Sunday, July 30, 2000
Aussie Life
By Phoebe Fong
WELCOME to our wet, wild, windy, woolly and
wickedly-wintry Welbourne. Er, Melbourne, to the
uninitiated folks then.
Whoever dreamt up that catchy touristy phrase
"Marvellous Melbourne'' obviously had never lived a
day in this chilly city in the dead of winter. Jordan
and I have just spent an entire day in Welbourne, all
attributed adjectives listed above included.
Although our day's adventures haven't exactly been
disastrous, we nevertheless both felt somewhat
exhilarated by some of our skin-of-our-teeth's
experiences. They were almost like a sick comedy of
twisted errors that somehow righted themselves at the
very last split-second.
Granted, the day could certainly have started off a
little better had I remembered where I had placed my
keys, which, of course, took some precious 10 minutes
to finally locate.
Well, if you must know, I had put them in my overcoat
pocket the night before so I wouldn't have to waste
time looking for them in the morning. Great idea,
negated by frightful dementia.
We had decided to take the train to the Big Smoke
solely because my four-wheeler had been spluttering on
me all last weekend and it had been at the mechanic's
for several hours the day before. Besides, I am a real
klutz when it comes to driving around the city.
So, I drove like a lunatic to our local train station.
Passengers were already alighting from the train by
the time I pulled into the station.
Panic bile rose as we raced up to the ticket counter,
only to find two women arguing like fish-wives with
the exasperated ticket-seller while the PA system
blared its final announcement for passengers to board
the train that was due to leave in 60 seconds.
If I hadn't had both hands full at that very moment, I
believe I'd still be cooling my heels at the local
cop-shop lock-up, waiting to make bail. Anyway, the
train was already starting to inch along the tracks as
Jordan and I jumped on board, minus train tickets.
Although I had to explain to an irate conductor why we
had no tickets on us, I was thankful we had not missed
the train altogether. What I didn't bargain on was
having to share opposite seats with those two loud
fish-wives so I snoozed all the way to the city.
Being unfamiliar with purchasing tram tickets from
vending machines, we approached several uniformed
station staff whose jobs are to send ignorant tram
patrons, like us, on wild goose chases all day long.
Eventually, I located one forlorn-looking tram ticket
counter, tucked way out of public view, that was
actually manned.
I had to bite my tongue and not spit venom back at the
ticket-seller's rudeness when she slammed the tickets
on the counter with one hand while stuffing a muffin
into her face with the other. Jordan gave her a dirty
look.
Not wanting to miss my stop, I told the tram driver
that we'd be alighting at Queensberry Street. He
replied, "Sure, no probs.''
The tram was so sardine-packed neither Jordan nor I
could look out for the passing street signs. After a
dozen or so stops that didn't seem right, I asked the
person standing next to us if we were near Queensberry
Street yet.
She looked at me in mock wonderment and said,
"Queensberry Street? Well, that was two stops way back
there!''
So, Jordan and I hopped off at the very next stop and
trudged three city blocks back, in pelting icy rain.
We finally got to where we wanted and stood shivering
in 5 C temperature for several minutes before a
sleazy-looking character saw fit to let us through the
door even though I had re-confirmed our appointment an
hour before.
Five minutes after listening to his parasitic
complaints, I told him where he could shove the rest
of his spiel. Jordan looked bemused as he picked up
his knapsack, led the way out and opened the door for
me.
By now, the rain was bucketing down outside with a
shocking vengeance and the winds blustered fiercely
all around. Like pathetic drowned rats, we managed to
seek some refuge from the elements at a bus-shelter
where I made a call to the person with whom we were to
meet next.
Thank goodness, this godsend of a lady took pity on us
and arranged to pick us up within 15 minutes. Only
problem was that she was new to the city herself and
had to find one of her colleagues to draw her
directions to where we were stranded.
After a couple of hours of sorting through some issues
with the lady while, thankfully, getting dried, Jordan
and I once again found ourselves out on the street,
soaked to the skin, in the ever relentless downpour.
I rang the next person on our day's agenda and
arranged to meet up at a particular tram stop. Yes,
you guessed it! The tram didn't care to stop where we
wanted it to but rolled around the corner and trundled
further down another street away.
Well and truly frozen to the bone and starving by now,
we spent the next hour in the nearest coffee shop
before realising that we had less than 30 minutes to
hurry back to Flinders Street Railway Station to catch
our train home. Of course, the train was already there
by the time we ran up to the platform, all puffed out.
Now, two hours after having arrived home, my fingers
are still frost-chilled, my knees rheumatoid
arthritic-stiff and the rest of me barely half-thawed
out. However, my exhausted little cherub has already
fed himself, taken a hot shower and snugly tucked
himself up in his warm-as-toast bed.
Before I go crash for the night, I need to upload this
article onto my website but my Internet connection has
gone on strike! Does WWW stand for Wrongly Wired
Welbourne?
* Phoebe Fong is a freelance writer living in
Australia with sons Ian and Jordan. E-mail:
phoebe@workmail.com
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