I headed out at 5 am to make sure I caught my flight. While I needed to top of my metro card with the money I would never get back, I arrived at the airport with a little problem even though I was too early to check-in. I found out too late that the city of Melbourne has two different airports, and I was flying to the one that was about an hour’s bus ride from the city. I arrived seamlessly, bought my bus ticket then rode it to the bus terminal, making sure to note things of interest along the way. Melbourne (pronounced Mel-bun) was already a city I could tell I was going to like. Call it an engendered affinity, but where I grew up, there was a line of towering sycamore trees that ringed my house. Everywhere I have been in the world where they are, I tend to end up liking the place a little more, and Melbourne was no different. Gliding down the street on a tram from the bus station to the hostel was exceptional. Even though the city was not particularly busy at this time, I was very impressed. In the downtown area, the tram is free for all passengers until you leave the free zone, then one needs to pay. I did not know this at the time and rode all the way to my hostel for free. I figured I was even with the karma gods from Sydney.
I initially decided to come to Melbourne for a simple reason; the mother of one of my aunt’s friends came from there. And she is an amazing, hilarious woman. She met her husband during World War II when he was an American GI. He was so taken with her beauty that this usually shy man walked right up to her on the street and told her so. She told him to piss off. He was persistent, and she eventually relented. The typical Australian regarded the American fighting man as “overpaid, oversexed, and over here.” Despite this, they kindled a relationship. When his orders arrived to return home, he promised he would send for her and marry her. She thought that they had some fun, but she would never hear from him again. He then wrote her a letter, then another, then another, filled with love poems and his grand designs for the life they would build together when he could make enough money to provide for them and the family they would have. He did, and she left Australia to start a new life in New Orleans. She took to her new surroundings, bringing that Aussie charm to everything she did. They raised five daughters, and since that time, she never failed to be the life of the party. I met her as an older woman, and one anecdote I recall was during a Mardi Gras parade. Given her advanced years, she had a seat while the more young and spry stood in front of her, including strangers. If there were a throw, such as beads or a stuffed animal that she liked, she would tap the person who caught it and gleefully say, “I’m from Australia, and I came to Mardi Gras.” Given the fact that she was older, the reveler certainly would give her there recently procured bounty. While both statements were true, no one would ask when she came. She has pulled this act for years. I needed to visit the place that created such a unique person.
I arrived at my hostel a bit too early to check-in. My lovely receptionist Holly, in her thick Irish brogue, suggested I head to a noodle bar downtown. I unloaded my things and then headed on foot back from whence I came. After lunch, I officially checked in to my three-person room (score!), took a little nap, then headed out to get food for the week, making sure to stop by Queen Victoria Market (more on that later.) I then returned, had dinner in the lounge area, then went to bed.
I awoke to have the most restful sleep I had had on this journey so far as no one shared my room that night. No shifting, snoring, farting, nor fucking; it was terrific. However, the peace I arose in the morning would not continue; the German travelers that shared my en suite kitchen decided not to clean up the beer bottles that lay broken on the floor. I did not notice until my bare foot landed on one. Luckily my reaction time was pretty quick, so I did not put my whole weight on it.
Crisis averted, I got dressed, then hopped on a hop-on, hop-off bus, and drove around the city. One of the more interesting facts was that in the center of town, the three most important buildings were called the Holy Trinity: the Church, the Parliament, and the Brewery. Another was the 1923 Victorian police strike, which leads to tensions in the city, including riots, looting, and the overturning of trams.
I then went to the Museum of the Moving Image, a museum dedicated to the notable achievements of Australia in the entertainment industry. It had a beautiful 
collection, including the piano from The Piano, the model Moulin Rouge from the film Moulin Rouge, and the local girl Cate Blanchet’s Oscar from The Aviator. There were also two galleries. The first was of a film that lasted 24 hours, done in real-time that matched whatever time it was being viewed with reference to the time in every film. For example, in the real world, it was 3:25 pm; in the film, there would be 3:25 represented on a clock, a watch, or someone mentioning what time it was. Then a little time would pass in the film, and the next mention of the time would coincide with the current time. It was masterfully edited. The second gallery was a VR exhibit imagining the goings of a woman in the colonial period of Australia. Only, it was a bit more like Alice in Wonderland as nothing appeared as it seemed, and most things would turn into a subtle political message, like an armoire that would turn into a slot machine spewing tokens of indigenous rights. I left the museum, only to find myself in the middle of a street festival known as Moomba. It was the most significant free carnival in all of Australia, so I felt right at home. I then headed to a somewhat notorious hotel bar that was mentioned on my tour and was looking forward to meeting a young lady of world-renowned, Chloe.
Young & Jackson is a prestigious hotel in the middle of central Melbourne, located incredibly close to the main train station. Built-in 1861, the building is on the historic registry. However, their most beloved guest is a young French woman named Chloe that took up residence there in 1906. This French nude by Jules Joseph Lefebvre, was
made in 1875. She has kept the company of sailors, travelers, artists, poets, drunks, and Prime Ministers alike, even serving as the mascot of the HMAS Melbourne. Having added my name to her drinking companions, I must say, she does not look bad for a 144-year-old.
As I was walking home from my drink with Chloe, I ran into someone sporting a shirt from my university. I must have startled them as I said Go Wave. It looked like he was an older guy walking with his daughter I did not see. I just told him it was good to see a fellow Tulane alum, told him I was the class of 2005, shook his hand then kept on walking.
I headed back to the hostel, did a little work, then headed back out on the town. It became more apparent that this city would remind me of where I grew up because of the local architecture. Melbourne is full of row homes, much like my native Philadelphia. A row home is a lot like a townhouse in that individual two-three story units are connected by sharing walls. The sloping hills of Melbourne are filled with them.
I stopped at a few bars along the way, making friends and sharing stories. The first bar in which I stopped had a trivia night where most of the questions were about America (Question: What actor from the 90’s television show set in Beverly Hills recently passed away?. Answer: Luke Perry.) The second was a bar that doubled as a sportsbook. At the next, I noticed there was a bottle of Tabasco behind the counter and asked to see it, a little reminder of my home. I struck up a conversation with the bartender. This lead to another one with a man by the name of Vic that was a truck driver. I was two beers in when we started talking. Now, usually, I bristle when people start negatively talking about America, but he seemed good-natured about it, even when his jokes included one about 9/11. It was all well and good, as I knew he did not mean anything by it. I know for sure that my black sense of humor has definitely given some people pause. We talked more, and before he was a truck driver, he was a cop. I find crime fascinating, especially in foreign countries. I asked from his experience, what is one of the leading criminal issues facing Australia today. His response was simple, Ice. I didn’t understand and jokingly asked if people were stealing ice from gas stations or something? He laughed and said no. What we call Ice, you call Meth. Then it all became clear.
Given that Australia is a world to its own, hard drugs are hard to come as far as shipping is concerned. While opium comes rather easily from Asia, methamphetamine is relatively easy to make as it depends on chemicals more than raw materials. He said that drugs and drug dealers were the most significant crimes facing Australia. I shook his hand, thanked him for the conversation, and he wished me good luck on my travels. I headed back to the hostel and went to sleep.
Today was a bit of an Admin Day, but also one to soak in a bit of Australian flavor. I met my new roommate, a Spanish graphic designer named Nichol, in town to learn English. We chitchatted in English and Spanish, which he seemed to appreciate. He seemed like a nice guy. After breakfast, I headed back to Victoria Market to do what I had set out to do for the day. Victoria Market is every bit as impressive as markets from Europe, with stalls spreading from one side of the complex to the other. They sell everything from fruit, fish, cheese, sweets, wine, and, most importantly, for my day, meat.
I went to the counter and made my order of a half kilo of kangaroo meat. Now, before everyone gets in a huff, 
in Australia, kangaroo is like deer. They are a nuisance, and overcrowding can lead to starvation as well as accidents when they decide to crossroads. I took it as my visiting duties to do my part and assist my hosts with their problems. I got a stick of butter, then headed back to the hostel to cook some lunch. I put the butter in the pan, then cubed the meat and cooked it all the way through. There was another traveler in the kitchen, one that did not speak English that well. I offered him a cube of my kangaroo. He asked, as best he could, what it was. I said kangaroo, then made a little hoppy motion. His eyes got wide, and then he smiled and offered his plate. I took my kangaroo feast outside and ate heartily in the Melbourne sunshine. It was delicious.
I woke up to an empty room as my roommate needed to leave to find other accommodation. After brekkie, I headed over to the Shrine of Remembrance. Let me say; this is one of the most impressive memorials I have ever experience; right up there with the World War II Memorial in Washington DC and the Mardasson in Bastogne, Belgium.
Firstly, it is on a gigantic complex, with incredible stone statues guarding it. There are many reminders that the grounds should be considered sacred and holy. The actual shrine stands alone in a mixture of Neo-Classical Art Deco and houses a museum and a crypt beneath. On the stone of remembrance located within the upper part of the complex, engraved on it is an excerpt from John 15:13 “Greater love hath no man…” which continues to solemnly declare “…than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” In the museum, it chronicled the Australian war experiences from the First World War all the way to the present day. It included a bunch of elementary school projects that had children both write and illustrate passages from famous war poems, 
including Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen and In Flanders Field by John McRae. The museum had other treasures of history: flags signed by the men that were captured by the Japanese in Singapore, melted glass from the aftermath of Hiroshima, artifacts from Vietnam, Timor Leste and much more currently, a knitted Afghan rug of planes flying into the Twin Towers, thus commencing the Global War on Terror. It had a lot to say, and I could have spent several hours more there. After cleaning some trash that someone carelessly left on the front steps, I looked out over the Melbourne skyline, thinking about what I had just witnessed for a long time. I then headed my walk home.
I arrived to meet my new roommate. Now, I consider myself a patriot. I love my country and almost everything about it. I can never understand why the international community holds Americans in such low regard, as bawdy, brash, and uncultured swine incapable of common decency. I soon got a thorough education.
My new roommate was a man of about 60. He was a Brooklynite, through and through, but decided after spending his formative years in the shadow of Manhattan; he would move to San Francisco. It was there; he made the best investment of his life, a little three-bedroom house. After his kids grew and left, he decided to rent out the free and clear house and have it pay for his international travel. To say he was uncouth was, to put it mildly. I had been in the room for four days, he arrived and told me I should move my head to the other end of the bed so that when he starts snoring, he doesn’t spit in my face. We got talking a little more, and I told him about my travel plans, upon which he retorts that it sounds overly ambitious and that I will fail. Fair enough. I told him I was going to make dinner and that I would see him later. I made my dinner and was sitting in the lounge area, quietly yet obviously working. Mr. Brooklyn comes and sits next to me with a considerable falafel and starts telling me about how in the 80’s he took a big trip and showed me a picture of him sitting on the top of the Pyramids. “I am sure glad those guards there didn’t shoot me,” he said.
In my 36 years on Earth at the time, I know how petty people can be. Since we were in such proximity, sharing a room, and I did not need anything going wrong, I listened to his stories full of jarring and cacophonous sound effects. The international representatives of the lounge kept looking at me to shut him up. But I would occasionally type something on the computer to convey the definitive idea that I was indeed working. He eventually got the hint, and we parted ways, he going back to the room only after demanding I feel that the entire weight of his falafel. When I arrived, he was already asleep. I could not imagine that someone exhibiting such effrontery while awake could exceed it in their sleep. Between his sleep apnea, his blocked nasal passages from both allergies and a coming cold, his unconscious screaming, his falafel scented flatulence, and his incredibly ill-fitting underwear, I knew that my earplugs would not be enough. I braced for my peaceful nights to be over.
Needless to say, I did not sleep well. Being greeted with the testicles of Mr. Brooklyn hanging out of his boxer shorts when I arose did not do much to improve my mood. I had breakfast, then set out on my last full day in Melbourne. The first order of business was coffee. I then headed down to the Victoria Market again, walked around, found some postcards, and then some figs as it was summer, and they were in season. I then headed back and tried to take a nap, but could not as I was so jacked up on coffee. I looked into when I needed to head back to the airport, and there was only an early bus. I was not going to take a $50 USD Uber to the airport when $10 AUS would cover me. Besides, I could sleep at the airport. I then headed back and had a little dinner.
My evenings in Melbourne, aside from the occasional bar, were spent in a little park across the street from my hostel. It was on the grounds of the Children’s Hospital, and this particular day as I was walking to the hilltop viewpoint, I saw an older Middle Eastern man sitting on a bench. Swaddled in his arms was a baby. The amount of love that he had for the child in his arms was overwhelming. The interesting thing is that while I surmise it was probably a grandfather holding his infant grandchild, the way the man was dressed in a suit and tie, he could have very easily been a doctor holding a patient. Still, the feeling was there, and when I made my way up to the hill, sitting there, overlooking the now lit city of Melbourne, I began wondering if I would ever be that grandfather.
I walked back to the hostel where Mr. Brooklyn was already asleep, snoring and farting with a fierceness that I have only ever seen in my nightmares. I settled to bed, being awoken every hour or so until it was time for me to leave. I got up, secured my already packed bags, summoned an Uber , and headed to the airport.
