Return of the Blogger

Blogging coverage has been patchy over the last six months ... and then I disappeared altogether.  I doubt if I have any readers left, but just in case I do and you're wondering what I've been doing since the end of June - the answer is sleeping, mostly.  And waiting for a baby (not mine, but The Adorable Nephew's little brother) who didn't come and didn't come and didn't come and then finally came the day after we left Aix.  (Capricious baby.)

And in between sleeping, I ate and rested and rocked my new turban and danced and went on the occasional cultural excursion and generally delighted in having my family around me.

Thoughts In/On Transit

Hello from Abu Dhabi.  It's Sunday morning here, which means it's tomorrow in Australia and the day before yesterday in my ultimate destination.  No?  That's what it feels like anyway.

Somewhere during the 14 hour flight from Melbourne as I dozed and woke and dozed and woke, I had a Very Important Thought.  I know that planes are being designed that can fly further and further without needing to refuel (from Singapore to New York say), but let me tell you, you'd have to be mad to fly nonstop from Australia to Europe.  24 hours in narrow seat, with malodorous neighbours (people!  wash before you go on the plane!) and distressed babies around you and not so much as a break to stretch your legs ... madness.

What?  You were hoping for something more profound?

Oh, all right.  The transit stopover is also a useful opportunity, it seems to me, to pause and reflect.  Especially if one is in transit (as HTLT) between one existence and another.  It's a time out of time, a place out of place.  And with Duty Free thrown into the bargain!

I've learned that in Aboriginal culture, there's a belief that when you travel, your soul takes a little while to catch up with you.  Updated to take modern methods of transportation into account, this is used to explain jet lag.  So I'll just wait here for my soul to catch up and for Eithne-in-Australia to become Eithne-in-Europe.

Lygon St

If you asked my father what his top tips for Melbourne were he would tell you (or at least he told me): Sovereign Hill and Lygon St.

A couple of weekends ago, I took the time to have a proper meander along Lygon St - or, in consideration of the street's heritage, it might have been more of a passeggiata.

I started off at the top end, with a coffee in Sugardough, a chic, sweet, fragrant bakery café.















This end (the Brunswick end) is a bit quieter, though it has some good vintage shops and second hand bookshops.

Heading south, the business end of Lygon St starts at the end of Melbourne Cemetery.  An excellent place to get your bearings is Readings bookshop, a Melbourne institution.

For more information on Melbourne's Italian heritage and stories of the community, the Museo Italiano is well worth a visit.  Small, perfectly formed, with a fabulous collection of vintage espresso machines.

That's likely to give you an appetite and you could do much worse than step into Brunetti's across the way for a cappuccino and a delectable Italian pastry.

Pizza, pasta, vino, gelato?  More choices than you can shake a stick at.

I finished my walk with a spin through the Carlton Gardens.

On a crisp winter's day, there's nothing like the dolce far niente on Lygon St.

Talking Strain

Yesterday, I had avocado on sourdough for a late breakfast, accompanied by a flat white.  Am I becoming Aussiefied?

Let's see.  I do like avo on toast, though usually I prefer it in the arvo, not for brekkie.  I have my flat whites for morning tea, which is always morning tea, even if it's morning coffee.  In the evening, I like the occasional stubby, Cooper's Pale for preference.  Pot or a pint?  Look, I think it has to be a pint.

I've been to Tassy and the footy and know that, as a general rule, if you can shorten a word and add 'y' on the end you should.  Speaking of footy - I go for the Saints and understand that people who barrack for the Pies are usually mongrels.

I can spot a bogan, a cashed up bogan and other feral types from fifty paces.  I know what it means if someone is spruiking, though I'm still not confident about how to pronounce it.

I've learned the difference between shit hot (good) and shit house (bad), though I was confused for a while. Shit house not to be confused with dunny - the former is an adjective meaning terrible, of poor quality, the latter meaning toilet.

I have had people say g'day to me, not being ironic, but I have never heard anyone call anyone a flaming galah.

When particularly exasperated, I did suggest someone would be unable to secure a root in a brothel.  But eventually I calmed down and realised that she'll be right.  Somehow, she'll always be right.

In summary, my vocabulary is richer, my swearing capacity enlivened and my experience broadened.  And I finally understand what Waltzing Matilda is actually about.  Fair dinkum.

The Antipodes

I just took part in a conversation about how warm it was right now in various locations around the world*.  When checked, it appeared that today the weather in Dublin is actually colder than the weather in Melbourne.  'But it's summer there!' one of my colleagues exclaimed, shocked.

I thought this was the perfect moment to introduce one of my current obsessions, http://www.antipodemap.com/

With thanks to this handy dandy site, you can explain to the locals why Dublin (whose antipode is somewhere between New Zealand and Antarctica),

might in fact be colder than Melbourne (whose antipode is somewhere west of the Azores).

Hours of fun!

*Thursday afternoon tedium: any distraction welcome

Canberra Sci-Fi

I continue to find Canberra fascinating, in a science experiment kind of way.  It's all so planned, so neat, so very much a mid-century vision of a city.  In fact, it looks like the set of a 1950s B-Grade sci fi movie.

See? (View from the National Museum of Australia.)

The Road to Wagga Wagga

For some reason, Wagga Wagga has special place in my imagination.  In my head, it is the archetypal Australian town. A place where men are men, beer is cold, sheilas and roos gambol through the streets.

So I was pretty excited to see this:














We didn't make it all the way to Wagga, and maybe that's just as well since I've been warned it's not actually the most picturesque of places.

But I enjoyed the road.