What better way to end a wonderful
overseas trip than to miss by a day your returning flight? I could
see that becoming a much more expensive mistake than it was.
It did mean, at least for a while, that
I could take a tour of Melbourne's largest airport, Tullamarine. Many
other travellers had clearly already learned what to me was a
valuable lession: try carrying a well-padded sleeping bag, as it is
as if they intentionally constructed the international departure
lounge to be uncomfortable.
At least while aching from the cold
metallic grilles they called seats, one can try to admire the
surroundings; it is an attractive building. Even if it could be both
attractive and comfortable, however, I can see it playing hard on
anyone's psyche spending extended stretches confined there.
The planned repetitions, whether the
voices broadcast over the P.A. System (which without ear plugs make
sleep near impossible), the cleaners mopping the floors to the sheen
of several hours hence, or the replenishing of stocks of
exhorbitantly priced vending machines, all sum to give the space a
timelessness, even while it is the centre of the most thoroughly
unforgiving schedules in the city.
There was an upside: not to be found in
the airport, certainly, but in the extra time afforded around the
city. The night before I travelled to a cosy Greek restaurant close
by the CBD to attend one of the few Melbourne Comedy Festival events
that barely needed a good review to attract a crowd: “Fawlty
Towers – The Dining Experience.”
It was my first
shot of – and I suppose at – interactive comedy. If I may take
for granted here the talent of the trio guiding the night, the
question most deserving an answer becomes how faithful they were to
the canon.
The doors to the
restaurant remained locked until shortly before the event. At some
point during that time, myself and others outside could hear Manuel
shouting “Oh, no!” and, later, a fire extinguisher going off. All
of which was delightful – if perhaps unintentional – scene
dressing.
One notable
difference from the tenor of the TV series was that all of the
audience in these 'interactions' are 'in' on the act and find it very
difficult to take any of it seriously. So, by the nature of the
medium, compared to that of television, the actor's behaviour and
that of the audience are reversed.
Finally, to cap off
what I thought to be the last day, came an unexpected visit to a
local marina, after being invited by my cousin to a voyage on her
friend's yacht.
It is a
tremendously serene feeling, floating across the waters at the behest
of only the wind. The sky, apart from a little haze across the
Melbourne cityscape, was mostly cloudless, allowing us to travel
lightly dressed.
The view of the
cityscape miles from the shore was a serendipitous reminder of that
from far above in the plane I originally flew in on at night. As
could be expected, there was little regular pattern to many of the
roads, likely reflecting many separate phases in the city's growth
and evolution.
What
brought me to Melbourne this time was the invite from another cousin
to her wedding. This became a great opportunity to reunite with my
father after his twelve year disappearance. His absence from the
wedding itself requests a narrative I will avoid tracing, suffice to
say he invited me to his residence some few hours north-west of
Melbourne. After mentioning these plans to another friend, she
convinced me to travel up even further north from Melbourne to visit.
This maped out a travelling circuit from Melbourne to Echuca to
Finley. The idea was to loop around these closer-to-outback locales
for the few days prior to the wedding, then to see a more microscopic
sample of Melbourne city and its surrounding suburbs.
My father had
kindly arranged my pre-wedding transit several weeks before I
arrived, as the train up to Echuca requires a reservation. It was a
fine train, clearly fitted for travelling long distances at a time,
with dedicated luggage areas and with seating more padded than on the
metropolitan network.
He was waiting at
Echuca's station as the train approached. I had been briefed about
what to expect by various people, yet even so he looks terribly old,
and carries himself as a man terribly old for his years would. No
longer puffing on the seemingly socially more dignified pipe, he has
downsized, if not down-puffed, to the humble – if not for their
cost – cigarettes.
Soon we were able
to travel to a local – if cross-state, as the area straddles the
border – hotel to enjoy a meal prepared as part of an event held
between a Rotary club and the Lions club he frequents. The food was
fine, and they had a fairly good guest speaker: a sports commentator
for the ABC, so at least he had a nice voice.
Following that, we
both got a ride from some of his friends from the club back to his
house, part of a fairly uniform and boring state-owned block. The
outlook that I would need to sleep in and breath in this cigarette
debris-littered preliminary coffin was something I could do little
but resign to.
Never again.
No natural light
breached its windows, supposedly for the plausible reason that air
conditioning needs would skyrocket. The fridge and cupboards were
lined with bulk-purchased canned foods and TV-dinners: an
embarrasment of malnutritive riches.
While the state may
ostensibly own the property, the semi-hourly smokes between its walls
would invest it with another much more nefarious owner. Its dominion
extends over all furnishings, and is always slowly trying to make
necrotic furnishings of any living inhabitants. Even in the shower
you feel clothed in an impermeable membrane of uncleanliness.
Accomodation with
my father includes an apparently well-rehearsed tour of savings made
on various household items, almost every comonly-used one mentally
cataloged with an RRP and the amount he saved. The occasional catalog
entry would recall a stock narrative of the current interest-free
loans being paid off, and the purchases they made possible.
Is
this the necessary result when debt is your universe, and every
savings a cause to celebrate? Furher encompassing by the bizarre
revelation that this abode had been furnished ex nihilo.
A story with all
the markings of a creation myth; I can likely take to my grave
ignorant of its provenance. How can someone reach their mature years
without retaining some of their life history in physical possessions,
even the tiniest trivially-transported trinket? Is it a consious
attempt to repress thoughts on low times? Did a bank relinquish them
as collateral? Did he suffer larceny? Or were they merely pawned to
fund another puff?
I will relish
memories of the visit for years, a visit which alone reveals that
they are where such experiences should stay. Remembrance is the only
repeat they deserve. While love for my father demands pity, love for
my self could not survive it, and I would not dare recycle that for
any of my own children.
Arriving in Finley gave right-of-way to a comfortable and notably
breathable respite. The cool morning dark had receded to a clear and
radiant sky, emphasising my friend's very welcoming house and
backyard. The barks to accompany my entry soon died away, and I was
left for a few hours to peruse a Milan Kundera book from my luggage
until the end of the day's working hours.
Dad had offered some roses from his front yard (it would be too
generously assuming to call it his garden) for my trip up here, and
despite my suggesting that I was not making that kind of visit, he
insisted I pack them.
While not being able to cite much experience as a guest, my short
time here before the wedding revealed in my friend the most
consummate host. The next morning she took me to her workplace,
introducing me to the assorted instruments of the trade; a very fancy
x-ray machine, walls lined with numerous vials (including one that
could barely leave doubt as to its function, called “Lethabarb”),
a fridge stocked with not only human consumables but also various
animal organs. As I was inspecting a brain in a small open container,
she casually mentioned it was to be checked for anthrax. ... Lovely.
Shortly before leaving, my friend handed me a filled syringe to
administer to a beautiful Alaskan Malamute in her care. There were
three ways of administering injections she had described earlier, the
most obvious one being the I.V., or 'intravenous.' I had more trouble
guessing the next acronym; an I.M. injection – which I would soon
make the mistake of delivering - would go right in to the muscle. The
injection she invited me to give the dog which would afterwards
gladly avoid me was the third variant, the S.C., or sub-cutaneous. A
thick fur – what you would expect of a near-arctic dog breed –
covers the Malamute, which makes it a challenge to lift the skin away
from the muscle.
I'm glad these are not stoic creatures, as when I started to push on
the syringe we both heard an anguished yelp. Gladly relinquishing my
torture implement, my friend proceeded to a seemingly effortless
injection. An appropriate end to a visit which would leave me
thoroughly admiring the subtle, highly demanding, yet clearly
rewarding craft she dives into nearly every day.
For the afternoon, we would take a very pleasant walk accompanied by
her dog beside the Murray river. Due to the recent flooding there was
a lingering dampness extremely hospitable to excitable mosquitos. Now
at least, the journey very much makes up for my body's experience of
its aftermath. Her parents had visted a few weeks before I arrived,
and we were retreading a similar path, on which they had seen
kangaroos, and a koala very close up. On this day we only found some
surprisingly well-camouflaged koalas lining a few branches.
It was quite an eventful next morning, which would later become a
near deja-vu experience when I would miss my first flight back home.
The bus was scheduled to depart from its Finley stop at 4:50AM.
Through some fault – very likely my own, I was shocked alert in
finding the time on my cellphone to report 6:53AM. Since only a
single bus to Melbourne passes through Finley each day, it would
later seem my only prospect would have been hitchiking on a random
freight truck. Fortunately my clock was still set to New Zealand time
and I was “only” three minutes late. To recall the event much
more briefly than it seemed at the time, my friend probably broke a
few traffic laws getting me to the bus's next stop, and contrary to
expectations I boarded it a very relieved – and profusely thanking
– man.
The wedding was that evening, so despite my schedule not being
terribly accommodating to missed buses, I arrived with a few hours to
spare before being picked up for the ceremony.
While I can now only take little pleasure finding novelty in these
ceremonies, a secular format was at least refreshing, and easy as it
may be to tread on people's sensibilities, the difference in
presentation is so minor that I would have been surprised had anyone
been seriously offended.
Few beautiful words left unspoken, the ceremony gave way to a brief
congratulatory and camera-snapping interlude, before everyone would
fill the impressively capacious and well-arranged dining hall.
The first part of the room to intrude on my senses was, however, the
expansive dance floor. It may be an illusion conjured by the
competent master of ceremonies and caterers, but the night revealed
that even with self-consciousness out the window, ettiquite and
appetite are strong restraints on over-zealous feet.
Seating arrangements were such that those adjacent to myself were the
most closely related. And as little as the sparse and obscure
childhood memories could fill the conversation, they did yield an
effective icebreaker. One neighbour was a professional cook, which
combined with my newly-acquired amateur intrigue towards anything
gastronomy, sent us along an enjoyable thread of inquiry.
The days following the wedding were appropriately occupied mostly
with unscheduled repose, neatly accommodating the reflections my
journey up to then would allow me.
It is the reflections memories make possible that keeps them
self-sustaining, so it is left to me to feel fortunate that the times
I had in Australia are worth carrying the rest of the way.
