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.

Vegging Out

A regular market goer is me these days. Most markets are permanent or regular here so there is not the same urgency to get there early as in Auckland. They also usually go from dawn to about 6pm so there's no rush, plenty of time when time is your friend.

The occasional markets however are for the worm catching early birds and the Veg Out Farmer's Market is one of this category. On the corner of Shakespeare Grove and Spenser Street behind Luna Park is the curiously named Peanut Farm. Don't ask me what it historically refers to I haven't found anyone yet who can tell me (most Melburnians seem largely ignorant about their city beyond their own small piece of it). What it is today is a St Kilda community allotment of gardening projects. It appears to have quite strict rules for what is essentially a hippy and kiddie's veggie patch. I find it absolutely charming, a place for butterflies and bees to party which is incongruously juxtaposed by it's proximity to the shriekings from the party at Luna Park next door.

The Veg Out allotments are well laid out and very personalised. There are granny scarecrows, over-sized model pirate ships, web-footed birdman angels, rainbow benches, rusted fireplace barbeques, there's no limiting the imagination in this garden. It is like walking through Lewis Carrolls' living flower patch in Alice's Adventures Through the Looking Glass. I expect the tiger lilies to growl at me as I pass and the snap dragons to snip at the hem of my skirt. It is a place to amuse myself unsuccessfully chasing white cabbage moths with my camera and the buzz of bees all around is blissfully pleasant to my ears. The birds that enter this arena are also far more attractive and sociable than the nasty ravens and crows that are synonymous with St Kilda. They freak me still where as the rosellas in this garden add a further splash of beauty to the colours. It's all very cool and begs the question why doesn't Auckland have community gardens like this one?

Too-ra-loo-ra-loorak

I'm in Toorak today having stepped off the train from Elsternwick onto Toorak Road. What defines Toorak I wonder as I look around to gather my bearings. It is a suburb whose name is familiar to me. Toorak, I roll it round my tongue. In association with what I can't right at this moment remember but I think it is a well to do part of town and I'm right. I wander from Punt Road to where this street crosses Chapel as they all seem to in Melbourne's grid system town planning. Does every road lead to Chapel, I ask myself because there is no one else around and I am turning into the crazy lady that talks to everyone? In this short distance of Toorak Road I have passed three maternity shops. Ah, so do people who get married in neighbouring Armadale then move to Toorak to start a family? Good question and a pattern is emerging. I also pass plenty of Italian trattorias and French bistros. I suspect I may have stumbled upon an enclave of Europeans.

At a cafe where I pause for coffee it is confirmed when I meet Raoul, a French man who moved here in the mid-1950s. He likes the area because it is handy to everything, leafy, green, big old houses, old money with a recent injection of new. Melbourne's climate suits Raoul, the people, the neighbourhood too, he enjoys. Toorak is close to town and has everything you could possibly need. There are sixty hairdressers on this strip he tells me with a smile and a dandy stroke of his neatly trimmed beard.

Toorak is primarily Anglo, settled in the Victorian era by the country squatters. They built their town residences here to spend the winter and spring months enjoying the social scene as a reward for the hard work back on their country acreages during the summer and autumn harvests. Before the settlers, the area was home to the Woiworung Aboriginal people but Melbourne was built on the wool trade. I learn this visiting Como House, the National Trust property in Toorak.

This elegant verandahed house had it's beginnings in 1847 when Edward Eyre Williams built a cottage and named it in a romantic gesture Como, after the lake in Italy where he proposed to his wife Jessie. That cottage formed the foundation for the current house which became the home of squatters Charles and Caroline Armytage and their nine children.

Here I should explain the term squatter so that you don't start to think of this well-to-do family as parasitic hobos (unless of course you want to go into the whole settlement argument). The Melbourne Victorian aristocracy of gentlemen landowners with country farms and town residences were known as the Squattocracy. I'm not entirely sure why the term, please feel free to add your reference. They lived semi-permanently in town during the social season of winter and spring. Their townhouses were often packed with guests for week long parties. Friends, family everyone came to stay sleeping where ever they could find a space. Caroline Armytage was particularly known for her cherry teas which of course featured the freshly harvested fruit in as many delights as possible. I missed the house tour so made do with the gardens which gave me the opportunity instead to chat to the National Trust volunteer gardeners about the joys of spring. We have been hit by it all in the last week, ferocious winds, icy showers, high temperatures one day, plummeting back down the next. Four seasons in one day is a term used to describe Melbourne.

Hallo, my name is Ikea und I kom from Sweden

Debbie wants a sofa to fit her compact flat. Actually she wants the latest craze, a chaise lounger or maybe a sofa bed to accommodate guests now that she has a flatmate rather than a spare room. After scanning through catalogues and sizing up actual sofas in the shop however, it becomes apparent that this is not going to happen.

So she takes me with her to the Swedish furniture store Ikea in the Victoria Gardens shopping centre where I am told we can get absolutely everything. You name it, it's all there written in amusing names like knoppa, grintorp, strib, hopen, gorm, knubbig that conjure up the Muppet Swedish chef's voice to pronounce. This store is so big that it contains a restaurant so that shoppers who have lost all perspective of time and space, can nourish and fortify without leaving the shop. It is possible to stay all day in Ikea, and why wouldn't you it's so big and has so much in it to entertain a first time Helga like me. There are play areas for the kids, full-sized apartments set up and maps to assist navigation around the arrowed floor plan.

The first Swedish shopping innovation that Debbie, the seasoned Ikea shopper, introduces me to is the space demonstrations. The store has set their furniture up in spaces designed to represent not only rooms but entire flats and small houses. There is the 55m2 apartment and the 120m2 townhouse. Melbourne like most urban environments, is suffering a housing shortage, especially in the rental market. Houses for sale are plentiful but they are existing ones, new properties are simply not keeping up with demand. So furniture and home accessories designed to maximise small spaces are essential. I have already been impressed with the hooks over doors and pull out drying racks Debbie has made use of to add quality living to her flat. Ingenuity of design can make a small space feel spacious and that is exactly what I see here at Ikea.

Spice racks that attach to the fridge, overhead wine glass rails, hideaway drawers and cupboards with adjustable separating inserts to ensure that every corner is usable space. And all with such stylish and affordable European elegance of design. Much to Debbie's amusement, my eyes are like saucers, my hands madly waving in every direction and the words, “oh wow look at this,” are never far from my lips. I think she brought me along for the entertainment value more than anything else.

“The even have a deli here,” she says and I'm sure it is just so she can chuckle at my reaction.

“A Swedish deli!” I clap my hands like an excited three year old. “where? Do they have Haagendass?”

“No but they do hotdogs,” Debbie says as apparently it is her little Ikea ritual to have a lipsmacking hotdog on the way out. Debbie likes hotdogs I have learned over the past couple of weeks of watching her prepare a quick dinner after work. It's usually the hotdog wrapped in giant pita bread with cheese and a quirt of tomato sauce that suits her convenience.

We try out a number of lounge suites and yes, this does involved opening out every sofa bed and climbing on. How else are we supposed to see if they are comfortable? Both of us stretched out on the same sofa bed has a few of the shoppers looking sideways at us but we are enjoying ourselves and eventually we find the sofa Debbie needs to match the chairs she already has so she is happy.

Now I get to see the ingenious Swedish buying process. Take shopping list printed for your convenience, take a pencil also provided, take a tear off tape measure, they are all here for you the shopper's use. Note the aisle numbers of the components that make up the kitset you are about to purchase and go downstairs to the warehouse. Here grab a giant trolley and trundle the massive aisles that make The Warehouse look like The Garden Shed to collect your purchases. It is all self serve. Next you pay and then you take it all to the delivery bay to register your next day delivery. Debbie discovered how this works on her first visit when she asked for the delivery to be made on Saturday and was told to come in and order on Friday if she wanted delivery on Saturday. So she will have to stay home tomorrow to wait for today's purchases. When they arrive, assembly is up to her and this goes for everything, beds, tables, lounge suites, cupboards, they are all kitset. Top marks to the Swedish for their ingenuity and their economy, Ikea rules, right on!

I'm on a Mission from Blog

I have been told that it is possible to get from La Trobe Street to Flinders Station without crossing a road so today I am on a mission to prove it or otherwise. The nine blocks I have to cross in sixty seconds are: La Trobe, Little Lon, Lonsdale, Lt Bourke, Bourke, Lt Collins, Collins, Flinders Lane and Flinders Street. I'm kidding about the sixty seconds but this message will destruct in five.

1.35pm: I take the time on the giant pocket watch at Melbourne Central before I begin and start the clock. So far I have traversed from La Trobe through Melbourne Central across the skybridge over Lonsdale to Myers. Here I come a bit unstuck trapped in the maze of this institutional department store. It was my mother's dream store come true when we came as a family to Melbourne in the early 1990s. With the amount of time I spent in there on that visit you would think that the Pavlov's Dog trigger would kick in to navigate me smoothly through, but no. No, because I feel incredibly claustrophobic in this low ceilinged, packed to the gunwales store. Everywhere I look there are granny knickers, comfy shoes, pillow slips and doilies and I don't know where to turn to escape the blue rinse. I exaggerate of course Myers is Melbourne's Smith and Caughey, every city has one, a store catering to the old world and ladies who lunch when they can afford to. Myers has a certain charm but at the moment as I pass through the Foodwalk for the third time and still don't know how I managed to loop the floor to get there, I am not feeling in the slightest bit charmed. Just let me outta here, I want to scream at the arrows that seem to point in every direction. I hear that not long after I finally did escape there was a fire in a lift well and I just have to state it was not sabotage and it was not me.

But on with Mission Impossible. 2.20pm: Thinking @$%& so much for the clock racing, I manage with a bit of underground sneakiness to connect from the Little Bourke Street entrance of Myers across the road to the Bourke Street section of this massive store. Like its next door neighbour David Jones, Myers covers four floors of two blocks with the one store so it gets mighty confusing keeping track of which particular section you might be in. I can be forgiven for losing my natural compass in here when the chances of seeing daylight are as slim as meeting the Pope in a porn shop.

All the signage in Myers points me out on to Little Bourke Street but I refuse to be defeated when I know that there is a second Myers on the other side. It must be possible to get there from here even if I have to cajole a staff member to let me crawl through the air conditioning ducts. However I cunningly manage to find a legitimate route via the underground Basement bargain section. Triumphant I pop up now in Bourke Street.

Here I attempt to cheat slightly by nipping next door to David Jones because the split between the two parts of this shop happens between Bourke and Little Collins. It's 2.30pm, I study the floor plan and stand around looking hopelessly lost, something I became well practised at in Myers, until a shop assistant asks if I need help. I explain my mission but sadly she shakes her head. There are no underground routes or skybridges across Bourke Street. I rather suspected as much but it was worth a go. Instead I opt for Union Lane which is the state approved street art site. 2.40pm, the walls of this narrow lane are decorated with elaborate and colourful art graffiti to reward me for having to emerge onto the street at this point. Unfortunately the lane is too narrow to fully appreciate the larger than life designs but cheers to Melbourne's bureaucrats for sponsoring creativity of this kind.

2.50pm, at this point my mission having been foiled, I settle for making it to Flinders Street Station via the network of lanes, alleys and arcades. I have asked several local shop and cafe staff and no one can think of a way to get me across Collins Street either so the mission needs to be abandoned for today. 3.00pm, as the sunny eighteen degree day promised by the weather report has not eventuated, I am not properly dressed for the overcast fourteen. Truth be told, frozen fingers was my primary motive for changing my original plan to take on this mission. People who know me well will be nodding and saying uh-huh, that I rarely dress appropriately for the weather and am always either hot or cold but I have been doing so well lately, honest. Trouble is that the temperature can change on a whim if the sun decides not to come out reminding me that it's not summer yet. The weather in Melbourne must be a woman.

3.10pm, so the route I now take acting on good advice, is through the cafes on The Block Arcade in order to stop for a double shot cappuccino and a chance to write this. 3.50pm, across Collins Street to The Centreway Place leads me through Little Collins to Degraves Lane. Here I can finally take an underground passage direct to the station and hey presto, mission all but accomplished. It may not be possible to cross every intersection in the inner city circuit avoiding street traffic but it certainly is possible for seven of the nine.

Kiwi Tourists Hat the Town

Debbie and I became Sunday tourists, joining the throngs of people on Southbank and Federation Square for Spring Fashion Week. We were tempted to take a ride on the tourist shuttle or one of the horse drawn carriages but thought it best not to go overboard. Instead I introduced Debbie to the Arts Centre Market. She has been living here about six months now but when you work five days a week and spend part of the weekend doing chores at home, it isn't as easy to get around discovering the city as it is when you have whole days and weeks at your disposal like me. She is amazed at the places I have explored and the people I have talked to on my travels so today I became her tour guide and we goofed around taking silly photos at the State Library, St Paul's Cathedral and the Crowne Towers, places I had already visited and wanted to her to see.

The main focus of our trip into town though was to attend one of the free Spring Fashion Week activities, a talk on 'Hat wearing etiquette' at the Champions Racing Museum. Debbie intends to go to her first Melbourne Cup in November and wants to make a hat to wear. She has a bit of thing for hats.

The flamboyant Austrian Waltraud Reiner of Torb and Reiner milliners wound me up in a ribboned spell of feathers and gauze with her talk on hatiquette. She had a delightful way of telling me that big hats would not suit my small face.

“If you want to wear a big hat with flowers and feathers,” she flapped at me. “Then hold a tea party in your garden with your dollies and best china. Release your romance there in cream lace, wide brims and roses but don't wear the hat in public on the street for people to say 'hello who's that hiding under there?'"

Waltraud's advice to Debbie is become a left tilter not a Raggedy Andy and think big not pimple chapeau. Debbie modeled the hats for the class and Waltraud demonstrated that she should angle her brimmed hats jauntily to the left rather than planting them on the back of her head like an Oklahoma barn dance. She also advised not to wear a hat that looked like a dollop demonstrating how unflattering it was as Debbie grinned like a Cheshire cat underneath the feathers. It was a bit of afternoon fun.

Other gems from Waltraud were to accessorise black days with colour “like a rosella in a naked winter tree” and listen for your inner 'ah'. This is the reaction that your gut should make as you place the perfect millinery creation on your head.

“If your body says 'ah' then don't talk yourself out of the hat. Likewise if is says 'oh' don't make a purchase you will regret. You have to be comfortable in your choice.”

Waltraud's very sensibly advice regarding hats is just as relevant to the rest of life.

“If you buy these amazing knickers but they spend all their time lodged up your crotch, you won't wear them.” So true and the sound pearls of life and millinery wisdom continued.

“Everything must come from the inside out when you buy a hat. You are just fine as you are so find the hat that works with you and you will be happy with it. I can dance on the table wearing this one and it stays on just fine.” Thanks Waltraud now I feel liberated for some table dancing in my hat.

'Doing the Block' in St Kilda

Saturday dawns a glorious blue and the multitudes are drawn out of hibernation to throng St Kilda Beach. To my mind it is still too chilly at sixteen degrees for the beach duds they are wearing, baggies, tank tops, thongs (which to Kiwis are jandals not g-string bikinis). I have however for the first time changed from jeans to a skirt parading the glaring whiteness of my winter legs to the world. It's not exactly fair competition that the rest of The Esplanade are either ethnically blessed with pre-pigmented skin or have backpacked recently in places where summer is pretty much given all year round. So what I cry, I'm pasty and proud!

The idea was to give myself some time off from pen or keypad today and instead read a book in the sun's warming rays at the beach but I ask you, how can I concentrate when there is so much people watching to be had on the boulevard?

I read a piece the other day in the Melbourne history exhibition at the library that talked about 'doing the block' which was the fashionable parading their families along Collins Street on a Saturday morning in the 1880s. Local author Fergus Hume in his book 'The Mystery of a Hansom Cab' described: “portly merchants walking beside pretty daughters.” I look up from my book on a Saturday morning one hundred and twenty-eight years later and see the exact same thing – with ironed flat hair and cell phone attachments. Dog walkers and their miniscule dogs reign supreme. Debbie and I were in stitches the other day ranting over the fact that these days they sell, what we new to be mongrels, as 'designer dogs'.

“They can call it a schitzoodle all they like,” Debbie raves hysterically. “But it's still a mongrel.”

We got inventive with cross-breed names and came up with the very juvenile but wettingly funny at the time, Poo-schitz or a Bitchin' Freeze. Okay so we don't pretend to be grown-up all the time.

Ahem, anyway the dog walkers are here with their miniatures bred for city living venturing, like their owners, out of their winter hoodies. I was really pleased to see that summer attire for dogs is au naturel and not mini boardies and tanks.

The barely teenage skateboarders are also out in force to flick tricks on the curbs. I am impressed with the skill at which they dodge the pedestrians and other wheeled traffic on the boardwalk but then they tell me they have had hours of practise here, at apparently eleven o'clock at night. Does their mother know they're out at that hour, I wonder?

The air is buzzing with sounds of beach rugby games and the steady drone of weekend jaunters flying passed in small planes, on jetskis and in fishing launches. The sailors are on the water as well and even though the wind is maybe not even 10 knots, they all have their spinakers up. Puts Auckland sailors who prefer to motor if the wind hasn't reached 12-15 knots, in their place a bit. Everyman and his teeny dog it seems, is enjoying the day.

Over at Luna Park Debbie braves the oldest continuously operating rollercoaster in the world and other chunder bucket rides as she nurses a slight Friday night hangover. I'm sure she's not the only one whose stomach is not up to the ride. The Scenic Railway was built in 1911 and can reach speeds of up to 65km per hour with a manual brake operator riding the carriage. Having done a few of these 'vintage' rides at Blackpool I am aware of how real the fear feels that you think you might not make it to the end without something going horribly wrong. Debbie made it safely through however, stomach still in tacked and her souvenir photo is hilarious but then souvenirs are a bit of a thing at theme parks. I do like the Asian lady at the entrance selling from about her person, everything that flashes, wobbles and goes wheeeeeee. Luna Park is a St Kilda landmark along with the Palais Theatre and oooh this is a bit of a sore point at the moment the locals have told me.

Inevitable development is happening at Melbourne's day-tripping capital in the form of (sinister drum roll required here), The Triangle. This is a planned, Council approved entertainment complex encompassing the area from the dilapidated theatre along Jacka Boulevard to the Sea Baths. It has some residents protesting bitterly that it is too big and will bring more people to the area to party. I understand their gripe but my feeling is that St Kilda has always been a pleasure garden and the Triangle complex is just a newer version of the skating rinks and dance halls of old. What's the difference? The promenade has the same portly merchants, the night clubs have the same unsightly bodgies and wedgies who always hung out here. People complained about it then as they do now but they choose to live here.

The other time honoured tradition of St Kilda is the homeless drinking out of paper bags in the parks. They have not adjusted their routine according to the weekend or the weather and are a feature of the beach that the rest of the day trippers obliviously ignore. The beggars are week-round regulars but fare no better with the increased weekend numbers hanging out at the cafes to see and being seen. Something I find really annoying here is that despite the footpaths being constantly busy with dawdling walkers and shoppers, the cafes spread their tables well and truly out into the traffic flow so it doesn't. They create a very narrow corridor for people to get passed and I guess the theory is that if they can't, they will stop for a bite to eat instead. They also have walk-by breakfast bar counters which add to the street block as people queue and hang around waiting for takeaway coffee. It doesn't bug Debbie as much as me because it is prevalent here as the way of life but I don't have to get used to living with it.

Jewel of the Brunswick Nile

A number 19 tram to North Coburg takes you through Brunswick's Sydney Road. This is just one more of the colossally long straight roads to Melbourne town. Where Sydney Road differs from Chapel, Brunswick or Smith Street is that it is more of an obvious cultural gumbo with the most fragrant flavour belonging to North Africa and the Middle East.

Here the shops glisten with gold, Muslim icons, Persian rugs, functional art, treasures brought to us from the Arab world. One shop stands out as Aladdin's Cave filled with elegant brass coffee pots, trays of gold filigree encrusted glasses, mysterious enticing hookahs that would have had Alice's caterpillar smoking from the other side of the mushroom. It is a truly alluring shop and if I had had all the wealth in Dubai on me, I would have spent it here.

Every window I pass in Sydney Road shows me mannequins in Arab garb, intricate gold jewellery, bolts of vivid cloth, pastries soaking in dates and honey. I feel like I have stepped onto the Nile.

Pantheon International Cakes sells sweet treats from all over Europe. I asked the man at the counter to take me on a tour of his cabinets. He smiled and with good-nature, humoured me. Koulouria make many koulouri and many koulouri are on display in the window. These are piles of miniature crispy Greek cookies some twisted plain, some covered in sesame seeds. Above them are many style variations of shortbread and buttery Viennese fingers. The counter cabinet is filled with imitation cream yummies from the rest of Europe. Call me a freak but I like mock cream far better than fresh so these are causing my tastebuds to salivate. Slices of gateau Black Forest, cappuccino, chocolate, vanilla...fruit topped cheesecakes...Chantilly cream filled profiteroles and cannoli and tray loads of baklava swimming in nuts and sticky honey.

The owning family is from Greece but the young man serving me tells me that he was born in Australia. He speaks fluent Greek to his regular customers though because he was sent to Greek classes in the evenings after school. That is a difference to Auckland that I like about Melbourne. Immigrants from Europe came to both countries round about the same time, after WWII. They were looking for a fresh start. New Zealand required new immigrants to assimilate fully into the community so the Dutch, the Dalmations etc learned to speak English and forgot about speaking their own language. Their children were brought up New Zealanders and in some cases never learned to speak the second language of their inheritance. This I find sad. If you have the opportunity to own more than one culture then you should embrace and make the most of it. As a woman with pasty British white blood coursing through her veins I would love to have inherited something more exotic.

The immigrants of Melbourne have gone to lengths to not forget who they are by keeping their heritage strong in their children through living language and culture. I believe that you understand yourself more completely knowing where you come from and by appreciating the efforts of all those before who allowed you the start in life you have. Melbourne has successfully embraced its cultural diversity so much so that it is a colourful feature of the city and communities. For the visitor like myself it allows me to discover a fresh beauty in every suburb I cover and I am very grateful to share the exotic I don't myself own.

A lesson in Melbourne Misfits and Civic Pride

I did it! I gave in and took the busman's holiday today. I usually resist going into libraries when vacationing because – well – I'm on holiday why would I want to think about work? She's clearly not a librarian then, I hear my bibliophilic colleagues huff, look she even makes up words not in the OED like bibliophilic. What can I say, I love libraries and all they represent as well as what they have personally meant to me but I'm here as a writer not a librarian. But writers need libraries right? In fact everyone needs libraries whether they use them or not. The reason we need the existence of libraries is to elevate our communities to societies and transcend civil into civilisation. Libraries are egalitarian, they are free and they provide everyone from the coated to the coatless with the tools to rise. But only if their hands are clean according to the original charter. Most people, regardless of whether they have ever stepped into a public library in their life, support that principle.

So that makes the State Library of Victoria, an elegant stately building on a gracious lawn at the top of the city grid, one of the most important buildings in Melbourne. And I visited it today, she says puffing like a peacock. It is simply the most beautiful building I have seen lately and over the last couple of weeks I have seen some impressive places big and small. Classically influenced Victorian splendour are words to describe the library inside and out. Starting at the lawn and front steps it is already a place Melbourne citizens frequent. Lunchtime crowds make the most of its green sanctuary in a pushy urban jungle. Freedom and space abound in the library environment.

I could wax rapturously lyrical for hours about the architecture of the State Library but I won't, I'll just tell you all that you need to come here and see it for yourselves as one of Louise's Wonders of the World. Instead I will talk about a current exhibition.

“The Changing Face of Victoria” succinctly chronicles Melbourne's history. Navigating as I have been lately via the who's who of streets, I was hungering for some facts about this city, names and places and where better to find them than the library?

Let's start with the founding fathers, all three of them, John Batman, George Evans and John Fawkner. Fawkner at least was a convict criminal and Batman sure sounded like one from the narration. He allegedly bought the land at Port Phillip from the Aborigines for the usual price of beads and blankets (no giving these natives guns like New Zealand). The next thing he did was swagger around arrogantly in a Batman cape claiming that he was the greatest owner of pastoral land in the World. The village of Melbourne would be established where Batman dictated and it was, at Queensbridge. Sounds like a bit of an oik to me especially when the scribbles on his treaty that he claimed to be the illiterate signatures of the Aborigine chiefs looked suspiciously like doodles made in his own journals. What was he doing, practising forging their x marks?

George Evans was the only one of the three original founders to settle permanently in Port Phillip at Sunbury. I couldn't help snickering at the unlikely name he chose for his homestead and feel that the authors of the exhibition must also have seen the childishly humorous side to make mention of the 'Emu Bottom' estate. George, what were you thinking? Can language have changed that much that Emu Bottom had completely different connotations back then? I think not!!! If you put that as your address on your tax form, they wouldn't believe you. He lives where? Up who's bottom?!

Fawkner and a fellow convict William Buckley, were escapees from the infamous Van Diemen's Land penal colony of Sorrento. Buckley took refuge with the Aboriginal Wathaurung people forming a unique bond between white settler and native tribe. When he stumbled back to Port Phillip almost thirty years later however, he completely let the side down. William Buckley, clad in Aboriginal garb complete with paint, had to be recognised by his tattoo and dental records (nah, I'm joking about the teeth) because apparently he had forgotten how to speak English. Forgotten English?! Oh come on! I can believe that he might have been a bit rusty but completely lost the ability? Had he also forgotten how to ride a bike, tie his shoe lace or put on pants?

The settlers started coming to the village on the green at Queensbridge in droves. The Colonial Government got cross and waved their arms yelling “stop it! Go away! We're not ready!” But still they came, gravitating to 'Marvellous Melbourne' and eventually the authorities threw their hands up in disgust and pouted, “oh go on then if you must, just keep the noise down.”

But noise is kinda inevitable when your mum names you Ned, Ned Kelly that is. They have a great display of that bush larrikin's armour at the library right now. Wow it's impressive. Impressive that the gang ever let Neddy go out wearing such a crime against fashion darling. Riddling it with bullet holes to make it look authentic didn't help but I did like the lippet. Oh, come on people THE LIPPET, the flap covering his chop, the family jewels to those not of Aussie-Polish decent. The important body bits Ned instructed his kindergarten blacksmith too protect were; head, shoulders, chest, back and chop. They of course shot him in the leg and he fell over.