There are more bars here than any alcoholic could ever stumble in and out of; more restaurants and bistros that can ever be counted. Horse drawn carriages clip-clop up and down Swanston Street, carrying fat, bored families of tourists in akubras. No one in this arrangement looks pleased to be here, particularly the horses, whose dignity is lost somewhere between their elaborate tassels and the enormous shit bags swinging beneath their tails. If they could cry, I’m sure they would. The drivers wear their top hats grudgingly, waiting out the half hour of till they can tuck into their packet of Lucky Strikes and fart loudly.
Our flat is a wee brick villa, located in the uber-chic suburb of Fitzroy (north). Brunswick Street is filled with ethnic delights, not least the faction of souvlaki cafes, which serve up mouth watering pita breads filled with grilled lamb at all hours of the day or night. After a year in the Asian Royston Vasey town where the only shop closed at 7pm, the joys of 24 eateries cannot be expressed. Let’s just say if I was a Blondie song right now, it would doubtless be ‘Rapture.’ Up the road is a Soup Kitchen, which dishes out dreamy Moroccan from a spoken menu. The trick is to be polite to the harried waitresses or you might get thrown out into the chilly Melbourne evening, sans soup. The whole thing is so Seinfeld, I almost can’t handle it. We went to see Vampire Weekend on a week night. Ironic?
In Lygon Street, Italian restaurants are packed wall to wall. They quietly terrify me. Walking past in the evening, seedy matradees try to coax you in with a beckoning finger, offering you a free bottle of cheap wine if only you’ll come in and try their mouth-watering linguine. Out the back sit the owners, ex-Soprano henchmen with hands clenched into fists and blood smeared aprons. It’s a good time to have a vegan boyfriend by your side, shaking your head at the creamy, meaty delights on offer and escaping to the Thai place down the block. The owners eyes follow you down the street and light another cigar. I swear this is reality and not an HBO cliche. Hamish and I eat our Thai with shaky hands, sweat dripping into our red curry.
Last week, we watched the YouTube video of Oprah interviewing a woman who had her face and hands torn off by a chimp. It was a cultural experience.
Last week, we watched the YouTube video of Oprah interviewing a woman who had her face and hands torn off by a chimp. It was a cultural experience.
On Saturday, we trekked to hideous outer suburb Reservoir to attend a Roller Derby. It was perhaps the most Gummo moment of my life. The crowd was an interesting mix of lesbians, bogans and art school kids trying to be ironic. The music consisted mainly of Marilyn Manson and Slipknot which seemed appropriate as two teams of girls in hot pants and roller-skates raced around a rink and try and push each other over. The roller derby girls had amazing names such as ‘Skate Bush’ and ‘Kitty Von Krusher.’ At one point, our ringside view was blocked by an obese man with a ponytail until his friend brought him over three hot dogs and he had to go and sit down so he could hold all of them. At half time, a gimp man in a neon blue dog suit and wraparound sunglasses serenaded the crowd with an air guitar rendition of the ‘Danger zone’ song off Top Gun. People cheered and threw their empty beer cups at him. Out in the freezing night, we smoked cigarettes because everyone else was.
Melbourne is a place of treats. There are things to do, eat and gawk at in every crevice of the city. Whether you’re looking for a good Ethiopian restaurant or a Friday night sex party and you’re bound to find one that exceeds your expectations. Fun times are many. Elaine approves. Put on your red shoes and dance the blues.
