Ah, I need some help—about three hours of your time, actually, if you can spare it. Kathryn’s away, see, at one of her weekend booze-ups. Excuse me, I mean at a conference. That’s what they have to call their drinking sessions if they want to stick the university with the bill. Anyway, I need to do the shopping, and I’ve only got two hands, and, well, would you mind? You’ll enjoy it—it’s a nice little three-mile walk to the store, but only 300 yards coming back. Don’t worry; I’ll explain as we go. It’ll be fun, I promise.
So, this is our road—we go up this way, and yes, here we have High Street, Armadale. Look at the date on that building there. That’s when this suburb really got off the ground—the gold-rush years of the 1850s. But now it’s ground zero for the Victorian wedding industry, as far as I can tell. To save you counting, just on this next half-mile stretch there are 11 bridal shops with wedding dresses so over-the-top and overpriced that I’ve even seen some of the manequins blushing to wear them. In addition, this street has 57 boutique clothing stores, 32 art galleries, 21 cafés and restaurants, not to mention the sundry bookstores, houseware stores, Persian rug shops, and four places to get your nails done, though we don’t have time for that today.
Yes, there is rather a lot of money around here. You will have noticed all the Mercedes, BMWs and Lexi, of course, and we have a pretty fair chance of seeing a Maserati or a Lamborghini somewhere along the way. I recently learned that the neighboring suburb of Toorak is the most expensive in the state, and in fact is the seventh priciest in all of Australia. So this is a community of bank managers, judges and old money—people whose antecedents probably wore top hats and pince nez, and said “What ho!” and “Jolly good,” or, when shocked, “Harumph!” Since we moved in, I have daily expected a visit from the local citizens’ council to request that we strike camp and remove ourselves to a place more obviously suited to our station in life, but so far I guess we have stayed under the radar. Possibly they think we are help for one of the estates.
And well, here we are at Glenferrie Road. Down that-a-way you have another 31 boutique clothing stores in case High Street didn’t have what you were looking for; and an additional 33 restaurants and cafés as well. That stately Victorian pile across the way, hiding behind the scaffolding, tram lines and that outlandish Christmas wreath, is Malvern town hall, where the local government is housed and where I occasionally donate blood. And—what? Oh yes, those bronze sculptures—aren’t they sublime?
What do you mean, “hideous”? What a philistine you are! Look what it says here on the plaque:
THE SUN AND THE MOON IS A UNIVERSAL SYMBOL OF HUMAN ENDEAVOUR.
THE FIGURES ALLUDE TO CLASSICAL MYTHOLOGY: THE MINOTAUR, APOLLO THE SUN GOD, AND DIANA THE HUNTRESS GODDESS OF THE MOON.
Note the careful wording: the figures allude to certain mythological characters, rather than depicting or representing them, which means the artist could throw in as much mythological rubbish as he wanted without fear of being called an ignorant jackass. He could have added Neptune’s trident, if he’d cared to, or Thor’s hammer, or Ganesha’s trunk. In one sense, though, these figures are genuinely universal. They have no connection at all to this particular spot on the globe, but then, being hybrids, they have no connection to any other place either. They would be equally irrelevant wherever they were set up, so they might as well be here, I guess.
I tell you, if I could travel back in time and witness one moment of history in this place, it would have been the 1989 unveiling of these sculptures. How I would love to have been there with maybe a dozen photographers to record the crowd reaction when they first beheld “The Sun and the Moon” and realized A) that they had paid for them; and B) that they and posterity would have them to enjoy for a long, long time. I haven’t been able to track down a copy of the local paper for that date, but I imagine the headline was some variation on “Harumph!”
But come on—we have shopping to do, and can’t aford to be swooning over artwork all day. Up here is our local library—very helpful staff and an excellent selection of jazz and classical CDs. And this is Malvern Gardens. They’ll have some free Sunday concerts there this summer, as well as in other local parks; we’ve got the schedule at home somewhere. Okay, get ready to skip now: we have to cross the road. Yes, of course I see the lights up ahead, but where’s the glory in crossing that way? Mind the tram tracks in the middle, and do step out a bit—there is some traffic bearing down on us rather smartly. Drivers here give no quarter; I’m convinced they get insurance-rate reductions if they can prove they ran down a certain number of pedestrians in the previous year. So this is our weekend routine, Kathryn’s and mine: we do this one-hour walk to the store and have a talk as we go. Oh, but look over there, back across the street. That’s the Harold Holt Swim Centre. Well may you ask. Old H.H. was Prime Minister of Australia back in the ‘60s, but he went for a swim in heavy seas a bit south of here and drowned. Yes, while in office. They never did find the body, and—what’s that? Well, yes, I guess it is a bit ironic, looked at like that. Never thought of it; well observed.
But oops, round the corner we go here. Now isn’t this a splendid little piece of suburban heaven? I actually like this neighborhood more than our own. The homes are more reasonably proportioned, and they have more yard. Also, they don’t hide behind brick or stucco walls, as they do back in Armadale, so you can enjoy your neighbors’ gardens as you pass. And just look at those big, beautiful London plane trees marching up and down the street. Aren’t they splendid? The branches shake hands with their partner across the way. It keeps it lovely and shaded on the hot, summer days. Now one more death-cheating dash across a 46-lane speedway, and here we are at our usual supermarket, Coles. Okay, I’ll tear the list in half—you get those items, and I’ll get these, and I’ll meet you at the checkout counter.
What, done already? You are efficient! Let’s see—it looks like you got the essentials. Ah, Tim-Tams: diabolically tasty, those things. It’s totally misleading to call them cookies or biscuits—they’re simply in a class by themselves. Personally, I think they ought to be available only by prescription, they’re so addictive. And good, some ginger marmalade: that’s superb as well. Kangaroo steak, check; and good, some Vegemite too. Yes, definitely not for everyone, but I think we’ve acquired the taste now—this is our fifth jar since our arrival last year.
But there’s a story to that little jar. Every now and then a really big organization here in Oz will do something so spectacularly stupid, that it is forced to curl up in a fetal position while the public kicks it in the kidneys and heaps abuse on it until it reverses course and sets things right, or until another organization does something stupid and gives the public a new target. Here’s a perfect case in point. A few months ago, Kraft, which makes Vegemite, decided that in order to boost the sales of this venerable Aussie product, they would have to update the stuff—bring it into the 21st century. It would be too simple, of course, just to come out with a clever ad campaign or sponsor an athletic event. No, if a thing’s worth doing, it’s certainly worth over-doing, so they had a big contest to come up with a whole new name for the product. Vegemite was so yesterday. But guess what name won. Go on—let’s see what kind of ad exec you are.
Give up? iSnack. Truly. iKid uNot. Absolute howls of public fury, the head of Kraft’s CEO ended up on a pike, I think, and the name was changed back to Vegemite within nanoseconds. But there were already a few thousand jars of iSnack being distributed, and they have slowly disappeared from store shelves as people buy them in the hopes that they will one day be collectible.
But tell me, did you come across any abandoned baskets in your wanderings—a shopping basket half-full of stuff set down in an odd place? Yes, I thought you might; I generally find at least one on every trip. They mystify me. I can only surmise that they mark the spot where a shopper was abducted by aliens, or suffered a fatal heart attack, or received a call to go perform emergency brain surgery somewhere, because I simply cannot believe that people would be such utter troglodytes as to fill a shopping basket with random items, many of them perishable, and then simply change their minds and leave the basket on a secluded shelf for the shop staff to deal with. As I say, it’s a true mystery. It wouldn’t surprise me to see a major investigative news item on the phenomenon.
And now we head out of the shopping center this way—no, over here—and behold, across the road, Caulfield train station. From here we’ll catch a train toward the city. Now, have a look at the sidewalks—see all the tiles with the horeshoe emblem? Caulfield is home to a major racecourse, and earlier in the spring this railway station was a very entertaining place to embark: every arriving train would decant hundreds of race-goers. Now, don’t ask me why, but it’s an Aussie tradition to dress up—way, way up—for the races. The men’s uniform is pretty standard: suit, garish tie, perhaps a fedora, and a bottle of beer or bubbly in hand. The women are the ones to watch, however. Whether it’s bucketing down with rain, or the sun is out melting the pavement, the women go for nothing but superlatives in their dress: the shortest, tightest, lowest-cut dresses allowed by law; the most preposterously high heels they can actually stand up in; and they finish it off by clipping a random bit of silk, felt, or lace on their heads, and by common consent everyone pretends it’s a hat, especially if it’s got a veil of some sort. It’s quite a sight to see the young—and not so young—ladies mincing so carefully down the ramps to the underground passage, trying not to topple over.
What? Oh yes, there is a fair bit of graffiti—they do love to paint a wall around here. If you’re looking for a good investment, sink your money into the company that supplies Australia with spray paint and you’ll do all right. Every now and then our own local station gets muralized with some undecipherable gibberish, but the city must have some miracle-working cleaner on staff because the paint is typically removed within days and not a trace remains on the brickwork. Ah, here’s our train. One stop, two, and off we get at the third one, Toorak.
We’re just a few minutes away from tea and Tim-Tams now. Mind your steps here—this is the street that nightly hosts a parade for incontinent dogs; I believe it won a five-star rating from Dogwalkers magazine. Round the bend here, and would you believe that the last person to see Harold Holt alive used to live somewhere on this little nothing of a road? I have no idea where, but I read it in the Sydney newspaper, so I guess it’s true.
And here we are, back home! Come on through the gate with me and let me show you our beloved Shoebox. You know, I had a feeling you’d ask, so I measured it just the other day: it’s 10 ¾ feet by 29 2/3 feet, or about 318 square feet. Thinking metrically, it’s about 3.29 meters by 9.05, or about 29.75 square meters. Decidedly snug, but it helps us keep in check our urge to fling money in every direction, since everything we bring home must be able to justify the space it takes up. But really, it has everything we need—a bathroom, space on the floor for our matresses, a small refrigerator, and two alleged cooking appliances, which I call the easy-bake oven and the easy-burn cooktop—the yin and yang of our kitchen.
I’m not joking about loving the Shoebox: it’s quiet and convenient and affordable. Our neighbor, Paula, is hardly ever here, so we essentially have the back yard all to ourselves. A delightful set-up, and it does help us keep things simple. Anyway, here’s your tea; you get an extra Tim-Tam for being such a helpful bear. Let’s get this on board, and then we can start thinking of the ‘roo and red—you will stay for dinner, won’t you?
--originally posted 12/2009
No comments:
Post a Comment