaggle and considering some passengers actually got up and changed seats, I suspect they thought that this lot should have come with the same orange putty offering. But I thought they were delightfully entertaining myself and they made the hour and a half tedious train ride fly by.

As the mascara was applied one of their number, for whom it was the first time on a train so all a little bit of an adventure, pulled out a guide to train etiquette. “Ahem,” she quoted. “Make up should not be applied on the train as people do not commute to work in a bathroom.” Wa-huh? They don't commute to work in a dining room either but people are allowed to eat on trains and subsequently litter freely. I fail to see the difference etiquette-wise. Anyway I was sad to lose my amusing friends at Ringwood as they were off to Lilydale and beyond to top up the alcohol levels already in their bloodstream.

The suburbs chugging passed my window began to change from inner city to mid-burb and finally to outposts with a view. Box Hill was one such suburb with the elevation to provide a view out over distant dark green bush covered hills. I could have caught the tram to here and completed the 109 route so I earmarked it as a possible route back.

Puffing Billy is the very popular 762mm gauge line from Belgrave to Gembrook, originally constructed in 1900 to open up outlying farmlands to the city. It was closed after a landslide in 1953 but the dedicated work of steam train enthusiasts saw it reopen in stages over the next thirty odd years. Saturdays, especially ones as brilliant as this, are really popular with families and makes me wish I had rented one to share the trip with me. Billy chugs, coughs, clatters and clangs its way through bush, farmland and prettily named villages where people wave to us on the train we pass. On to Emerald Lakeside where it is “All unboard!” to have a picnic and a paddle round the lake on a giant-wheeled bike. Makes me wish I had rented a family AND a picnic. Boy was I unprepared for a day out!

But the trip is pleasant regardless and it provides me with a much needed green scene fill because even in drought, the town is not called Emerald for nothing. Tiny bells of wild flowers pepper the lush long grass among bush canopy looking oh-so familiar but named here Ferntrees. Pukekos are here too but called Swamp Hens. Let's face it as the ad says, someone's always stealing your stuff and it's usually the Aussies. Can't complain really though can we? I mean we have a few Oz acquisitions ourselves like the White Tail and the Possum – hang on, why did we steal them?

Puffing Billy is operated by volunteers who all look as if they love what they do and it is clear that the devotees are equally fond of their train. One mother was bringing her little one on the same train she rode when she was wee. Children and adults alike sit on the sides of the carriages dangling their feet over the outside edge to cool. No OSH rules apply here. It is just the pleasant day out in the country that the doctor ordered for a Stuck in the City girl.

Dead ducks and other cultural mysteries

Okay, okay I can't hold out any longer, I tried to resist but I am going to have to blog about taking a walk down the lane of dead dripping ducks. Yes I'm talking about Little Bourke Street's Chinatown crossing two blocks from Russell to Swanston. I tried to hold out for so long commenting on this famous stretch of Asian eateries because, um, it all seems a bit touristy to me.

When I visited Melbourne in March I was delighted as a first timer by the dedicated lane showcasing the varieties of Asian culinary delights. The entranceway at each intersection is marked by giant temple gates. Equally giant four balloon-bulb lamps pave the walk through a narrow, crowded lane of gold, red and royal blue restaurant frontages. It is definitely colourful, it is impressive in scale, and to someone who had never been in a dedicated Chinatown before, it was novel. I sampled my first and only plate of Thai crocodile and kangaroo meats in Chinatown. Neither really did it for me, the one was anaemic and chewy and the other was gamey tasting.

This time round Chinatown has lost its novelty and now seems a bit, well – fake. It seems to be the street put on for tourists to show them how revered the Asian culture is. It is frequented by young, urban professional Asians and tourists, both of which have the money to eat in city priced restaurants. As a vegetarian there is not really much on offer for me in Chinatown so I have generally given it a miss.

I have this problem in most Asian eateries and forgo the vegetarian commitment if I choose to dine Chinese or Japanese. Thai and Indonesian I can usually find something on the menu but forget asking a yum cha waiter if this is this vegetable? Three repetitions later my question receives a nod that less than convinces me. The occasional excellent sushi train or yum cha however is worth the meat lapse to experience.

But I fail to see why Chinatown should be so glitzy when the other cultural precincts are much more community developed and inhabited. I stumbled upon Victoria Street one day and this is the real Chinese area of town. This is where the pungent shop markets are. This is where the junky two dollar shops selling flashing toys, nodding and waving gold Luck Cats and red tai chi fans. This is where the bakeries with steam buns, pork floss, sweet green tea and purple taro breads are. This is where the shriveled old people, the real people, shop with trundlers.

Victoria Street is where a fight breaks out because a young man has pinched a mandarin off a fruit stall. The tiny old female stall keeper chases him up the street lashing out to swat him as she snatches the mandarin back. Fearless and wily stall holder one, sour-faced youth, nil. This sort of thing doesn't happen in Chinatown. Chinatown is full of narcissistic youths having their hair crimped in the most bizarre and expensive spiky styles. What is with that?!

Okay so if I feel this way about Chinatown I hear you ask, then why have I chosen now to comment. Well, I guess it is because it is an icon and far be it for me to dismiss it just because I am looking for a more down to earth and real Melbourne culture. The culture of the Asian youth is very real and that is other reason I choose now to comment.

I am staying in a hostel near the RMIT and University precincts so I am living the Asian youth culture at the moment. In a dorm room of six, I share it with four Taiwanese girls and understand what it is like to be a minority not understanding a word that is said. There is laughter and conversation happening in my room that I am not invited to take part in. I was first to check in so introduced myself to each new room mate as they arrived but once outnumbered, I became invisible as the conversation crosses through me in the middle bunk.

I don't really mind as I have plenty to do of my own but I have not gotten to know these room mates as I did those in the other hostel and most of them did not speak English as their first language either. I have always said that I feel disadvantaged being an English speaker because it is not necessary for me to learn a language other than my own to communicate almost everywhere in the world. All of the travelers I have met, French, Dutch, German, Korean, Japanese, Danish, have all shared a common language with which we can all communicate and hold conversations to get to know each other. That language is English. My Taiwanese room mates here speak English as well but they have no desire to communicate with me as the multi-cultural mix of room mates at The Nunnery did. This is a single culture room. It doesn't bother me but it is sad that I am not getting to know these people as I did the others. I have tried to start conversations but they go nowhere because when faced with chatting easily with each other in their own language or concentrating on conversation with me, I lose.

However there is also another, sadder aspect of youth culture at work here in the dorm. Victoria Hall is set up for budget hotel or long-term dorm accommodation. It is very neat and new and well managed. Each bunk has its own large locker with a shelf on the outside beside the bed, two individual power points and a dimming reading light. This means that the main light can be switched out for people to sleep while those wanting to read, can. The interesting thing is that it is a nightly ritual for everyone except myself to plug earphones into their laptops in order to watch movies till the wee small hours of the morning. I am isolated by language, the others freely isolate themselves with popular entertainment. Is our world really becoming so insular?

“It was really a hive of activity” - once upon a time

I am seconds late to catch the train to Williamstown so I jump on one going to Flinders Street instead. Don't ask why, I'm a woman, I can be random if I like. Proving the random thing even further, I got bored sitting in the train on an underground track and anyway I have already been to Flinders Street only to get lost in its maze of platforms. So when the train passed Parliament, a station in the CBD I have not yet been to, I jumped off. If all roads lead to Rome then all trains must leave from Parliament, I figure. I have saved myself no more time waiting for the next Williamstown train as I still have fifteen minutes to go but the sporadic faded photos of pomp and political circumstance on the escalator are at least distracting. The train arrives with a woosh of wind and off I am at last to...Werribee. Well Werribee at least starts with the same letter as Williamstown and I'm in no hurry, I'll get there eventually and along the way are the happy adventures of a lost traveler.

Williamstown is a sleepy village on the otherside of Hobson's Bay. If you knew what it was you were looking at you could see it from St Kilda. The effect is better the other way around however as the landmark Palais Theatre stands out at a distance. Williamstown is historic and reminds me of Akaroa. It was the first permanent settlement in Victoria in 1835 and was supposed to be the capital. A lack of fresh water however let the side down so instead its significance was as a port and transport hub to the rural areas. Today it has a fabulous Visitors Information Centre with very helpful and keen staff armed with every brochure you could imagine. And as I leave, I now am too.

I have arrived with a picnic lunch courtesy of QVM. I don't think the market people like me much. When I ask for half the smallest portion of hummus, two felafels, one olive read roll and two dolmades, their eyes roll. I don't think they care that I am going on a picnic while they are working and earning fifty cents per felafel from my purchase. But I am at the beach so I have to have a picnic despite the fact that my al fresco dining attempts here have had mixed results. I'm hoping that the forecast for today will be right, it's usually pretty accurate. It's supposed to be mostly sunny with a high of seventeen. When I told them where I was off to today, the workmen at the hostel advised me to take a drizzabone. “The wind off the sea can come up out there, you'll want something other than a sunhat, darlin'.” Oh ye of little faith, thought I optimistically but I did take my polar fleece just to please them.

As I sat on the beach then wrapped up for the Pole and staring down a magpie sitting at my picnic table scowling at me, I am glad I did. There is something staunch about toughing out an al fresco meal with the wind blowing your hair into every bite. I watched a small bug drowning in the oil of my dolmades, not knowing which of us looked sadder. But I did enjoy my trip to Williamstown apart from the fish.

I learned a bit about its history. The pier at Point Gellibrand has seen ships of all sorts come in and out. Settlers, prisoners, wheat, war. Settlers arrived in 1842 on board the Scottish ship 'Manlius'. Yellow fever had already done for forty-two on the journey. The rest were quarantined and more were buried in the makeshift cemetery. The many vessels commissioned as transport to the goldfields and later abandoned became prison hulks. It seems that England did not have exclusivity on full prisons. Convicts quarried and hand hewed bluestone used to construct many of Williamstown's buildings. Their labour built the tramway and pulled the trams from the Gellibrand Quarry to Breakwater Pier. Mrs Isabella Dalgarne believed in rehabilitation. She was temperate and known to lecture drunken sailors by poking them with her 'strong and sensible furled umbrella'. She ran one of the hulks as a rehabilitation unit called a 'sailor's rest' but having seen how many pubs were in this town, I can guess where most of them preferred to 'rest'.

Wheat and gold provided the biggest boom for the area's industry. Bags of unhulled wheat were slit open to pour the contents into the ship's hold. There they were spread out and trimmed in the confined darkness of the bowels. The trimmers had to be given milk every hour to keep their lungs clear. It was hard labour at Point Gellibrand whether you were a convict or not. And then there were the sailors. Inquests into drownings at sea were held in the pubs until the publicans objected and a morgue was built. Other sailors were those in the Corvette minesweepers in WWII. HMAS Castlemaine is berthed at Gem Pier for public inspection. Williamstown has a timeball, a botanic gardens and two fish and chipperies serving hake and flake. Four dollars eighty for one battered piece with a limp lemon that won't squeeze and I say so long Williamstown but no thanks for the fish.

Vires Acquirit Eundo

You figure out Melbourne city's Latin motto...oh okay then if you insist, I'll help. It means, for all those who did not have to conjugate Latin at school, “We gather strength as we go”.

I visited the City of Melbourne's magnificent Town Hall today and I've gotta say that I love Victorian grandeur. As we passed one evening I mentioned to Caroline that I had never seen the building on Swanston Street open so she issued a challenge to get in and off she promptly marched up the stairs. The guard rushed across, mouth full of sandwich and told us that there was a private function in progress. So instead I found out when the official tours were and went on one today.

Ken my guide was very knowledgeable and as the group was inquisitive, especially about the pipe organ (who would have thought that I would meet two Kiwi organ enthusiasts in a tour group of five?), our hour tour stretched to two.

Melbourne was founded in 1835 and by 1838, surveyor Robert Hoddle had laid out the grid plan of streets that stands today. And here's something interesting that I learned. Hoddle was determined to have 30 metre wide streets but Governor Bourke cried “Extravagant!” and beat him down to a compromise. Every second street would be a more modest 10 metres and so you have the reason for the big streets, Bourke (of course, had to have a big street named after him), Lonsdale, Collins, Flinders, interspersed with half streets, Little Bourke, da-da,da-da,da. Interesting huh? Well I thought so. Especially when you consider that the width of the streets has allowed modern Melbourne to keep its beloved trams running alongside the terrible motorcars.

But wait, there's more....that is not quite the end of the street story. The smaller streets were supposed to provide service lanes between the major ones but the gold boom brought more than just street width extravagance, it spawned building extravagance. Too many unnecessarily large buildings blocked service access along the little streets so even littler lanes were added, Degraves, Manchester, Hosier...a-ha, now you know.

Melbourne was coming along nicely as a village. John Batman's famous quote is that he spied this arable sheep grazing land and claimed; “this is the place for a village.” That was the spot under Queensbridge. Of course John slept in too late at daylight savings and three other fellas snuck in first and grabbed the title of founding fathers. Snooze you lose I'm afraid John but we didn't like him anyway because he gave the Aborigines beads and blankets for title to the land when everyone at the time knew that Crown already owned all of Australia the minute the first convict flag was shackled to a pole in Botany Bay.

What really put hair on Melbourne's adolescent chest however, was gold. When gold was discovered in Victoria in the 1850s, it bought more extravagance than Governor Bourke could have handled. The major buildings dominating still today, were built at this time in splendid Victorian copies of Classical, Italian Renaissance, Venetian, Gothic, Byzantine architecture. Ah, the joys of money and how lucky we are today for the gold leagacy.

Another interesting point that I learned is that most of the early development happened north of the Yarra River as Southbank is marshy and couldn't support the weight of enormous buildings. It sounds like a Monty Python sketch when you talk about the massive deep foundations supports required to hold up the Eureka Skydeck tower. Let's hope it's not a case of “it sank into the swamp so we built another one, that sank too so we built another on the remains of the last...” In March, I happily rode Eureka tower to the 88th floor viewing platform without a second thought. I wish I had known about it's boggy roots beforehand but I'm glad for those massive fundations.

Just one final piece, for the children's librarians out there, of amusing Melbourne Horrible Histories for today. The present city was named for English Prime Minister William Viscount Melbourne during a time when they were looking for a more suitable name for the village than BearBrass. I kid ye not. At one point in Melbourne's naming history the settlers turned to the natives and asked what they called the land. the Aborigines told them but unfortunately the settlers approximated what they heard and the mind boggling BearBrass was the result. One day son, all this will be yours, the Kingdom of BearBrass. Can you imagine the fun to be had giving your address to an officer when being breathalysed? No honesht offisher, I'm not pished I really live up a Bear's arse. Thank goodness sense prevailed.

"Our subjects we keep low and entertained"

Last Saturday, while I was enjoying a moment's peaceful respite from the battle of two footy teams, I met English actor, playwright and director Ryan J-W. Smith. He was out doing the footwork to promote his one man play 'New World Order' on at the Melbourne Fringe Festival and he handed me a leaflet. It was a similar but much nicer fated encounter, to the Save the Children crowd. Back then I had been looking for a charity to support when out they stepped nabbing me in the street. On this particular Saturday it was the Fringe Festival for which I was clutching a programme and thinking – I wanna go to something but where do I begin? Save the Children turned out to be the wrong charity for me but “New World Order” was definitely the right Fringe Festival performance to earn my limited theatrical performance dollars.

Ryan and I ended up chatting for a while and I fear that I kept him too long from his leaflet trail but in my defense I did go to his performance. And I learned a little bit about the talent that I would be supporting. Ryan made the brave move from England to live in New York taking his Shakepearian roots to a post-9-11 America. Audiences there have received his message of peace and awakening to state mind control well but then preaching to the converted theatre-going audience, while heartening, is much easier than converting the preachers.

Ryan told me that the hard-nosed Sex in the City world of New York was not to his liking. He witnessed from the inside the seductive illusion of national superiority being fed to the American people. Consumerism, fear, power, greed, invincibility, honour, duty, all tools being used to control the masses. And when you are immersed in its grasp, Ryan told me, it is very hypnotic. Fortunately he returned home for Christmas last year and I expect that the descent from the clouds landing back in reality would have been like waking from an illusionist's dream. He was invited to bring 'New World Order' to Adelaide and took the opportunity to line up performances in Melbourne as well. I suggested that next time he treat New Zealand audiences to his show we would relate well to its message.

His monologue in Shakespearian verse, was delivered through three characters. The war veteran as the narrator of hard lessons learned at great expense, reveals the King's hidden agenda to the Fool of the population. It was cleverly written and passionately delivered and I recommend it if Ryan does come to NZ.

I enjoyed the show although the change to daylight savings here in Melbourne almost caught me on the hop as my day got off to a later than planned start. I transferred yesterday from my budget hotel private sanctuary back to a dorm at Victoria Hall up by the RMIT and University. So far my changes of accommodation to various parts of town have provided me with a wealth of character inspiration and greater depth of insight into the different communities within this city. Elwood and St Kilda were the comfortable suburbs where it was easy to slot into the role of desperate housewife. Carlton and Fitzroy are full of zany artistic bohemian types – and oh boy were some of them zany. The hotel in the CBD came with the seduction of eating out and spending money and with my sister visiting, shops. Now I'm in student land living amongst often exploited overseas students.

I watched a dreadful news report last week on the accommodation shortage in Melbourne. It was about the greed of some landlords who are cramming unhealthy, unsafe numbers of mostly foreign students into apartments at inflated rents. Illegal partitions are erected to make one bedroom into two, bunk beds are used to pack more people in and when those are full, mattresses are moved to the floor space in between or out onto balconies at night. In one reported case nine people were sleeping in a two room apartment.

These are students who come from countries where they are used to overcrowding and are more tolerant of these conditions. They come to Australia to study, theoretically to better their lives but when their study is complete their stay here is over and by that time of course they have settled and are less inclined to move. They live in a state of fear that they can and will be sent home at any moment and so it is easy for mercenary landlords to exploit them and get away with it. Keep the masses low and living in fear so that they do not know that life doesn't have to be so hard. I have seen and talked to some of these student. The are working too hard at poor jobs to earn enough money to live here in this expensive city while they study even harder to try and make their future better. There is no new order to the world, only more of the old.

Let your dreams do the walking

The inaugural Dream Festival opened this weekend in Birrarung Marr, the park along the northern side of the Yarra River. Tomorrow festivities continue with music in the Alexandra Gardens opposite but tonight Caroline and I visit the section that is already open, stunning light installations floating on the Yarra. This festival celebrates ideas, dreams and aspirations so it is fitting that I am here to participate in it. A purpose built gallery walkway has been erected to lead us onto the water in order to walk through the floating artworks of light and colour created by local artists interpreting the dreams of the people of Melbourne.

As we approach we are immediately impressed by the hypnotising display of light and colour beckoning us from a distance for a closer look. It is cold and raining here in Melbourne tonight, so cold that I cannot feel my fingertips and just have to trust that they are pressing the shutter button on my camera. Caroline is covered in goose-bumps in the summer dress she wore into town this morning. She is still getting use to Melbourne's changing weather but has already learned to bring a jacket with her for an all day excursion, as going back for one when you are a tram ride and a walk away is not easy. So although her summer dress sits above her knees, she has a padded jacket to keep her dryish. She looks like Little Red Riding Hood while I, in my white duffle coat resemble Snow White. We are mere dreams ourselves as we wander through the first part of the installation, the Field of Dreamers.

This section comprises rows of larger than life sentinel Dream People, like stick figures with heads in the clouds out of which peers a central eye. They are mostly all white and lined up in rows for the viewer to amble through, threading in and out, between and around. In the dark they glow like ghosts with a coloured light display reflecting off them. In the background the permanent ferris wheel performs its habitual nightly spectrum light show to compliment the festival. Music that reminds me of Pink Floyd at their most mournful perfectly accompanies the viewing of the field.

I am discovering that most attractions in Melbourne have a correct and designed way to view them and the way that I always seem to want to go, which is against the flow. Beginning then at the official starting point of this display is the piece that is for me potentially the most significant of these particular dream interpretations. It is Rebecca Etchell's innocuous 'Embracing together'. Of all the eye-catching, alarming and smetimes disturbing pieces, this one is the most gentle and peaceful. Three coloured figures entwine to symbolise family, happiness, harmony. While other pieces will no doubt attract more publicity, this art work appeals to me the most.

Among the other noteworthy contributions are 'Skull' by Andrew Walsh inspired by the Mayan crystal skulls set inside a transparent sphere designed to remind us that dreams are of the mind, 'Tall Tales' by Geoffrey Ricardo depicting two men draped in a red and white elephant suit rug and Christopher Langton's 'Sailing to Byzantium' a chilling reminder that nightmares are dreams of a different sort.

That brings me to my own sleep wanderings. Knowing me as you all do, it will come as no surprise that I am a prolific dreamer. I dream in colour, in complete storylines, I am the heroine, the villain, the dreamweaver. Here my sleep is plagued by not so comfortable and ever changing pillows as I do the musical bed thing around hostel, homestay and hotel. I have had some very unique dreams sleeping on strange pillows here in Melbourne in that they are filled with surreal cartoon characters in the same vein as the Simpsons, not quite yellow people but definitely not real either. It is like my mind is telling me that being in Melbourne is like a dream and not to be confused with reality. Curious.

From Hollow Halls to Hallowed Halls

I am not well again. Yup, I guess I must have picked up germy jims from one of the uncouth hostelites. I brought my own bowl, plate and cup with me because as anyone who knows me even a smidgeon understands, I like to eat off sunny, happy pottery. So it wasn't the hostel kitchen utensils that did it. It could have been the Asian shower hoiker but my long standing camping tip is to wear jandals in the bathroom to avoid foot fungus so I think I was safe from his gobs down the plughole. There is a chance that is was any number of unprotected cougher or sniffer in the public library or on a tram I suppose. They seem to have some disgusting personal habits in this city and if I spend any length of time sitting next to one I end up battling the desire to hand them a tissue.

I suspect though that it was most likely the otherwise quite lovely Annette, my Danish roomy as she was coming down with the sneezes when she left for further adventures in Darwin. Whoever the culprit was, the result is that I have another cold and am not too happy about it. My normal sickly reaction is to wander around in a daze of indecision and that is exactly what I have done today. My head is dulled by fug but the rest of me is tense aching muscles and throbbing skull. I find that I have less tolerance for the world when I have a cold, in particular the sound of high pitched Asian yabbering, whining, grizzling children and loud machinery. So I guess that a food hall was probably not the place I should have chosen to lunch today then but I went there for an ATM and just didn't have the energy to go anywhere else.

Food halls are a universal black hole for flavour and nutrition but unsurprisingly a buzzing hive of diners addicted to additives and primary colours. The QV Centre food hall is big and there are the usual candidates, KFC, kebabs, sushi, curries, noodles. I hate how when faced with so many choices, the longest queue is always at KFC or McDonalds but at least here there is more variety due to an increased Asian population. This food hall is close to the central RMIT campus so the late lunchers in here, as I realise it is three o'clock and I'm not yet hungry, are mostly students.

I look around for the most unusual pick of eateries and there is something called Puffy which looks like a crumbed, fried, ice cream filled profiterole that I'm not willing to even contemplate trying, as it is just too junky for words. There is Breadtop, a Chinese bakery and it is here that I select a cheese roll. Now I actually like Chinese bakeries for the occasional different junk fix. I discovered them when I worked at Northcote Library and I quite like the taro or green tea dense sponge rolls filled with imitation cream. So Breadtop is not so scary. It is however tough to ensure that I choose something vegetarian among the hairy pork floss and sausage choices. My cheese roll is pretty safe, Hong Kong style sweet bread filled with cheese spread and topped with melted processed cheese single. I also choose something called a banana in pyjama because it comes in a canary yellow banana shaped container that I think could be useful later for – carrying bananas without bruising them. There's nothing worse than a bruised banana in the bottom of your bag. I ask the girl at the counter what a banana in pyjama is because you can never tell what is inside Chinese bread and the instructions are not in a language I can read.

“A banana,” she replies as if it's obvious and I raise an eyebrow.

“Really? A real banana?”

She repeats herself slowly as if she thinks I am having difficulty understanding her Ingrish.

Okay then, I'll have that. What it turns out to be is banana shaped dense sponge, what a surprise. Inside is cream, real cream and that is a surprise, mixed with custard. So far so good but I'm not finding any banana and I'm half way through. Oh, there it is, a small slice in the middle. Fruit must be really expensive in China because they always skimp on it. But I'm not complaining because I now have me a nifty canary yellow, fake banana container. Oh I'm so easily amused.

As I'm doing the whole Chinese lunch thing, my drink is a taro milk tea. What this is is a purplish milk drink served over ice in a sealed transparent cup with a thick straw. The thick rather than thin straw is so you can suck up without it getting stuck, the black balls of gelatine called pearls that go in milk teas. It's and odd sensation and probably causes choking in small children but it amuses me as much as my canary yellow banana pyjama so I'm a happy enough food haller.

The other excursion I managed today was a tour around the Victorian Parliament. They do it pretty much like we do but with two houses debating to slow the process down even more. The tour was recommended to me by one of my Dutch hostel buddies who had felt that it was very cool that the Victorian Government put on free scones for visitors. It turns out that they had inadvertently eaten the member's morning tea because yes there were plates of scones, jam and cream set out when we arrived but we were not invited to join them. I had thought when the Dutch folk were telling me that it was unusually hospitable.

Building of the grandiose Neo-Classical Parliament House was begun in 1856 with gold strike funds and took 74 years to complete. The highlight of the tour was the very sexy Parliament Library, that made me think of the sort of library you would find in a gentleman's club frequented by Sherlock Holmes. Tiers of shelves display colour-coded leather bound volumes accessed by curved staircases and wooden ladders. Leather chairs, carved tables, an original crystal chandelier from the Council Chamber, fireplace grates built into the pillars to heat the echoing spaces in the winter. I'm in love. There are functional public libraries and then there is this heavenly library and there is no comparison. When I build a house next I want it to have a library like this one. Forget the Taj Mahal inspired Civic Theatre brother architect, I want you to design me one of these.

Following the Pied Piper

Where are all the children is my question for today? Oh I know, I know, the other day I was complaining about tripping over them every two seconds and now I'm off in search of them. Ah, but I am remember a fickle woman after all. Anyway, I am not so much looking for children as looking for something to entertain them. What does Melbourne have to offer children I am wondering? It is school holidays after all, there must be something good on.

I was in Bizarre Beads this morning, a shop selling all sorts of colourful beads with which to design and make your own jewellery. They run workshops for children surely, I thought. Yes they do, the assistant assured me so I look around at the empty shop and she gives me a sheepish look and promises me that she's not lying. The other stores are the popular ones for kids, she says. And why? Because they are in the shopping malls of course and her shop is in Swanston Street in the city. Oh how sad. How sad that it is no longer a treat to come into the city in the school holidays like it used to be when we were kids. The shop assistant and I lament together over the changing times.

Okay so now I have to bite the bullet and go to a shopping mall if that is where it's all happening. Right about now I expect twice as many females to be tuning into my blog but sorry gals, in about two more lines, you will be declaring me a she-devil and disowning me from woman-kind. I think I have developed an allergy to malls. There I've said it, like I'm at an Mallrats Anonymous meeting or something. “Hello, my name is Louise and I can no longer stand the vacuousness of shopping malls.” Here is your cue to either clap or boo, hiss and throw rotten fruit at me.

On previous visits to Melbourne I was hypnotised into a comatose state wandering around Chadstone. The only claim to fame of this black hole disguised by conservatory glass is that it is the largest mall in the Southern Hemisphere and it was built sometime in the sixties I think.

My first day in Melbourne on this visit, in fact within two hours of setting foot on terra firma after a flight that drained all but my nasal passages, I was in South Mall with Debbie. My excuse here was that I was dazed by my cold and confused by the time difference. Debbie had an errand to run and I wanted to keep going so that I would not crash until I could adjust my body to Melbourne time.

Today's excuse as I travel to Highpoint in the suburb with the gorgeous name of Maribyrnong, is because it is almost at the end of the tram line 57 that I am riding today. I have chosen this number not out of a barrel in a lottery but because I want to pass the Flemington Showgrounds to get a look at the Melbourne Show. Highpoint then is killing two birds with one stone but as I enter the maze of monotonous food courts, plazas and shops I feel my pulse start to quicken and my breathing rate elevate. The walls are closing in on me and all I want to do is escape before the numbness descends but I steady myself with my mission. I can't leave until I have achieved it.

Thank god then that Highpoint is where I find some children doing, holiday stuff. There is an ice skating rink set up here for the kiddies to slip, slide and generally bumble unco-ordinatedly around on. Not that I can talk, my ice skating days ended with a dislocated patella, ouch. Among the same old, same old mall chain stores however, is one worth noting. It is called 'Build-a-Bear' and as its name suggests, you make your own stuffed teddy bear from the materials provided in this workshop. How cool is that, I think to myself until I realise that some delicate kiddies might be a bit traumatised being presented with an empty bear skin to stuff with fluff before they can get to the fun bit of dressing it. I can hear it now. “Daddy you've put too much bear gut in him, you've made him fat. No, no don't take it out, that's his tummy, he'll die if you take it out again!” Face it parent's there's no winning with this one.

So where else might the kiddies that can otherwise live without malls go in their weeks off. The Royal Melbourne Show of course. One of my hostel room mates, an English girl also called Louise, has a job giving toys to children at the Royal Melbourne Show. The event is like a two week Easter Show and A&P combined. It is on at Flemington Showgrounds next to the enormous Racecourse which in less than two months time, will be bustling with spectacularly hatted Melbourne Cup goers. I get off the tram here, not to go to the current event because quite frankly I can do without the crap plastic toy given to compensate my pathetic aim at any of the side shows, but to escape the departing crowds that have just filled the tram. I am immediately hit, even at this long distance, by the smell of horse shit but this is definitely where the kiddies are, spending their pocket money on cheap baubles for their hair, bodies and bedrooms. I shake my head and smile as parents and children stagger out under the weight of appalling kiss-me-quick hats and inflatable baseball bats or hammers. Not one has escaped without a plastic shopping bag laden with junk. It is just like another trip to the mall after all.

A Walk in the Park

As rain was predicted it is an unexpectedly beautiful sunny Sunday so I'm off on a trek to the market to arm myself with lunch then on to the Botanic Gardens for some much needed floral relief. Victoria is in drought and has been all year. It becomes sadly obvious when a spring walk in the park crackles under foot. Grass is not supposed to be crunchy but that unfortunately is what you get here in Melbourne, dry, brown or insipid green blades covering rock hard dusty ground like the wisps of comb-over on a bald man. Both are sad.

Tree blossoms have been happening for a few weeks now and leaves are now sprouting so a blue sky day seems the right time to explore the Royal Botanic Gardens. This then is where I take my baguette, brie, pear and celery stick lunch. Unfortunately as it feels like a summers day, the summer plague of Melbourne arrives along with it. I'm talking flies. Oh my god am I talking flies! I have no idea how the people who live here can be so accustomed to the aggression of these pesky insects. They don't just buzz around like Auckland ones, they stick to you like you're covered in a layer of honey-glue. They fly into your face, eyes, even mouth. I'm not kidding, these pests will sit on your lips, resistant to swatting and shooing away. It's really off-putting. I mean I have become used to eating blue cheese but I draw the line at black spotted cheese and there is no way I can pretend that they are chewy raisins! In NZ I love eating alfresco but it is much less appealing here. After sun down the regular flies are replaced by a plague of tiny midgy ones so there is not much respite in a late outdoor dinner either.

My walk in the park takes me to the Shrine of Remembrance so off I got ready for some military sobriety. War memorials are designed I know, to conjure awe at the might of the military through being reminded about the dreaded outcomes of losing and the glory and honour for those who die in the process of winning. Never have they been so popular as a few years after the First World War which was when the stepped pyramid inspired Shrine of Remembrance was commissioned and built. The donations of school children of the day went towards building this monument.

Nineteen thousand Victorians died in WWI. One in five that went overseas to fight did not return. The names of every person to serve in WWI is displayed in books lining the corridors surrounding the sanctuary. The video on display in the Shrine's visitor centre shows young high school students of today relating to how it would have been for them if they had been required to fight the war in Europe. The lack of communication with loved ones, the isolation, the uncertainty of traveling to the far off unknown were all concerns. So a bit like doing an OE then? I didn't sit through to the end but I did not hear anyone mention the abhorrence of having to kill another human being or face bullets themselves. Are we that detached from the act of war these days that we don't think about how we would react if faced with killing?

Certainly as I explore this colossal monument I do not get a sense of war. Death yes, it feels like an ancient crypt to me but war, hmm not really, not for me personally. To my mind this place with its cold stone walls, narrow angled corridor upon corridor and drafty stairs, is more like the pyramids, like a cobwebbed treasure tomb from Indian Jones. I do not mean to take away from the seriousness of this structure nor from the significance of the fact that it commemorates so many lives lost in war. My comment is about the modern de-sensitisation produced by the cosseting we receive in this age from the actual reality of war. We are exposed to so much horror, so much violence and so much hatred on our television screens every day that we are overwhelmed and have shut down. We seem to be closing ourselves off from the immediacy of war by building monuments and glorifying it on television. That may not be the intention of the governments or media (as I generously give some the benefit of the doubt) in building monuments or reporting war but it is the result that I see and feel.

I don't watch the news because I am sick of seeing and hearing how dreadful we humans can be to each other, to our planet. I admit that I am somewhat sticking my head in the sand but if I don't I might not be able to cope with the magnitude of it all. The blame, the shame, the sadness. If I took it all personally I would suffer a melt down and yet by not doing anything much to stop it, I am partially to blame. I believe in picking your battles and mine is planet ecology, someone else can have war so that I can manage still to sleep at night.

So back to the Shrine where I feel cold and it is not just from the draft breezing down the vaulted corridor at me. The only stirring I feel about this impressive monument is in seeing the New Zealand flag flying at the end of the sanctuary.

Every half hour they simulate the 'Ray of Light' ceremony that occurs naturally at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, Armistice renamed Remembrance Day. This monument has been designed so that the sun will pass over a window and throw a beam of light on to the stone with the inscription “Greater love hath no man” while the words are spoken, “They shall not grow old as we that are left grow old.”

Two things strike me as I participate in the minute's silence as this simulation takes place. One is that I am told that it is really a guy with a torch shining it from up the tower and the other is that daylight savings had skewed the real natural annual occurrence by an hour. So it's all a bit of a sham this war lark.

The Game that Made Australia

Saturday is AFL final day at the MCG here in the City of Melbourne which means that the hostels are full to overflowing with footy nuts and I have been evicted from The Nunnery along with the other semi-permanent residents. That's okay, I have decided to treat myself to a hotel room for the duration as I would rather get some sleep if there is a likelihood that the footy will be followed by either a wake or a celebration. Win or lose the subsequent knees-up will likely go on through the night.

For the first time in ten years the two clubs competing in the final are local to Melbourne. Usually it is a Melbourne team and one from somewhere else, Brisbane, Newcastle, that sort of thing. It was 1977, I'm told by a very knowledgeable AFL supporting florist outside the Town Hall, when two local teams last battled it out for the final. Then it was North Melbourne and Collingwood. My local florist was obviously the right person to talk to when gathering AFL info.

So I decide as a foreigner, to test how footy mad this town is by spot quizzing people on the street to see if they can name the two teams playing and the animals they represent. Oh dear Mum, your wayward daughter is off talking to strangers again. What would you do with her?

The correct answer I am looking for to my footy question is the Geelong Cats and the Hawthorn Hawks. I am asked on one occasion what the prize for getting it right is and the answer is a friendly smile. I survey twenty people, ten women and ten men of all age groups. My selection is random except for two common criteria. One is that the person has to be stationary as I am not going so far into the footy spirit as to tackle them on the street. This means that they tend to fit the other demograph which is that they are mostly smokers, enjoying a quiet puff outside on the street. As Melbourne seems to be full of smokers this provides me with ample prospects.

Of the twenty, fifteen were local Melburnians or at least Australians as two of my female subjects had come down from the Gold Coast specially for the game. “You count then as local supporters,” I assured them. The other five were from overseas and had no idea what I was talking about if they even understood English. The fifteen locals all came through with flying colours getting the answer correct. The City Embassador quizzed as one of the fifteen claimed that every true blue Aussie would know. City Embassadors I should add here are volunteers dressed in red jackets and fedoras wandering around the city to answer tourist questions. They are a lovely bunch of people.

One chap surveyed was a small boy wearing a Hawks shirt. When I asked him which team he supported he answered the Cats. “But, but the shirt?” I pointed out with confusion. His dad tells me that they have only been following the footy for half the season and junior's allegiance is as changeable as the Melbourne weather.

“Are you going to play footy when you get bigger then?” I asked. “And be an AFL star?”

That produced a smile as bright as a crescent moon and a vigorous nod.

“We'll see,” murmured Pop giving me a look that indicated that junior's ball handling skills were more appropriate to spreading on toast than holding onto a rugby ball.

So of the survey score so far? Aussie home team fifteen correct answers, visitors nil. And who is picked to win the final? Hands down the support goes to the Cats because as my little Hawks jersey wearing friend claims, “The Cats rock. They are the best team ever!” Dad shakes his proud head and smiles. The general consensus on the score is that Geelong (pronounced G'long by the way), will take the win by three goals. We shall see on Saturday then.

Sanctuary, thank you very much

It is school holidays here in Melbourne so I am sharing my weekly freedom of the city with mums and little 'uns. It is not that I want to selfishly keep the place all to myself but I am used to making my way around freely, now that I know where I am going. I share at the weekend like everyone else but the week days belong to me, ME I say! So getting suddenly stuck on a narrow footpath behind a crocodile of children all walking at snail's pace, is just not on!

The library, my usual writing sanctuary in which to escape the chaos of hostel living, is not really much of a haven at the moment either. It is full of students taking up all the desk spaces and giggling over – oh I don't know what teenagers giggle over these days, same thing as they did in my adolescent years I guess. God I sound old. Old cranky reclusive writer. Next I'll be sharpening my walking stick and poking it at people.

Anyhow in order to find a different place of solitude in the big city I am on a sanctuary hunt today. This as you would expect takes in a few churches and Melbourne knows how to do structures of ostentatious worship pretty convincingly. The CBD has cathedrals for every Christian denomination. St Patrick's Catholic, St Michael's Presbyterian, St Paul's Anglican, saint this and martyr that, the Welsh Uniting Church, the Church of Our Lady Who Takes Pity on Hopeless Cases or something like that...the list goes on. And I have to say that it gets a bit like, seen one church, seen 'em all. I am impressed however with the Catholic cathedral, having been brought up on the less than inspiring St Pat's in Auckland. Its Melbourne namesake is so much – well – more. Gothic vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows, devotional annexes, guilt everywhere (of the gold kind as well) and flowers. Oh Mum would be in her element with the floral displays at Melbourne's St Pat's. I have taken a few photos to keep her happy. I met the cathedral cleaner, a side-burned rock 'n' roll drummer who sweeps in his spare time. He admitted to having bought Ugg boots to wear his first year on the job mopping the frigid stone floors. This huge building takes all week to clean and given the height of the ceilings, I don't envy him having to clear the cobwebs from the rafters.

Pipe organs too are a thing here. Majestic instruments with gargantuan pipes that regularly thunder out stirring devotional music. On Sunday's the city air resonates bellsong from 10.00am through to after four. It is easy to find places to raise the spirits on Sundays but during the week takes a bit more dedication and soul searching.

So next I try an Eastern religion by visiting the Hare Krishna vegetarian cafe Gopals, for some inner nourishment. I have always liked the food sharing philosophy of this Hindu division. As I understand it the preparation of food is communal with the spiritual, mental and physical energy of the cooks infused into the meal. I have tried to follow something of this nature with my personal culinary philosophy. I do not simply cook a meal for my guests, I prepare one. This requires careful consideration for some time in advance of what they would like to eat, what they are able to eat and how that can come together in the most nourishing and appealing way. So I am grateful today for my nine dollar full plate of energising kofta, bean and corn croquette, and fragrant rice with a wholemeal roll to soak up the tomato chilli sauce. I waste nothing on this delicious plate thus paying homage to my hosts who made such a rich offering for me. This meal is so substantial that it will last me the rest of the day and is greatly appreciated.

One of the unusual inner city havens I have found is something called the Mingary which, was added in 1999 to an annexe of St Michael's Church. This small dimly lit enclosure is “a quiet place where the passer-by can pause awhile.” The cave-like room comprises six chairs circling a central altar of stone, trickling water and flickering light.

Enter in silence. This room is extremely restful even though you can hear the traffic noise on the street just beyond the open door.
Sit in silence. There is not a sound from those of us meditating in this space as we feel a surrounding peace and harmony like the quiet of night.
Leave in silence. And when I am restored and ready to go I gather myself and depart. Not a word has passed my lips, not a thought has clouded my brain, not a moment has been lost in this place of serenity.

Mingary is a gaelic word meaning 'the quiet place' and I have found mine here.

Thank you Melbourne, I have found something to be grateful for today.

Continental Drifting

Monday afternoon before 4.00pm is cheap movie day at Carlton's alternative Cinema Nova. “Hoorah and lashings of ginger beer!” I whoop as clutching my six dollar ticket to the splendid French farcical fancy 'Welcome to the Sticks', I prepare to spend a rainy start to the week a la Continent aka Lygon Street. Yes this is the first real rainy day as opposed to short bursts of violent showers that we have had. Ha, listen to me saying 'we' like I am a bona fide Melburnian after just five weeks here. I will admit though to having adjusted my lifestyle to suit the surroundings so that I no longer look like a bumpkin Kiwi tourist. I have me a Melbourne vintage hat to remove the sore thumb from my general sticking out appearance but cannot understand why a town so plagued by frequent gusts of fierce vents should be so enamoured of the chapeau as it is. In fact my demeanor these days is so little like an import that I have been known to stop and give map-clutching genuine tourists a hand to find their bearings. I rode the free City Circle tourist tram yesterday which I hardly ever do as it is full of sightseers, and gave an Aussie visitor from Cairns a bit of a run down on the passing landmarks.

“Look at that quirky place,” I pointed to a little crooked shop on the corner of La Trobe and Russel Streets. “It was built in 1853 and is one of the oldest remaining settler buildings to pre-date the Victorian gold rushes. It has subsided so much that the front door no longer closes properly but the same family has run it as a general store for over a hundred years.”

She was suitably impressed by my vast guiding knowledge as seconds later the loud speaker on the tram echoed my history lesson. I have to admit that I cheated a bit. I had walked this road earlier that day and read the sign on the outside but I was able to puff myself up like a peacock for the sake of the tourist. That's definitely one on the board for the Kiwi Warrior versus the Kangaroo home team!

Anyway if the attraction is not free or cheap or irresistibly worth the money, I am pretty much giving it a miss as I do 'Melbourne on a Shoestring'. A six dollar movie was like a little luxury reminder of my previous wage earning life. 'Welcome to the Sticks' sold out in the Auckland Film Festival so I missed it and was delighted to get a second chance to see why it was so popular. The thing I particularly like about French humour over that of other nationalities, is that they take the build up to an obvious joke and stretch it to an extreme. Minutes before the punch line you will be holding your aching sides pleading with them to stop, not to go any further and then be stunned as the obvious and unthinkable pans out. 'Sticks' was brilliant French comedy at its best, with star and producer Dany Boon playing the romantic lead with his usual hillbilly charm. Go and see it if it you can, you will laugh yourself sick just as I did.

Of course being in Lygon Street was a good excuse to cash in on the discounted caffe and cake that my movie ticket bought me around the corner at Brunettis. Two bargains for the price of one, what a day! I think that I am successfully addicted to the Rum Baba cremes at Brunettis. O.m.g. and phew, talk about laced with real rum, whooee!

It's still raining, incessantly and I don't have an umbrella although I do have a coat. It was windy but dry when I left the hostel this morning but alas no longer. Four seasons in one day, is the saying applied to this town and it i.s truer than it is of Auckland. So my options are hmmm, get drenched and bedraggled walking the two blocks back to Nicholson Street, not so appealing, or...er..stay at Brunettis where it is warm and dry and open till 11.00pm with an unlimited supply of rum baba crème. I have no reason to stay sober so there's not much competition really eh? Maybe there might be a break in the weather before eleven but if not...Signor, un'altro perfecto rum baaaaba per favore, con molto rrrrrum, grazie. I love days of Continental drifting.

The Other Northcote and the EGRMB

Melbourne has a Northcote of it's own. Yes Auckland, you have competition and quite a lot to live up to if you want to be in the name game. This quirky little village similar in feel to Ponsonby, is famous for the live music at its local pub, The Northcote Social Club. I have seen so many posters around for live acts at The Northcote Social Club that I felt I just had to check it out at some stage. So I looked on my trusty and much scronkled by this stage, tram map and noticed how far away it was. My immediate thought is, Holy carrolly Batman I'm never gonna make it on foot. But make it I did. I walked all of Smith Street, Queens Parade, through the pleasant suburb of Clifton Hill to Westgarth, another pleasant village and up the only hill I have yet found in Melbourne. Well when I say 'ill, it were a pimple really but it were a 'ill to uzz, as the Four Yorkshire Men might say.

I chose to visit Northcote on Sunday when the High Vibe 8 street fiesta was on. The wide High Street was blocked off to tram and road traffic and it felt quite daring to be walking down the middle of the ghost tracks but that is what I and everyone else did. All of the village shops had market day stands outside selling their wares and there were lots of lovely street food to be sampled.

Cafes set up enclosures of tables out on the street to sell alcohol. The cordoned off spaces effectively extend the cafe's license to it's new boundary. I was there for the first two of the eight hour festival so the drinking was still quite civilised. Alcohol induced violence problems are undergoing a big community newspaper campaign here in Melbourne at the moment. The slogan is “Just Think. We're not saying don't drink- just think”. I am skeptical that such a soft line will be effective but they are at least acknowledging the issue. But at the moment however the Northcote festival is very sociable with music and food to soak up any alcohol.

There are street musician and unfortunately the sounds clash a bit as they do with the Jazz Festival in Mission Bay but everyone is here, child buskers playing didjeridoo and dancing (obviously not at the same time), a teenage group sitting cross legged in the middle of the street clapping out random rhythms, a three piece folk group with harp and unusual harmonies, a real mix of sounds. Yes I know, my mind boggled also at the line up and I was there to witness it so you'd have thought it made more sense but no. Music in the northern suburbs of Melbourne is as eclectic as the mix of people and fashion.

There are vendors of tantalising ethnic street food and as it is lunchtime I sample some very tasty Indian pakora, a fried potato cake fragrant with cumin and curry, and some Sri Lankan lentil patties and potato dumplings. I nearly go back for a helping of Tibetan Yak dahl and rice but my hunger is satisfied so I pass on this occasion.

I decide that it is time to move on when the street starts to get crowded because after very little sleep due to the Friday and Saturday night noise at the youth hostel and and a changeable windy, sunny day that is making hat wearing difficult but also necessary I walk back to town.

So back down the road and this time I walked through the Edinburgh Gardens to stop for a bite to eat. There I met the Edinburgh Gardens Rotunda Marching Band. This ad hoc group of young musicians has just started meeting in the park by the rotunda on Sunday afternoons at about 2.00pm to jam. Their music is jazz roots with on the day I was there, a drummer, a guitarist and a clarinetist (if that's the correct term) however there could also be a cellist and other musicians turn up later if they are not too hungover from the night before. This is the drawback of meeting on a Sunday afternoon I'm told, the commitment to drinking for these young people is stronger than it is to jammin' with the group. I didn't see much marching likely to happen given the pale complexions of the three who did turn up but the sound was definitely was cool to happen upon on my Sunday walk.

Where for Art thou (not)

The 'not' in the title by the way is a reference to a slogan on some street art I saw. Today was an artistic one. I took in an exhibition at the ACMI Australian Centre for the Moving Image in Federation Square and also the Ian Potter NGV Australian Art Gallery. But let me begin today's itinerary like a Canaletto landscape, with the journey of the Melbourne art scene in Carlton at the Royal Exhibition Building. Yes, that's me there looking dickey as usual in my electric blue hat, mini skirt and Dr Seuss socks taking a photo of myself in front of the fountain. I'll spare you the self-portrait on this occasion. The fountain like the grand building behind, was commissioned for the 1880 Exhibition displaying all that was new in the 'civilised world'. For European settlers in isolated Australia the lavish exhibitions formed a vital link to the outside world ensuring that they did not fall too far behind civilisation. The Antipodean Classical fountain designed by Josef Hoehgurtel depicts reptiles attempting to climb out of the surrounding pond to the haven of the classical mer-people on the island fountain. At intervals platypus peer down over the edge of the catchment dishes to the water creatures below.

So now that we have established a grand tradition of Royal Exhibitions by Jove, let us speak more about the birth of the arts for which Melbourne is so renowned. There are two parts to the formal display of visual art in the city and both are called the National Gallery of Victoria. One houses works by international artists, treasures for the city to cherish and align itself with other international art galleries. This is the building with the cascading arch entrance on St Kilda Road next to the ballerinered Arts Centre. The second NGV Ian Potter Centre for Australian Art features homegrown treasures, indigenous Aboriginal works and European influenced Australian artists from the early 19th Century to today. This is the gallery I visited today.

There are two distinct sections to the Ian Potter building. On the first floor is the Aboriginal art and above it the rest. I found the Aboriginal art most interesting as a writer for the artist's comments written on the walls providing an insight into the minds of these indigenous artists.

“They tell my life, my family, they keep that story alive,” explains Ronnie Jakamarra Lawson about his reason for painting. “My Dreaming is my painting. That story will not finish – my son will take him.”

Aborigines paint to record their history as their own personal stories are entwined and indistinguishable from the story of the land.

“Our spirits lie in the water...It lies in the ground. It lies in the earth but we are bringing it out. We bring it out and paint it on bark where we can see it.”

The paintings of the Aborigines whether the canvas is bark, rock or decorated bodies, is the genealogy of the people of Australia, sacred and profound.

Upstairs are a different set of memories. The paintings of the Australian artists of the 19th and 20th centuries reflect a reluctance to cut ties to the European traditions and create a style of their own. As I read about the origins of the art scene in Melbourne I am whisked back to my passage here this morning in front of the Royal Exhibition Building. Two international exhibitions in the 1880s focussed world attention on Melbourne and subsequently European artists started coming to the Antipodean Mecca. This period is considered the heyday of Melbourne art.

It was a particular display entitled “9 by 5 Impression Exhibition” in 1889 which really launched Melbourne into the art world and here is why. Leading art critic of the day James Smith, hated it thus proving the theory that all publicity is good publicity. If someone hated it as much as Mr Smith did, then people had to visit the exhibition to see what was so ghastly about it. What they found instead of heinous crimes against the eyes, were in fact a series of 183 small works with dimensions of 9 inches by 5 painted as quick impression sketches on cigar boxes. The idea was for the artists to rapidly jot down the essence of a scene. The group numbered among their ranks Arthur Streeton, Tom Roberts and Frederick McCubbin. Melbourne art was labeled crap by pompous critics and therefore it had arrived for the masses, right on and power to the people!

By the end of the 1880s the economy crashed and a depression set in that drove the fickle artists away again as easily as they had come. Fortunately there were others now trained to take their place and a women emerged as a new force of talent to rival the staid English impressions of the Hugh Ramsays and the John Longstaffs. Clara Southern, Jane Sutherland and Jane Price came of artistic age in the later years of the 19th Century.

Two interesting temporary exhibitions caught my eye today. One was Klippel/Klippel's “Opus 2008” a strikingly displayed collection of Robert Klippel's household miniature sculptures set to the sonic response of his son Andrew. I stood there transported back to my days as a miniature model maker and thought, hmm, I would have had fun doing that. The other was “Correspondences” at the ACMI. This exhibition showcased the short films of two filmmakers born within a week of each other in Spain and Iran. The lives of these two men only touched for this exhibition and yet their filmwork on childhood parallel so easily that they are able to be viewed side by side. The filmmakers are Abbas Kiarostrami and Victor Erice.