The Rhythms of War and Peace

It was Melbourne Day on Saturday. What does that mean? Good question. Well there was a bit of flag waving in the morning and the opening of a couple of exhibitions but apart from that, not a lot to a visitor specifically looking for some civic hooplah. Once more with feeling Melbourne, please.

But today I was visiting the Shrine of Remembrance, a classical mausoleum memorial to Australian's involvement in global wars, when I happened upon the Defence Reserves Support Day March. Ooh, now here might be something worth stopping for in my search for pomp, thought I. Hark, ae hear the bonnie drones o' the pipes drifting on the breeze to my ears. The Ringwood Highland Band to be exact practising for the march down the avenue to the cenotaph. So I lingered for a moment enjoying the circumstance of the modern sculptures and classical monuments immortalisng the patriotism of war. I have to admit to being a cynic when it comes to generated patriotism of this nature but I make it my habit to pause for anything out of the ordinary and I also appreciate men and women smartly dressed in uniform. The rhythm of marching and the music of a live band is good, war is not but these Aussie's keep reminding me that Dorothy is no longer in Kansas, New Zealand and war is a reality to these folk. It's enforced in regulations that make little sense, it's in the scars that mark the bodies of the refugee survivors, it's talked about on the news and hard to miss. Silly me Toto, lest I forgot?

But onto the peaceful part of the day with the chance discovery of the smooth beat of Concrete Jungle, the R & D band playing in Southbank's World Cafe. World had been recommended to me and what a happy find it was. Funky, chic, bustling yet chilled, I felt immediately at home. The World staff are some of the most attentive, friendly and switched on I have met here in Melbourne and I had me a mighty tasty muffin and coffee for a decent five dollars. The rest of the menu looked to be equally good value and the ambiance is top notch in my book. I was able to sit and relax over my coffee listening to some fine Sunday reggae/soul/funk fusion sounds from the trio comprising electric bass player Patrick Kilby, drummer Julian Goymar and yay New Zealand, Titirangi native keyboard and singer Clare Whitcombe. The band has been playing together for just a couple of weeks but they gel perfectly and their sound was cruisy. Just the ticket for a blustery Sunday afternoon's entertainment that also included a detour through the Arts Centre to check out the upcoming performances. Costumes from the Sydney Dance Company and Australian Ballet's past performances were on display to remind me of the proud tradition of ballet in Melbourne.

The other day I happened upon a circus performer practising his new juggling act in the park behind Debbie's place. At the time I stopped briefly and talked to him but now here he and his partner were performing for me on Southbank. Manx and Gordo are two very cool circus performers. Their act together, Gentlemen Freaks, I felt deserved far more recognition than the sleepy crowd of Sunday strollers offered. Performance for a crowd can be hard work some days but you can tell the ones who are born to do and these guys were. They are part of the greater circus troupe Opposable Thumbs and I was impressed if somewhat disturbed, by the talented sword swallowing and fire juggling act of these world champs. Check them out on You Tube. It was also wicked to be at the full act I had seen at it's less dangerous stage. I wish all of the impressive performers I saw today all the best in their artistic paths. It's a tough world out there for the arts but they are vital for raising the civil to civilisation. The regular display of living arts and support of such is far more a celebration of Melbourne than a day of flag unfurling.

The Girl in the Melbourne Bubble

I have had a few requests from folk for more specific news about me and how things are going with my raison d'etre for coming to Melbourne, namely my grand scheme of writing a novel. So here goes then.

I am very fortunate so far to be staying with a friend, Debbie. Debbie has been wonderful making me feel at home and she is great company in the evenings. In fact it has become part of her greeting as she returns from the office to ask me what I got up to during the day. She seems awed at how many people I am talking to and how much of Melbourne I am getting around in such a short space of time. Debbie is a kiwi girl, who when offered a fabulous job in Melbourne, decided to in her words, 'suck it in' and make the permanent move with a container load of her worldly possessions. She arrived at the start of winter but her gutsy attitude did not let the cold or the shortened days get her down. She is fast making Melbourne her home and can't wait till summer to explore a bit more although she tells me that the thought of forty-five degrees at midnight on New Year's Eve as it has been for the past two years, is just not on.

Debbie came down with flu a couple of days after I arrived with my Auckland cold so the two of us were rugging up by the oil heater to cough and splutter our way through an evening. What sad old nanas we were but apart from some lingering flem in the chest, we are now like the fifth book, mostly harmless.

A new flatmate is due to move in with Debbie in a couple of weeks so I have made contact with the local YWCA and put my name on the list for accommodation at the single women's house in Richmond Hill. They will let me know when a room becomes vacant and I would be able to move in on the same day. Any overlap between bases I plan to spend at a backpackers. I have booked into a place in Fitzroy called The Nunnery which has lots of character but more about that when I get there.

As far as the writing is going, well obviously I am doing lots of travel blog stuff and there is so much more being written but not posted that I will include in the finished Blog Book adventures of my travels. So all of you that think you can get away with not buying a published copy because you thought you were getting it free on the internet, think again. If you want the full story, you will have to buy the authorised book when it's finished and the author will happily sign it for you.

And the novel? The original goal of the venture? Well in two weeks I have written over 100 first draft pages. It is amazing how prolific I am when inspired, motivated and have lots of time to indulge my passion for writing. Now if I can just manage to achieve this all the time and make a decent living from it, I will be the happiest Larry you could imagine.

I have reached a good stride to my day with a perfect harmony between writing blog, writing novel, exploring, taking photographs, music (I have another song written to add to my collection), with the odd bit of Sussy solitaire thrown in to amuse me while Debbie watches Neighbours and Home and Away. I balance my day by starting with a bit of yoga to the melodic sound of Swell Season, the CD from the Irish movie Once. Just perfect.

And finally for today, I miss everyone and Auckland heaps but am comforted and delighted to be hearing from you so keep the emails and blog comments coming people. You have no idea how important hearing from home is to the Girl in the Melbourne Bubble. It lets me know that there is a world beyond Sussy's keyboard which, can sometimes be a vacuum sucking up hours of time in the blink of an eye. It reminds me of the important stuff. In two short weeks Melbourne has been kind to me, being just what I was looking for to put the bounce back in my life but every time I log on to check my emails I am reminded that as Dorothy said, there is no place like home because home has the people I love in it.

xxx

Spring is in the Air

Ah the warm breath of spring is upon us at last. It has been a very long, hard, lonely winter this year my friends but it seems to be coming to an end at last with the dramatic bursts of magnolia heralding that winter has become, late. The first pink cake decoration cherry blossoms have begun to sprout on the trees adding a joyful colour to the day. Blue sky and warming sun also helps to raise the spirits and shed the coats for lighter sleeves. As I looked around me today people were noticeably out of the mourning colours of winter garb. Likewise the shops are sprouting flimsy frills to match the whimsy of the blossoms. Spring is definitely in the air.

I took me off to Camberwell Market today on the number 16 tram to Kew, planning to get off and walk some of the way. I made it as far as Malvern before I decided that the day was far too lovely to be spent on a tram and jumped off. I had ab-so-lutely no idea where I was or where that was in relation to Camberwell. Figuring that most places are within my walking distance, even if most Melburnians advise me to take a tram to walk two ironing board flat blocks, I asked for directions.

“Oh you're a fair way off,” the chap in Readings Bookshop told me. “You'd have to carry on with the 16 and change at Riverside to a 72.”

Into this I read that it was possible to walk but it would take me a while and then he put the spanner in the works.

“But you do know that the market is only on Sundays don't you?”

Bugger. Ah well, I'll just have to try again on Sunday. It was a pleasant day so I decided to just go for a walk and if I got bored, take a tram to somewhere else. I do love this being free to just, as the ad says, 'lose myself in Melbourne.' I had always thought that that slogan was just the Aussies trying to tell us Kiwis to get lost but apparently it's not.

So I walked from Malvern to Chapel Street though Armadale. Armadale is classically wealthy. I wouldn't even dream of asking the price of anything in Armadale because I would be a) considered uncouth and b) likely to have fit. Class is the best word to describe Armadale. Antiques, art galleries, jewellers, beauty salons, designer shops that sell writing paper, fine books and the most stunning wedding gowns imaginable. It is all about quality in Armadale.

Speaking of wedding gowns I witnessed the most heart-warmingly beautiful scene this afternoon as I strolled through the Alexandra and the Queen Victoria Gardens. A young lad proposed on bended knee to his sweet maid and my heart went ahhhhh. I was a little way off so I saw it acted out in poetic mime as covering her eyes, he led her to a seat. Making sure she kept her eyes closed, he then nipped off to a nearby flower bed and stole an orange poppy for his lady love before returning to stand in front of her. She opened her eyes and there he was on bended knee, flower in hand...thankfully her answer was apparently yes because I watched her fling her arms around his neck and cover him in kisses. I kid you not dear friends, this is a true story. Romantic fairy tales do exist and moments like these are sent to keep our hopes alive for the real world. It's spring and it seems that not only the blossoms are budding, love and romance is too.

Oh, I do like to be beside the Seaside

I took my mid-week trip to the market for supplies of super fresh pasta (leek and sweet potato ravioli sold conveniently by the each) and some of the amazing range of cheese available here. On my way back I decided to take the frivolous tram route. In other words the one that took me nowhere near the right place but offered instead a far more interesting exploration opportunity. Just call me the modern Kiwi chick version of Burke and Wills but better prepared with fresh market supplies to sustain the lost expedition into the Melbourne interior.

I discovered that a number 112 tram gets me to the vicinity of the beach promenade on Beaconsfield Parade. This looks out to Port Phillip between South Melbourne and St Kilda Beaches.

Beaconsfield Parade is a wide avenue of traffic and apartments, old and new, with sea views bordered by palm trees and carefully racked yellow sand. Sand IS yellow you ninny, I hear you all tisk at me but not all sand is quite this yellow. Some stretches can be white, others black like West Coast Piha grit, but the sand along the entire plush coastline of Port Phillip looks as if they've added yellow food colouring to enhance it's attractiveness. Groomed is the term I choose to apply to the boulevards of the Melbourne Riveria. It reminds me of Napier's Marine Parade or Wellington's Oriental Bay, in party dress.

They like regiment in Melbourne. First the shop window displays, now the beaches. I have to say however that having a decent long stretch of wide sand, pavement boardwalk and grass reserve to potter along is extremely pleasant, especially on a day with such glorious sunshine as this one. No riparian rights for the rich here, the beach is for everyone. Europeans with your rocky shoreline and three deep rows of beach huts and deck chairs, eat your heart out!

That brings me nicely to one of two sets of people I chatted to today (I have my mother's permission now to talk to strangers just as long as I don't accept any sweets :-). Marieke from Koln (Cologne to the non-Germans among us), and French-Spanish Camille are two sweet backpacking girls I led to the Acland Street eateries after wrong directions sent them in the opposite direction. Headlines read: 'Kiwi chick turns Melbourne tour guide'. I know my way around now better than some locals! The girls are at the end of their Aussie sojourn and about to head home with observations about the backpacking lifestyle similar to mine.

After two months of itinerant living they were ready to return home and settle back down to reality. Living out of a suitcase is fun for a while but there is always a hankering for a bed to call your own and somewhere to hang your hat. You meet great people on the move, see the world with fresh eyes and experience more than you would if you stayed at home. You cram so much more into an international backpacking trip than you ever would vacationing at home. It's just the way it is. If you make the effort and spend the money uprooting yourself to another country, you make the most of every minute. The girls agreed that they would be going home for a rest as every day touring Australia had been filled with activities they would never have contemplated at home, like snorkeling, skydiving, that sort of thing.

They also admitted that exploring Australia made them ashamed at how little they had seen of their own countries. I had the same realisation some thirteen years ago when in England, I had to deflect interested questions about NZ destinations with: “Hmm, good question, I dunno, never been there.” It was this shameful epiphany that led to my lifetime's New Year's Resolution to travel every road in New Zealand. Most intrepid Kiwis look at me as if this feat is an impossibility and I'm obviously deluding myself, but that has not stopped me making a serious dent in my target. Anyway Camille and Marieke were both friendly and chatty and quite unlike the Aussie fishermen suffering at the hands of my interrogation earlier on my walk.

Typical of the Aussie bloke (similar to the Kiwi brand), this group of recreational pier-fishers answered my questions about the day's catch, like their teeth were being pulled with rusty pliers. Their faces were so transparent that I could see the same silent freaking out on each one of them without needing to read the otherwise blankness of their minds. The saucer eyes of the collective (what do you call a group of fishermen? 'A Catch'? 'A Tackle'? 'A Keeper' or better still 'A Tosser' of fishermen perhaps?) all screamed the same terror, namely: “Oh my God Jonesy, it's a gurl and she's tawking! Whadda we do, whadda we do? Why is she picking on us to tawk to? Please God make her stop.”

The best I got out of them was that they had caught baby marlin and they were not the slightest bit interested in New Zealand although they work with a few Kiwi blokes. One of them however tried a nice bit of sidestepping, throwing his mate Jacko into the lion's pit by suggesting that because he had been as far as Geelong, that made him a traveler and a starter to give New Zealand a “beet of a go”. Apart from the amusement, talking to them was like picking oakum so I waved farewell and found me instead some friendly backpackers.

Angels, Saints and a little slice of Devil's food gateau Heaven

My mission today was to see how the other half live...or maybe not. The excursion was to Melbourne's general cemetery researching a scene that takes place in my book. It is one of the quirks people have to love about me that I like to visit cemeteries and be with the dead people. They are great company, no seriously. Reading the names on headstones can keep me amused for hours on end and it is a fascinating lesson in history to read about their life through their death.

This cemetery is gobsmackingly huge. Imagine the biggest cemetery you can think of and times it by six. That's how big Melbourne's cemetery is. I'm talking enormous here. As far at the eye could see in every direction stretches row upon row of black marble, white marble, concrete and stone. Angels, pietas, crucifx, monuments, Madonnas and saints, they are all there in groups of Chinese, Jews, Greeks, Italians, English. Every colour and creed is represented here but the dominant theme is Christian. Ave Maria, alla cara memoria, eterno riposo, mother, father, sinner, saint the line up is a who's who of Melbourne's past. Raftopoulos rests next to Leung. In the next avenue are the Dawsons alongside the Vizzinis. The cemetery is as much a melting pot as the living City of Melbourne. The Italian graves are the most interesting. Glossy black marble embossed with gold lettering and photographs of loved ones. Arcangela, Nunziato, Benedetta, Crescendo. Beautiful names for beautiful people the photographs are all of tough old settlers. I did not see one grave belonging to a child. These are all hardy people who lived long and prosperous lives. Their families still come to visit them, black clad with respect for parents and grandparents who died twenty years ago. The Italians are a tight knit clan. After walking much further than anticipated in high heels I felt that I needed a wee Carlton special treat.

One word then...Brunettis. For anyone familiar with this magnificent establishment,the name says it all. Brunettis is an Italian pasticceria, paninoteca, gelateria and caffe in Carlton and an offspring kiosk in City Square on Swanston Street. It is a little slice of Italy's finest gateaux bringing all the best of classic Roman decadence to Melbourne. Mmmmm. At this point I am struggling to find words to best describe Brunettis except that it is a Mecca for indulging the palette. It's like a Monet for the taste buds. When I die I want to be buried at Brunettis alongside the pistachio choux pastry and tiramisu. Brunettis is like an Armani suit. In the immortal words of Cole Porter, you're the tops, you're the toy balloon that is fated soon to go POP! And pop I certainly would if I spend too long at Brunettis.

Bridge over the River Yarra

Several times today I thought I had died and gone to heaven. I started the day in North Richmond, navigating my way around Church Street in search of accommodation at the YWCA in Richmond Hill. Once that was out of the way I was free to explore Richmond's famous Bridge Road, street of factory outlets all screaming SALE! 50% off! Buy NOW! at me. Aarrgh I can't get away from everyone wanting to take my money from me! Be strong and use the Force Louise, deflect them all your Wonderwoman bracelets of gold, resistance is USELESS! I think I walked the length of Bridge Road with my eyes closed, like a blind woman stumbling along without her cane.

There was one particular shop however that was inevitably going to be my downfall. Macro Wholefoods Supermarket....uhhhhh. Is that angels I hear singing through the open door? This must surely be Paradise in the afterlife. It's like a giant Harvest Wholefoods only stacked in regimented rows. I've noticed this about Bridge Road, neat stacking of shelves and perfect windows displays seems to be a signature of this precinct. But I digress, back to my dream shop, Macro. Every type of organic food is available in this superstore. Rows upon rows of it from vanilla yoghurt topped chocolate mousse tubs to anise and fig bread cobs. Oh. My. God. I managed to get out alive with only a muesli bar, a can of soup and a cookie. I consider myself lucky and am very proud of my self-control.

Further along Bridge Road is a spectacular window display of chandeliers that made my jaw drop. I decided that I was in the mood for excess today so I caught the tram to Docklands (the equivalent of Auckland's Viaduct) but missed and ended up at the Casino instead. Ah well, not quite what I had in mind but excess could not be greater here. Casinos are not my cup of tea, seen one, seen 'em all sort of thing. Aucklanders rag Sky City as a particularly tacky version of a casino but I think, hey, they're all tacky what's the difference between Sky City and the Crowne Casino? So I bypassed the jingle whoodle-oodling pokies and flickering dressing-room mirror light bulbs.

I did end up however in the Crowne Towers Hotel and whooeee Daisy-Mae them cowpokes in there are mighty fine looking spec-i-mens. A five-star hotel this place is a wonderland of waterfalls and marble. The atrium between hotel and shopping complex is a darkly lit mountain cavern. Photographs just cannot do justice to the dramatic effect so I'll try and make a thousand words draw a picture for you instead. The ceiling is a hanging Babylon of crystal stalactites, perfect droplets evoking the moisture encrusted web of a glow worm. Peacock colours of green and blue light the roof of this Lost World. Down below on the forest floor water falls through a cascade of marbled terraced ponds. The smooth surface is covered with tiny blow holes to allow jets of water to arc out. Spurts of water burst out all over the ponds, firing through beams of light, a visual representation of the musical symphony playing in the background. Beyond the atrium the reception, lounges and Conservatory bar and restaurant are opulent gold. This is somewhere I would definitely like to come back to stay on my book signing tour :-)

This Little Piggy Went to Market

South Melbourne has a damn fine market. At the weekend it is chocka block with young professionals. Gay couples, straight couples, young couples with children in strollers. They are well dressed and affluent looking but all the same, the Nana trolley reigns queen at the market. Nana trundlers are a common sight and are not confined to the usual profile of pusher (and that would be your Nana of course!). It seems far more acceptable here to trundle a fawn, navy blue or karkhi canvas covered trolley and let's face it – they are extraordinarily useful, they are just not a fashion item. But for the Melburnian resident who gets around on buses and trams, they are oh so practical and therefore this odd behaviour of trailing a bag on wheels behind you has become tolerated, even embraced. Everyone is a Nana here so no one minds.

I like South Melbourne Market, better I think that Prahran. South Melbourne has more interesting stalls like Rita's Nuts. Rita is a Greek goddess, full of life and love for the market, Melbourne, her family... Her stall at the corner is a family business. Three children work here, Rita likes to keep her family close. “You can leave your mother, your sister, but you can't leave your children,” she shakes her head at me when I tell her that I have left my family behind while I'm in Melbourne writing my book. “Your family's the most important thing,” she continues. “Even if they are horrible, they are all you need to survive.” Rita's family came to Melbourne thirty-seven years ago and she loves it here. The adoration in her eyes is all that I need to convince me she is not exaggerating. “You've got to love what you do,” she purrs. “The market is my life.” And she must really love it to get here at 5.30am most mornings.

Another market I visited today was the mass of stalls at the Arts Centre on Southbank. The well-organised ranks of stalls display beautiful handcrafted works from silk scarves to paintings. I found a match for almost everyone I know at this market but I only bought one, absolutely irresistible gift because it was perfect.

Southbank is peppered with street performers, acrobats, jugglers, musicians, human statues. They perform here everyday of the week. Spaceman has even migrated to this end of town. We last saw him in March, my sister and I, on Bourke Street. I caught him today at the end of his...rather bizarre...routine so had the pleasure of seeing him without his spacesuit helmet again. I was tempted to take a photograph but like Batman and Superman, I was sensitive to revealing this Melbourne icon's true identity. The other noteworthy street artist I came across today was outside the National Art Gallery of Victoria on St Kilda Road. He was drawing gorgeous reproductions of famous paintings in chalk on he pavement. They were very good indeed.

Hidden Under a Balaclava

I completed a circle today. I walked from Elwood, City of Port Philip, along Glen Huntley Road to Elsternwick in the City of Glen Eira. The main street of Elsternwick is Glen Huntley which in the scheme of Melbourne's incredibly long crossroads, is also in Elwood. There is also often two roads in the environs with the same name (Barkly for instance was a well known Melburnian so he therefore has a few streets named after him).

Elsternwick is a mixture of faces and races. However bakeries such as Aviv's, offering boiled bagels and traditional Jewish cakes and cafes advertising kosher fare, give away the predominant cultural enclave here. I found me a fine Lebanese diner in Elsternwick called 'Talk of the Town'. The owners were friendly and extremely good at selling me far too much of their tasty vegetarian fare with their cunning open-ended question of “what else can I get you?” after every order I placed. When faced with such choice and that question, what else was I to do but cave in and stock up with take-home meals for the whole week!? Red lentils with rice, couscous with carmelised onion and almonds, pumpkin, spinach and pine nut kibbe, spinach and cheese or potato and curry pie. So much for the diet! Curse them!

The streets here seemed filled with fifty-something women, perfectly coiffed in purple velour tracksuits and fur coats. The mop on the end of the leash they carry is wearing a coat bigger than it is. Yes, it seems mandatory in Melbourne to dress your dog in some embarrassing outfit. Big or small, no pooch is beyond the humiliation of doggie-style. Personally, I keep thinking that every mutt is a guide dog for the blind before remembering where I am and gaffawing at them.

Continuing the walk, I turned up the oddly named Orrong Road and headed towards Balaclava. I had been at one end of Balaclava in Carlisle Street earlier in the week on my market excursion. This time I approached from the other end, the obviously fabulously moneyed end of the neighbourhood. It is Saturday, the Sabbath and so I am seeing lots of Jewish families heading off to prayer. I can even hear the sounds of their chanting drifting from open windows above to meet my ears as I pass in the street. It is a world I have never entered before but an interesting one nonetheless. Having seen my fair share of massive ravens lately, I can't help being reminded of these birds as I see the men in black suits, curled locks and square hats perched on their heads. I apologise if this analogy causes offense to anyone, the comparison is purely visual.

There is a subtle change of housing from this neighbourhood to the one I have just left. Elwood is old money, houses built in the Arts and Crafts movement and between the world wars of the last century. The houses in Balaclava are old money but new style. Pallisades, columns and porticoes are the ticket in Balaclava. If Elwood is Melbourne's Remuera then Balaclava is Howick at double the price. Apparently I should make the effort to visit Brighton and prepare to be amazed.

Balaclava Road meets Carlisle Road and the neighbourhood changes slightly again. As I delve further along Carlisle Road the faces that I saw on my excursion to Chapel Street start to reappear. They are the faces that peer into rubbish bins to find the bagels that might have been discarded. These faces are everywhere in Melbourne as they are in every city in the world but as a traveler looking at everything around me with fresh eyes, I see them more and feel closer to them as I am, myself out of place at the moment. These are the faces that hide beneath the Balaclava.

The Serious Art of Writing

I have declared to the world that I am a writer quite a bit today. Out and about in St Kilda I've found a couple of cafes in which to briefly set up camp. For the small consideration of a cup of coffee (or in one case a scrummy hot chocky), I have been able to sit happily in the warm with my travel companion Sussy filling in the atmospheric authenticity of my novel. Big Mouth cafe and bar on the corner of Acland and Barkly Streets and The Vineyard Restaurant on St Kilda's Esplanade are the first two trendy, friendly establishments to feature as settings in my novel. The cafe staff and clientèle hangers around have been very interested in what I am doing and Sussy, my wee EeePC jobby has been attracting a fair amount of attention. It's so dinky that folk don't believe it could be a real computer. Haha! My cunning plan in action!

I am way impressed with how friendly cafe staff are this time round. Maybe when we visited in March, Caroline and I were just not engaging successfully with them because the hospitality staff encountered on that visit all seemed to be stand-offish like they had hemorrhoids or some such, making them ultra grumpy. This time however I have introduced myself and my project to the cafe folk and received a very different response. Maybe it's that my enthusiasm for what I am doing is glowing from me or perhaps it is actually interesting to people but whatever the reason, I am welcome at cafes now. At Big Mouth the duty manager Brendon even sat down to read over my shoulder and asked to be named in the book. Here you go then Brendon you get your name AND picture on my blog! The pretty lass with him is co-worker Sandra.

It's raining here today. I thought that I might escape the rain if I left Auckland but – er – no, apparently not. However Melbourne rain is different. It is frigging cold for one thing! A high predicted of 12 degrees today – high?! That is like the radio announcing that it was a balmy 15 degrees when I visited the Catlins once in December. I guess the rest of the world is a hardier bunch than Little Miss Auckland here. I do like the rain when I have the time and freedom to dance around splashing about in puddles, singing as I go. It's only when I need to turn up somewhere clean and dry that it is a pain. Or when it never seems to stop. I prefer weather variety. It's the spice of life so bring me sunshine, bring me rain, just not snow 'cos I didn't bring my skis.

So it's cold we've established but I knew it would be so I'm not complaining. I have my thermals so the cold is my friend. The rain, I could have done without after Auckland's persistence but as I said, Melbourne rain is not like Auckland. There is no wind attached. the rain comes here straight down in heavy curtains. If it hasn't set in for the entire day as it has today then the rain sheets are sudden, heavy and you had better have an umbrella or be able to run for cover fast! I like Melbourne rain, it is committed and as that could be said to describe the crazy Kiwi lady splashing about like a looney in puddles, it is my kind of rain.

Chapel Street – from one extreme to the other

Today I walked from Elwood to Prahran Market down the length of the famous Chapel Street. Although I might be feeling lousy and gummed up still I am determined to walk everywhere in order to see as much of th real Melbourne in its suburban and city streets as possible. A bonus will be shedding some of he extra pounds piled on in preparation for the “Survivor Melbourne” diet.

Anyway that's not what I started to write about today. As I said, I walked the length of Chapel Street. It is a street that crosses at least three suburbs from fashionable Prahran, through funky Windsor to flaking Balaclava.

In Prahran is a market with enticing trays of fruit and vegetables laid out in rainbow arrays of colours. You don't have to know he name of anything here just where to find it in the spectrum. Lychees resembling the conkers I see everywhere on the budding plain trees lining the Elwood streets, blood oranges, scrumptious grapes that look hand picked for the gods and 4 x D-cup sized watermelons!

The rest of Prahran's Chapel Street is full of oversized sunglasses, GHD-curled hair and scruffy sculpted whiskers. Stroll further down passed Pran Central shopping centre and the Stonnington Library and you stumble upon the Chapel Street Bazaar. My eye was caught of all things, by the display of antique lace in the window but the rest of the shop is filled with the most funky retro junk you never knew you needed. We have entered the realms of grungy retro trendy Windsor where there are opshops like Fat Helen's, others for herb enthusiasts and smokers, and adult wares where giggling and pointing is definitely not allowed. Here the graffiti is designed, in contrast to the spray painted scribble a few doors down passed the Dandenong Road and the Astor Theatre.

We're not in Kansas anymore Toto as we cross into Balaclava at Carlisle Road. I met some oddities on this part of the street. Old folk walk their yappy dogs, owner and pet both wearing dressing gowns. Dressing dogs is the thing to do here. Older women sporting vibrant henna-coloured hair push shopping trundlers. In this part of the street I meet more midnight-coloured faces than elsewhere. There's a lad with stick-thin ankles protruding from ¾ length baggy pants who looks like a CCF advertisement. An African woman passes me, two ugly, healed over knife wound scars mark her cheeks. These people are so far apart from their neighbours at the other end of the street. It is unbelievable that so little physically separates them when so much keeps the apart.

J'arrive!!!

Hello world I have arrived. AND I brought a present with me along with the mementos from loved ones in Auckland, only this particular travel companion I could have done without. Let me give you all a clue. My ears rather painfully, failed to pop as we descended into Melbourne. Guessed yet? Well, the sore throat, blocked nose and head filled with cotton wool should leave you in no doubt. Oh yes I got a cold so day one of my trip left me feeling more Bad, lazy body, get with the play I'm in Australia now stop waking me up at 4.00am. Office workers start at 9.00, cafes at 8.00 and shops at 10.00 so there is absolutely nothing, zip, zilch, zero to do at four in the morning. I tried to stay up as late as possible last night to swap from NZ-time to Oz-time and it seems to have worked quite well because I have made it to five in the afternoon without needing to head home to crash yet.

I'm staying with Debbie, a friend of my sister's. She's a Shore girl recently relocated to Melbourne and she has been absolutely fantabulous as a host. She has given me a blissfully comfy bed in a room all to my self (oh what decadence says the person who had planned to hole up in a hostel), clean towels that match and space in her bathroom cabinet! Oh the luxury. What a welcome.

Still it was strange waking up this morning to the sound of foreign birds. Where were the tuis? The minahs? Even the common sparrow? I'm not used to being serenaded by magpies, rosellas and ravens. It was quite disconcerting especially the ravens and their smaller cousins the crows. My word they are freaky birds swooping from the trees. It's like walking into an Edgar Allan Poe tale. They are like minahs on steroids and I am the helpless cat.

I've learned my first Melbourne lesson today. Always take an umbrella with you. It doesn't rain all day like it has recently in Auckland, in fact Melbourne is quite dry but when it does decide to precipitate you'd better run for cover because the rain comes straight down in drops that make you turn around to find the rotten kid that just chucked a water bomb at you. I think I may have to get a heavier duty brolly than I currently have.

Melbourne lesson number two for the day – how to order coffee. Step one enter cafe and be greeted by the Aussie-Greek beauty with the set of huge white teeth. She will most likely call you Darl or Luv. This is not a pass, it is the acceptable form of shopgirl hello. It's actually far nicer than you get from the fake NZ mall maids. Step two, order an extra hot double shot flat white. What you will get will be the equivalent to a single shot in NZ speak. Step three, kick back and enjoy a luke warm but at least strong coffee – ahhhh. I am happier with this discovery than I was on my last visit to Melbourne where I was pre-promised that the coffee would be good. On that occasion I was disgusted to find every cup weak and cold. I read a sign in a cafe window that said "Behind very successful woman is a vast amount of coffee." Coffee is my ticket to sit for hours in the one cafe. As long as I have bought the one cup I seem able to deflect the waiters from chucking me out.

Anyway here's a piccie of me on day one in Melbourne to keep the folks happy that I am alive even if somewhat congested. What a dill I'm going to look taking photos of myself around town but hey, I'm here on my own what else do I do. Here I am in the rain on Marine Parade in St Kilda. I'm looking across to Port Melbourne and the city. They have really great two lane walk and cycleways so there's no bikes sneaking up on you from behind.

The Final Countdown

Murphy created a law, Alanis Morrisette wrote the song 'Ironic', some other chappie with a greater grasp of poetry coined the term 'best laid plans of mice and men'. You can call it what you will but basically I don't care. I have spent the last two weeks using some fancy foot work to sidestep, duck and dive, float like a butterfly yadda, yadda, yadda, in order to outwit the stubborn cold germs everyone around me seemed determined to present me as a bon voyage gift. And did it help? What did I do? What did I say to deserve waking up this morning with a throat feeling like it has been scoured by a cat's tongue coated in steel wool and a headache to rival Anne Boleyn's. So sucking on a tree load of half-ripe super-sour lemons was of no practical value whatsoever? Typical. The male members of my family, with caring brotherly concern, insisted that I not touch anything lest I share the germ love at my farewell/birthday bash. Segregated to a corner at my own do! Talk about salt in the wounds!

Ah well there is little point whinging and snuffling pathetically for chicken soup. I'm on my own now for the next four months, it's up to me to remember to wrap up warm and drink plenty of fluids. So Louise, supreme effort required but you can do it. Wake up at the sound of the alarm, drag your sorry arse out of bed in the dark and get to the airport before the sparrows are even contemplating farting in the trees.

I am staying at my brother Matthew's place overight and he, as always, is being a fantastic brother looking after his little sister. The Olympics games are on telly and there is a bit of frenetic cheering coming from his flatmate Suphie as she sits on the Swiss ball bouncing for joy as the Kiwis win rowing medals. Bronze for Mahe, bronze for – er-um the other two and Gold for the Ever-Swindells. Sign of the times, we can update the headlines on the NZ Herald through wireless connection in the living room while simultaneously watching the action of the box. Sheesh talk about unnecessarily contemporary! It is truly a 'Now Generation'. Later the All Blacks versus the Springboks will be happening in the living as Matt camps out on the sofa in front of the Sky coverage while the rest of us sleep. He has been known to emit the odd whoop at our national sport. Dad used to be asked not to support his children on the field because of his loud sideline reffing.

The End is Nigh

It's Friday and thank God as they say. You know what this particular Friday means? It means the last day at work for me for four months. Today at 5 o'clock I leave the office behind and enter the world of the impoverished unemployed. Fool according to my Dad (did I mention before that I love you Pa?), fearless according to others. Do I feel at all nervous or concerned? No, not really. How about excited? The question I am asked a lot lately is am I excited. Well let me think. Actually no. I am too busy to be excited and besides I tend to launch into the unknown with an open mind, a blank page on which to write...few expectations. That way I am open to opportunities as they present and also to surprises. Expect the unexpected and be surprised and delighted. Or maybe it is just that my mind is enough like a cat or a child that I am unable to extrapolate into the future to see the consequences to feel afraid. Don't worry Mum I promise not to speak to any strangers whatsoever while I'm in Melbourne. I will ask first to see their crudentials and request two referees before entering into any form of conversation.

Actually I know two people in Melbourne and have a friend of my sister's to stay with for the first little while until I find my feet. It is also surprising how many people have said to me 'you should get in touch with so-and-so while you're there. They're a kiwi living in Oz'. Kiwi solidarity! I appreciate the offer everyone, really I do but at this rate I am in danger of spending four months in Melbourne socialising with Kiwis! I might as well just stay at home. I will keep the friends of friends list with me just in case but part of why I am off to do this in a city other than my home is to separate myself from that six degree thing that happens in a small town like Auckland. There are a lot of pleasant distractions when you know lots of people but it is not very helpful when it comes to knuckling down to the business of writing.

T'other thing that I have been hearing a bit too much for my liking is that people seem to think I won't be coming back. Hmmm, what am I supposed to understand by that? You don't want me back? Heaven forbid, I know that you all love me really but why do people think that just because I feel the need to take a wee break from my hometown, that it means I don't love it anymore. Ballgowns aren't much use in small towns, my friend Mr Greg Johnson wrote but ballgowns are useful anywhere on the right person. I love Auckland, it is my home, where my heart is because Auckland (apart from being crappy in the winter) is a beautiful places and it contains all the people I love the most in this world. Friends, family, fond memories, of course I will return to the town that has captured my heart but as they say, absence makes the heart etc...and rekindles the love. Set me free Auckland and when I return to you it will be with affection afresh and a heart better placed. We all need to take a break from time to time to step back and appreciate how good life is.

Happy Birthday to Me...da, da, dee, dum, dee, dee

Today I enter my 37th year on this planet. Thirty-seven…huh? No sense of vainly lying about my age when I believe that every year adds a wealth of knowledge and experience absent from any previous era. Every wrinkle, every joint that aches when it rains, every ounce that gravity adds to my weight (or at least that’s what I’m calling the reason for any extra pounds I might be carrying on my hips these days), is a badge of honour. I have lived for thirty-six years and that in itself is an achievement regardless of the fantastic time I have had getting here.

Still having said that, thirty-seven is not a particularly significant number you wouldn’t think. It’s not sixteen where evidently I was sweet nor eighteen entering the work force in the grown up world. Thirty-seven is not the new twenty-one where the world becomes your legal oyster all of a sudden. It is not thirty when I was in a stable relationship and had just escaped death from peritonitis. I spent that birthday recovering with a very quiet but grateful to be alive, celebration at home. I counted my blessings at thirty.

This year is not any of those but it is one more on my journey through the game of life. I am looking forward to my thirty-seventh year, it holds the promise of the unknown, the chance to become a better me and the possibility of fulfilment. Who needs a conventional number like 4-0 to do something exceptional? Magnificence can happen at any age and perfect harmony can still be found even in a rest home. Hmmmm, I think I’m gonna like the big 3-7, after all it has already started with four birthday songs, chocolate cake, candles and gifts. I ask you how much better can it get?

Amounting to a Hill of Beans

Possessions, I have discovered have a use-by date similar to food. There would have been a time in the life of each of my belongings when I needed or just plain desired it. That item, be it furniture, ornament or tool, once had a purpose but later was shelved, put aside for a day when it might come back into fashion or use again. Eventually it was forgotten, sad, even old-fashioned, a lost memory to cling to, a relic. After that, it turned into junk taking up space, valuable domestic real estate.

I have moved house six times in the past fifteen years and realised as I faced a seventh that it was always in a rush with never a proper chance to clean the excess from my life. I would simply pack (sometimes so meticulously it never resurfaced) everything into boxes and find places for it all in the new house. I carried baggage from my life with me everywhere I went.

It was definitely time then, to purge years of nostalgia, clung to memories of good times and bad and previous lives I have led. They have all contributed to the person sitting behind this keyboard today but none of it is necessary as a reminder of how far I have come. I am organic demonstration of that. I don’t need trinkets to bear witness.

So purge I did and once I started I got me on a roll that felt sooooo good I just kept right on going. The questions I asked myself were; do I need this? Do I still use it? Did I even remember I had it? Am I going to have to go out and buy another if I throw it away? What followed was a monumental clean out, arms windmilling as I delved into boxes under the bed, in cupboards, everywhere there was a place something could be stashed. My sister looked astounded asking where I had kept it all. Hidden was the answer. Well hidden, like a hoarder’s dirty secret. I felt shame at having so much stuff but then I’ve never owned a home so what other people would accumulate to fill houses, I fitted into the bedroom and kitchen of a shared flat. I have never had proper space to call my own so I found secret places to keep everything I considered necessary to define me. In this clean out however, I realised that none of it was precious anymore. Less was better, a simple, uncluttered, clean existence was healthier for me than filling the gaps of my life with fripperies. I am not defined by things. I am defined by experience, by personality and demonstration of my soul. Possessions are just easily identifiable trappings, frivolities, clues to the deeper but not the only me.

So what to do with stuff that is no longer necessary but has tangible and intrinsic value still? What-ho, a garage sale! By crikey what a cracking idea, well done Gromit! My previous experience of garage sales were as a kid, when the genius to sell stuff we piled into the annual mini skip was instead, hit upon. That garage sale had been lashings of childhood fun and lucrative with folk wanting to buy everything down to the very last coolie hat lightshade. So, this would be the answer to our moving hassles, sell everything, earn extra cash and reduce the amount to shift! Genius!

A word of advice that I wish everyone had not waited until afterwards to give…never, ever, ever hold a garage sale unless your heart is made of stone. For Little Miss Sensitive here, the experience devastated my delicate sensibilities. No seriously - stop laughing. The sight of vultures arriving in the dark, eyes powered by greed lighting a path to our door, trampling over my meagre life spread across the floor of the garage, was horrifying. Honestly, it was as if the hyenas had arrived to tear shreds of flesh off me for $2.50 and even then, they wanted to haggle over the 50 cent. They showed no respect. I was after all, selling for decent and reasonable second-hand prices, things of value. All this lot wanted was something for nothing and cared nought that they were trampling others to get it. The lowest form of humanity came to our garage sale and by the end, my spirit was drained and empty.

I said at the start of this that my possessions meant nothing but it is not quite true. They represent my judgement good or bad and the garage scavengers would be wise to consider that. However, I am glad to have purged the waste from my life and in a way, even thankful at the traumatic manner in which it occurred because now I can say that I am rid of it all. It is gone, torn savagely from me and I can start afresh. I go to Melbourne with no past haunting me. I am an international woman of mystery, a fresh face and a fresh perspective. I feel healthier already.

To Go or Not To Go, that is your question?

Many people have commented on my courage upping sticks and heading to Melbourne where I know no one. They tell me I am braver than they are. I will admit to having had brief moments of doubt early on as I weighed up the pros and cons and the uncertainties. Now however, I don’t feel so much brave, as buoyed by the prospect of the adventure I am about to have. I give up my steady job to be a committed writer, have vacated my home, sold a lot of my things and put the rest into storage. I allow myself four months to make it happen and then I come back to reality with a fresh perspective, new lease on life, satisfied. A new woman!

Some weeks ago, I took off for a weekend during a particular piece of bitter winter weather to make the hard crunch-time decision of whether to go or stay. I needed total isolation to search my soul, breathe, reflect, cry the odd self-pitying tear and test my resolve by being completely alone. How well did I do? Well it sounds silly but I slept a night in my car to test the degree of discomfort and loneliness I could endure. Okay so at this point you are thinking – ha, little rich girl playing at being homeless waif but I wanted to know where the tipping point for my comfort zone was and I didn’t reach it sleeping semi-rough in winter. I might have been sleeping in the back of a Starlet but I was well prepared with sleeping bag, pillow and extra blanket. That, I guess is the difference between choosing to sleep rough and needing to. I am lucky though, I have the knack of falling asleep practically anywhere. It’s the waking up with the crick that is literally a pain in the neck.

That weekend was about relocating my inner peace, recently misplaced. To the outside world, the expression on my face must have looked troubled but it was in fact, torn. I was torn between the safe road and the road less ordinary. The reason for separation that weekend was to ensure that the decision regarding my immediate future was mine and not mine influenced by everyone else giving well-meaning advice. When I returned, I felt drained, burning inside with a cold-fever, tired and in desperate need of a long soak in a hot bath full of scented roses - ahhhh. I had a decision but my resolve still a little shaky. The first people I told were my parents. My steady father, love you by the way Dad ;-) told me I was a fool. Resolve trembled but the more I voiced my intention, announcing it to the world, the more solid and tangible it became. The deep breaths also helped fortify.

After all, I have the chance of seeing my dreams come true. At the very least, I am giving it a go and will never feel I have let this opportunity to do something impressive pass me by. Carpe Diem! Potentially I have always been daring underneath this mild exterior because I have made a point throughout my life of identifying opportunities and going for them. Fearless or foolish? You decide.

An aging Mobile Library customer of mine once said to me, “If someone offers you the chance to try something different dear, take it. You never know what worlds you might discover of which you previously knew nothing.” I think I just put that more eloquently than old Mrs R. who was after all 90 and losing her mind but I got her drift and have applied her advice often. And incidentally, the philosophy still allows me to be discerning. I can honestly say that I gave careering on a bike through forests of tree trunks an honest go and that particular mania is just plain not for me! Skiing…ok I get that one...sometimes.

Point is…I want to know when standing at 120 looking back on my life, that I have truly lived. Success or failure is of no consequence, I will have given it all a go and there is achievement in that alone. Besides, I don’t fear failure, not in the least. Failure is part of being human, it gives us humility and resolve. I don’t feel brave going to Melbourne because I know that I gain more from the journey than I risk losing. I have commitment, passion and imagination, what more do I need right at this moment other than the back of a Starlet to sleep in?