And what have I learned so far…
I’ve learned that other people’s poo isn’t really that bad. It’s not good, but it’s not worth vomiting about. Even baby poo, which is particularly nefarious and… curiously yellow. I’ve learned that the ability to cook, when combined with putting up with small children, will get you room and board in some people’s houses. I also learned that it is more difficult than it looks to break down a pig’s leg into sensible portions. A sharp knife also helps.
I’ve learned that I have deep wells of patience previously unseen in myself. The ability to accept that while someone might be screeching in your ear or stamping their feet, it’s not entirely their fault, and they should not necessarily be blamed outright. I suppose I’ve learned the true meaning of “extenuating circumstances”.I’ve also learned that I can be incredibly angry at a small child, and say ridiculous things like “Well if we didn’t argue about it we would have been done by now!” when a delay occurs. That one was particularly scary as I sounded like a harried old woman, a parent caught in the midst of a breakdown. The thing is, I also learned that that kind of irritation-based logic, with its snappy staccato rhythm, actually gets through to a child. It makes sense to them. Perhaps they operate in a world of speed and convenience, where delay and difficulty are the true enemy, not sadness or loss as come to accept when we’re older. Perhaps that makes them generally happier, perhaps it makes them not human at all, yet. But this isn’t about perhaps. This is about what is and has been, and hopefully will be.
So far, it’s been good, all in all, the strange animals and spartan landscape have taken a backseat to establishing a routine, earning my keep, being helpful and handy. That’s likely good. For now. Next week a bit of adventure comes my way in the form of a weekend excursion to a stud farm (settle down, ladies) which also features a small cabin (my accommodations) in front of which kangaroo males spar and various birds flit this way and that. The wild “bush” of Australia, in a polite, B&B sort of way. And one would presume that one could, if one wanted, see a lot of horse penis. I’m not really after that, but I feel like I know some people who would be. So between the kangaroos, the birds, the cabin, and all the scenery (which of course includes the aforementioned equine members), I will obviously be bringing my camera. And will post the first images of what I’m coming to realize is easily the most foreign country that speaks English. And yes, I include California and Texas in that.
The cities here are flat and sprawling, suburbs spiralling outwards in small clusters of cul-de-sacs, each lined with small adobe-style houses with terra cotta roofs. It’s like an Arizonan Mandlebrot Set. A huge number of parks cut through the neighborhoods, dividing district from district, small gazebos and swingsets the boundaries between a good neighborhood and another good neighborhood frowned upon for having recent immigrants in it. The immigrant-frowning seems to be done with more than a bit of tongue in cheek though, and from what I’ve seen, the immigrants do the same. Of course we are lazy! We’re European! That kind of thing. But they work immensely hard, and they build the only houses around with two stories, so maybe they have something going.
Downtown Melbourne is a city like many others in the world. They speak English, so it’s pretty easy to get around, and has a system of trams (cable cars) not unlike San Francisco. It’s also hilly and on an enormous bay, which likely draws more comparisons. However, unlike San Francisco, most of the action takes place significantly up from the water, which is largely occupied by docks and industry. Uptown in Melbourne small shops and arcades (imagine a mall, but it’s just one hallway between streets) line the roads, and little cafes sell everything from a coffee and pastry to a hamburger the size of your face. This range is represented at each cafe. Australians seem in love with food, and moreover in love with sticking things on hamburgers. The one I had last week included lettuce, cheese, bacon, tomato, pineapple, and a fried egg, along with the usual mayonaise, mustard… Did I mention ketchup here is completely different? I feel like that’s noteworthy too. It’s not as sweet, probably reflecting the different palate that everywhere in the world except America has. Not that there’s anything wrong with such American constructions as banana pudding milkshakes or deep friend Oreos. It’s just different. And that’s kind of nice. Foreign place, foreign ketchup. Still says Heinz on the bottle, though it does refer to it as “tomato sauce” as well as ketchup. So it’s that nice blend of familiar and… different.
Where the hell was I? Right. Melbourne. I haven’t done a huge amount of exploring yet. And what I saw so far was basically standard city fare, until it came to the vast open air Victoria Market. Up at the top of a hill, I came to a roundabout, one side ringed by an enormous parking lot. Past the parking lot were 3 sheds, all about the size of a football field. I knew the market was in the area, so I wandered in. In the first shed a man was selling paintings and furniture, another shoes and clothing, electronics, you name it. All the consumer goods you could want. Of course, I’ve seen most of those; no matter how home-made or special they might be, they just don’t grab me. The second shed was where things got more interesting. Starting at the high end and walking down the hill, I passed by a wine-seller who brought his casks into the market, letting patrons buy the bottle and refill it at a reduced rate. Directly across from him was a woman selling eggs, and in turn the chickens and ducks they came from, in great wire cages. Further down the fruit began, with all the venders selling the standard varieties of bananas, apples, mangos, passion fruit, some (likely ungodly) thing called a custard apple, and any number of mysterious fruits no one who speaks English knows the name of. As I walked through the slowly moving crowd, the venders seemed to think I was playing aloof, and they shouted progressively lower and lower prices. When I got the point of 80 cents for a kilo of bananas, I finally had to take pity and say “Sorry, just looking.” I’m sure this devastated him, but it invigorated the crowd, who had just been saved a fair bit of change by some random American asshole.
The third shed brought more of the same, but vegetables and prepared foods began entering the mix. I bought an orange/pineapple juice from a small stand and looked down a row of venders selling green beans a full foot long, cabbages far larger than anyone’s head (Why is the head always a comparing point for size of food?) and root vegetables that looked like the fossils of sentient life forms. It was amazing, but as I swigged my fancy juice, I felt like I was in the mood for something a bit more… carniverous.
At the base of the sheds, a building with a food court. Past that, another building. Entering the latter, the smell of meat was upon you. Butcher shops of all varieties lined one corridor on the left, the other, to the right, was all fish mongers. The smells, nauseating and alluring at once, mixed to form a sort of bloody fish confusion cocktail that excited something far below my normally snooty forebrain. It was primal. Again, I walked up and down the aisles, looking at the primest, marbliest beef and staring a yellowfin tuna head right in the eye. It was great, but, of course, not edible. Immediately, that is. And thus I had lost interest.
Through one more set of double doors, and the air filled with the smell that will forever make me smile, whether it’s because I’m a fatty at heart or because I was simply born to appreciate the work of people who can creatively cure/rot things. Imagine if you will, a hall the size of say.. a local small town train station. Commuter railroad. Nothing fancy. No giant clock, no digital read out, just a good, honest brick building. Now imagine that the entire interior of said building smells like aged cheese and cured meat. If you are not nearly aroused at the thought, you might not be human by my definition. These things stand as mankind’s greatest monument, our triumpant victory over the natural spoilage that perishable goods undergo! And in their briny, peppery, spiced aroma, we are reintroduced, nasally, to generations of evolutionary success through good old fashioned farm know-how. The room contained stands featuring cheeses of all varieties, from the most benign cottage to a truly horrifying Stilton that looked like it was about to get up and walk away. The meat ranged from your average workaday British banger to sassy chorizo to Croatian meat patties I can’t remember the name of but will be going back for. Long story short, I wish I hadn’t eaten that goddamned burger right before I went to Victoria Market.
I’m dead certain there is far more to see of Melbourne, and perhaps through it, in some incredibly pretentious and egotistical way, myself. So far, I think it’s been good for me. And really, all I’ve learned so far is all you ever really learn in the world. Namely that you have a whole lot more learning to do.
It’s 11 o’clock here, so I’m off to bed. Feel free to comment and make this thing as interactive as possible. Will post again soon.
RJC
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