Apart from the trepidation felt when navigating inner Melbourne’s glistening wet streets after a day of travel, I settled in quickly. This, after all, was once home. It will always be my second city, or my adopted city. It’s a fabulously dank, damp, grimy, grey place, blighted by the criss-cross of tram cables across the sky, but enlivened by busy people, culture, sunburst yellow taxis and the incessant clang of tram bells.
Even in my sixth year of living there, I could be seen taking photos of trams, which ultimately betrays me as the temporary resident I was to become. That brings me to my favourite Melbourne Dad joke: Q. How does a Melburnian know when they’re talking to an interstate vistor? A. The visitor asks, “Where’s the best shopping in Swanston Street?” Swanston Street, for anyone drawing a blank at this carry-on, has lots of shops of the souvenir, smokes, deli and ciggies kind, but no ‘shopping’. It’s the dankest area of the city, but one of its many gateways.
This was always going to be a momentous visit, having travelled by car across the country to get there. But, as to how momentous, well… I was to find out in a matter of days.
I joined my friends for an afternoon of Saturday bowls at Oakleigh Bowling Club. I wanted it to feel as though I’d never left, and it worked. A handful of us propped up the bar till six o’clock, finishing with a raised glass to our departed friend Justin Redshaw.
Juzzy’s deserving of a separate story of his own. Later. I met with his long-time partner Fiona for a morning tea in the city. We have an easy and fun connection, as easy as it was with Justin. We laughed and reflected with joy and sadness intermingled over what was really not terribly like a morning tea at all. You don’t consume champagne and white wine at morning tea, although the caramelised onion toastie might be pardonable. Rugged up against the near worst a Melbourne winter can throw at you, we selected an outdoors table with a heater. There was no way we were going to sit inside and have anyone privy to our highly robust and hilariously obnoxious conversation.
A young woman with an appallingly behaved Cocker Spaniel sat at the table adjacent to ours. The poor mutt had never seen another dog before and yelled and yelped at a very chilled black Labrador for 5 minutes straight whilst the takeaway coffees were being made for both owners. I’d never seen anything like it. With four or five glasses under our belt by this time, Fi and I had hit our groove and were having an absolutely swell time slapping our thighs and laughing like drains at the behaviour of the spaniel. I think Fi didn’t assist the awkward situation. “Ignore us, darl, he’s lovely….no, really, he is….PFFFFFFFFF!” More thigh-slapping. Much slamming of wine glasses down on table with uncontrolled mirth.
The black labrador and his elegant owner were the first to depart. The spaniel calmed down and, to our total incredulity, its owner dug into her pocket for some reward biscuits. Fiona had the final say: “Oh, darl, I’m not sure I’d be rewarding THAT!” More thigh slapping. More mirth. God punished both of us with parking tickets.
Later that evening, my Dad died. I was having dinner with friends Therese, Jason and Michael in Skye. How often do you host a visiting friend for dinner when his Dad dies? It’ll be an evening they won’t forget, either.
It became the central motif to my stay in Melbourne and surrounds. I’d been kindly put up by two lots of friends in Melbourne, as well as organising an essential motel stay for work purposes. I enjoyed a little time on my own to do those things I love doing in Melbourne, such as a visit to the NGV, ACMI, and a relaxed coffee in Degraves Street.
ACMI, once the Australian Centre (of the) Moving Image, is where you see original props from The Sullivans, story boards for neighbours, clapper boards from Skippy, Mad Max’s Falcon coupe and a day’s worth of so much more. My favourite display was a new one. Australia’s lounge rooms through the decades of television were built in highly detailed miniature, and displayed in little window boxes shaped like TVs themselves. It’s free, what’s more. What a superb way to spend a morning or an afternoon.
There’s always a lot of things on in Melbourne, so Jim, Matt and I went to the Picasso exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria.
Dad’s passing meant I had to bring the people, the tasks, the events, and the places to a standstill. It was time to stop, take stock, zone down, and get back home. But what a drive home this was going to be. Solo!