Round the traps - smelling like a car, crazy crowds, wishful thinking and travels

In between study, pursuit of work, reading for leisure and knitting up a storm (sometimes for charity), I haven't had the headspace to write. I think I've been very busy thinking which doesn't leave much space to observe. I've also been feeling a bit angry and frustrated at some of the things I I had a fabulous, relaxed break over the long weekend and started noticing things again.

Today I saw a poster in the window of a discount chemist advertising the new fragrance from Mercedes Benz. I imagine it smells like, well, a car! Why would I want to smell like a car? I can't imagine that there will ever be a fragrance called "Clapped out Corolla". 

I found this sentence on the internet as part of a description of the fragrance: This contrasted composition confers authenticity and is at the heart of the fragrances story olfactory signature and original yet universal character. They might make good cars, but they don't write very good.

It's been a cold start to winter in Melbourne. Last Thursday was particularly cold - biting wind, horizontal rain, no sign of reprieve. Running errands in the city, I saw the ultimate sign of wishful thinking: outdoor tables topped with a pineapple. No one was sitting there and I can't imagine they would order anything other than a hot chocolate. Those poor pineapples!

After lunch and a wander with a friend on Sunday we found ourselves arriving back to the city right when the big football crowds were making their way to Etihad Stadium. At each stop more and more people squeezed in and even thought I was seated, I had a couple of bottoms resting on my shoulder. We arrived at the Bourke Street mall stop and lots of people tried to make a move to disembark, but people were already trying to get on. No one could do anything, so I called out to let everyone know that we were trying to get off. I got one of those looks you get when you speak in a lift with people you don't know. Nothing happened. I made the request more transparent, suggesting that the best way to get out of the way and let people off, was to get off themselves, let us off and then get back on. Still nothing. I managed to ooze my way to the steps where there were three people standing the steps. I asked them to move so we could get off and they said there was no need. Actually their exact words were, "Come on! Are you right?" I had to press myself against them as I went down the stairs.

My conclusion was that they couldn't possibly be Melbournians. Could they? Melbournians are excellent at being in a crowd and very civil and practical in a squeeze. At least we used to be.

News from my mother tells me that my requirements when travelling have been severely lacking. Usually I'm happy if the lighting in the bathroom does not make me look as though I'm aged 153; even better if I can convince myself that I look 25 and the towels are generously sized. My mother informed me today of accommodation she has booked for my father, advising that it has a heated indoor swimming pool and a small herd of fallow deer. I'm listing that as a permanent demand whenever I travel now. It's almost enough to let my mother be my booking agent, but I think she has her hands full being my editor.

How are you travelling?

Postcards from the city

Today's city is Sydney. If I was to send postcards today, here's what I would write on them. Maybe I should just tweet, but thought I'd write my thoughts in one place today.

______________

Why is the toilet paper's placement in relation to the toilet only functional for members of Cirque du Soleil?

______________

Gee whiz, the shower caps are shrinking! Or maybe my hair is getting bigger.

_______________

I wish I knew how those unmarked mixer taps in the shower worked. All I know, is that one direction is boiled chicken and the other is goosebumps. It's always too late when I work it out.

_______________

Walking through the park back to the hotel today, everyone was lying around and kissing each other. Not the homeless people though. They weren't kissing each other.

_______________

There's a messaging function on the television in my hotel room. I'm scared the TV will start messaging me. Hang on...it says "massaging". What...?

_______________

I pull the curtains back and gaze through the filthy windows. I am on the sixth floor. Over the road, five storeys up, a small Asian man is tethered to an unseen point inside the building. He is wearing tennis shoes and carrying a window. He hunches forward as he passes a column which leaves him with mere inches of space on the awning. He clutches the window. It is taller and wider than he is. I wait for him to fall. He doesn't. 

________________

At a busy intersection, my chances of hailing a cab should be good. After ten minutes I reassess. After fifteen minutes I start seeing things. I open the rear passenger door after I've seen the driver nod and the car stops. A startled Japanese woman squeals and recoils at the dangerous beast breaking into her cab. The light was red.

_________________

An empty cab arrives. The driver is displeased. He complains. About traffic. About driving a taxi. About the weather. About me. About turning right. I insist. He complains when I pay him. Poor man. He no longer knows what is good.

_________________

After walking through the park, I took these pictures of important Latin American men:

© 2015 divacultura

© 2015 divacultura

© 2015 divacultura

Stuff is getting smarter and people are getting dumber

Just say you got into a taxi. What's the first thing you're going to say, after "hello" if you're feeling friendly? It's going to be the name of the destination. Surely taxi drivers are aware of this?

After a bumpy flight, the transit through the terminal to the baggage carousel, out to the cab rank, on my big yellow square marked with the number "12" and into a taxi done in under 10 minutes, I thought the vibe would continue.

"Hello. I need to go to the Such and Such hotel on George Street please."

"Where do you want to go please?"

Good grief! Is it any wonder they've made Smart Televisions that take dictation and then send a transcript to ASIO. What I wouldn't give for one of them to be driving my taxi right now, I thought! I'd put my own bag in the boot too.

"The Such and Such hotel on George Street please."

"Where?"

"It's in Haymarket. Hang on, I'll get the street number for you."

"Could you give me the street number please?"

After a sigh that blew the windscreen out, I told him.

"Oh. It's in the Haymarket!"

Seriously.

I called my friend JC (no, not the Messiah). It was essential I do this to preserve the well-being of the driver. Our conversations are exactly like Crabb and Sales on their podcast, except no one else is listening to us. We've been friends since before music theatre summer school and can't understand why we're not stars of breakfast radio or variety television. Anyway, I was so entertained by our conversation about writing, satire, reality TV and Twitter, that I forgot to notice where the driver was going. After the extended instructions I'd given and his epiphanic confirmation at the end, I was confident we'd get there.

Something JC said bored me for a moment and I looked out the window. I was coming from the other side of town. Then I looked at the taxi metre.

"Um, the hotel is over there! Not over here!"

"Oh, you want to go to the Such and Such hotel?" he asked as if I had never mentioned where I wanted to go.

I paid the grossly inflated fare and walked to the hotel.

The carpet was the first thing that hit me when I opened the door to my room. It's like one of those 3D pictures that you stare at for ages and then either see something or faint from dizziness. The carpet is having the latter effect.

I went straight for the airconditioner and was suddenly nervous. It has a PLASMA screen and three pages of instructions on how to use it. I'm sure it doubles as surveillance - that's not a screen, it's a two-way mirror. It might be a smart airconditioner, but it's still too hot in here and it's one of those rooms that is hermetically sealed.

Meanwhile, everything is so minimally designed, I can't find the bed. Or the mini bar.

Can you see the hidden picture?
© 2014 divacultura

It's all about the conversation

What is it about car trips that enable good conversation?

Today's conversation was as much about the relationship with the person as it was about being in a car; we have excellent conversations where ever we are.

Last week's conversation was revealing for both parties. Is it the lack of eye contact?

I've also written whole songs while driving alone. Thank goodness for recording apps on my iPhone! I've heard tell that driving engages the left brain. While the left brain is busy, the right brain is free to play. I've certainly found this to be true.

I like being the passenger when I'm confident in the driver. Today I was so relaxed I took out my knitting. I was on a knitting deadline and needed to finish the second sock of a pair by the end of tomorrow. It was the car trip or it was never going to happen. At one moment my mind wandered and I had a flash of death by knitting needles if there was an accident.  Was this the catastrophic thinking about which mental health professionals speak? I choose to think it was a little flight of fancy taken by my right brain.

Back to conversation in cars...I recall many occasions when I've bonded with someone or made deep discoveries or found myself on a journey of revelation when on a road trip.

In my world we could abolish interrogation techniques and instead embark on a road trip with a high value prisoner.  All would soon be revealed without the need for inhumane actions (unless you count the carbon output).

Is there a PhD in this? Alternative questioning techniques? I worry that the world isn't ready after discovering all the bins at Flinders Street Station have been removed because of "security". We'd better brace ourselves for the trains to become even more of a garbage tip.

The conversation isn't as good on the trains. Maybe it's the impact of being observed.

I'll continue that conversation over dinner in Wangaratta.

5:14pm to Laverton

The 5:14pm Laverton train was entertaining. The driver engaged with his cargo. As we pulled out of Flinders Street Station he greeted us and then said he wanted to acknowledge three very special groups of people travelling with us today.

"Firstly, I'd like to acknowledge all those people who gave up their seat to someone who really needed it. The second very special group I want to acknowledge is those who can actually hear what I'm saying. It means you haven't got your headphones on and turned up to eleven, which also means you're not driving everyone else nuts with [insert beat box sounds here] bleeding out of your headphones. And the third group I really want to acknowledge is those who are speaking on their mobile phone very softly. You're all outstanding people.

"I also wanted to let you know we are running a bit late, due to the tardy arrival of this train to Flinders Street. I'll do my best to make up time and get you home, as long as you're going anywhere on the Laverton Line, except South Kensington, where we're not stopping. If you're not going to any of these places, you're on the wrong train and I can't really help you! You should get off at the earliest opportunity."

As we pulled out of North Melbourne station, the train slowed right down. The driver was back.

"Good afternoon again, ladies and gentlemen. Very sorry to bother you again. I think the scenery we're now passing through is really worth having a look at - you know, under the freeway - lovely, the dirty old creek - it's so picturesque I decided to slow right down to give you a chance to take it in."

Some of us laughed.

He explained the train ahead of him was travelling very slowly, so he had no choice but to also drive slowly.

At various points, he also advertised a new bus service (the 901) running from Broadmeadows Station to the airport every 15 minutes and apologised for interrupting our reading.

I like this driver and hope he brings me home again soon.

Wild ride home - danger in the air on the trains

A few months ago, works were undertaken at Seddon train station in the inner west of Melbourne. One of the undercover seats was removed and a room was renovated. An airconditioner was installed. Signs designating the area as being for "staff only" were hung. I waited to see who it was for. Weeks turned into months and there was no sign of anyone until a few weeks ago, two Protective Service Officers were standing out on the platform on a cold winter's night. They had just started that night and would be there every night from 6pm until the last train.

It's a good move actually. Seddon is very quiet and the streets around the station are deserted at night. I've often felt very alone and wondered what would happen if something happened. I always greet them whenever I see them and it feels like they're becoming part of the community.

Coming home from the Melbourne International Film Festival the other night, I boarded a train with my friend and immediately felt like we'd chosen the wrong carriage. Two men were in a heated, loud argument with each other. The argument was verbal only, but aggression was in the air and I was glad to be sitting quite apart from them. A banner on the wall of the train advertised "anti-hate spray". It felt like I could do with a can in my handbag. We stopped at North Melbourne station and then the train sat for longer than usual. The argument continued to rage and we struggled to hear the announcement from the driver that we were stuck for a while because of a police operation at the next station (South Kensington).

Announcements came reasonably frequently. The driver sounded more and more frustrated as the announcements turned into statements about how nothing had changed and we were still stuck. It sounded like he had a lamb roast waiting for him at home and this was the third time this week he was going to be late. Meanwhile, the two men continued to rage against each other. My friend and I talked and swapped notes on unlocking the mysteries of our iPhones.

Soon I noticed sitting at the other end of the carriage a woman who looked deeply distressed. She was quiet, but rolling her head back, wringing her hands and seemed to be inside her own head. Her face betrayed deep pain.

I couldn't stand it any longer and decided to move to another carriage. The aggression and distress in the air was starting to get to me. We moved forward one carriage. Before long, there was yelling and a woman screaming uncontrollably, coming from the carriage we had left. I wondered where the PSO's were. They arrived on the scene shortly. It was interesting to see how they worked. There were four of them, one took the lead to engage with one of the people and the others stood around, close enough, but far enough. I didn't hear what happened, but I was pleased that people were on hand to assist and diffuse. I was glad I had changed carriages.

When I arrived back at Seddon station, there were the PSO's waiting on the platform. I hope they never have to do anything. I think just their presence should be enough to make sure they don't. I hope the people yelling and crying got the help they needed.

The morning commute - on the roads

My work has required me to drive lately. Usually, I catch public transport everywhere, but lately I've been needed somewhere that would require a circuitous route and twice the time to reach my destination if I travelled on public transport. So I have been driving.

One of the major obstacles I must navigate to go just about anywhere is the Westgate Bridge. Under normal conditions, it's about an 8 minute drive from my house. The other morning it took me 55 minutes! This morning during peak hour it took about 15 minutes to get there.

It's interesting to observe driver behaviour when there is heavy congestion. Some people change lanes regularly as if they can find the lane that is moving more quickly. This is fatal, as anyone who has jumped queues at the supermarket knows. The minute you switch, the lane you were in starts to flow and the first day trainee takes over the new lane. Other people sit right on the tail of the car in front of them. It's as if the invasion of space will urge me to move forward more quickly. This is doomed to failure too as usually there's no where for me to go. I like to keep some distance between me and the car in front so that I won't end up in a sandwich when the idiot behind me rear-ends me. Then there's the person for whom driving is a distraction from reading their facebook newsfeed. Threats of long range cameras, fines and demerit points seem to be doing little to change behaviour when it comes to mobile phones and cars. 

Despite some of the trials of public transport (overcrowding, listening to endless sniffing and coughing, along with inane or revealing conversation, delays and cancellations) I miss the main benefit - productive time. While I travel I can read or do something else like read  my facebook news feed, or post to twitter to complain about the overcrowding, endless sniffing and coughing, the quality of the conversation or the fact that I'm stranded somewhere between North Melbourne and Footscray. 

Today, the car trip to the place I was working took 25 minutes, door-to-door. On public transport it would have taken just under 50 minutes and I would have had to catch a train, a tram and then walked. Not very appealing in this cold winter weather.

How do you get to work?

Brisbane perspectives.

I'm sitting beside the Brisbane River enjoying the sunny view and a cafe latte. (Brisbane finally knows how to make them.) I'd forgotten how much brighter than Melbourne the mornings are. Sleeping past 7:30am without comprehensive blackout curtains, even in May, is an impossibility. So even though my breakfast date is  not until 11am, I'm up, checked out and sitting by the river.

A favourite thing of mine is to visit markets and the Brisbane Riverside Markets were a huge sprawling cornucopia of handmade artisan wares. I expected to easily fill an hour and half but have been disappointed. Perhaps twenty stalls exist, some of them lovely, but most selling junk. Perhaps the online shopping revolution has hit here too.

The Story Bridge looks more serious by day. Its structure black and grim, contrasting with the clear blue sky and sparkling water. The river beneath is busy with traffic - ferris zigzagging from one side to another while cars cross the river above.

Just before 10am my phone tells me it's currently 22 degrees Celsius, yet a man sits at a nearby table wearing the strange combination of skimpy shorts, thongs and a polar fleece jacket. I'd forgotten the craving for seasons that one gets living somewhere like this. During the week, I saw women on their way to work defiantly wearing knee-high boots, scarves and coats. I watched them, dressed in a summer dress.

As I walked in this morning, the river was on my left and the skyscrapers loomed on the right, their footprints substantial, standing solidly, in contrast to the mercurial water opposite. They look so clean and impossible. It must be the space around them that makes them seem bigger than anything in Melbourne.

Three metres from where I sit, a white-haired woman has paid a woman with a matching hair-do to tell her fortune. Her husband has opened his wallet, handed over the cash  - and his wife - and made himself scarce. The two women look like old friends meeting for coffee.

My weekend has been filled with friends and food. I love living in Melbourne but I do feel a tug whenever I come back to Brisbane!

Refractions
© 2014 divacultura 

Refractions II
© 2014 divacultura

How was your weekend?

Move over - where do you sit on public transport?

Lately I've been thinking about where people sit when they're on public transport, including how people interact with each other.

Increasingly I notice people sit on the empty seat nearest the aisle, even where the other two seats further from the aisle are empty. I then notice many other people standing, even when there are seats available. Other people do ask to access a seat. Often the response from people already seated is to remain where they are, forcing others to step over them to reach a seat.

I find it bizarre. I regularly request people to move over so I can sit. Mostly people respond by moving over and leaving the vacant seat more accessible for all of us. Once when someone didn't move and required me to crawl over their lap, I asked them where they were getting off the train. This enabled me to establish they were getting off after me and it just made sense for them to move over. They moved begrudgingly.

If you don't want to sit next to other people, either don't catch public transport, or don't take a seat.

This afternoon I had a different problem. I was seated and had a couple of bags on the floor behind my legs. A man sat opposite me and splayed his legs out, kicking me and my bags. I asked him to give me a moment, so I could rearrange things and it was as if I had not spoken. How weird! There we are, knees virtually pressed together and he can't hear me? Can't see me? Maybe if he acknowledges my existence in that moment of pressed together confinement, it will become overwhelmingly intimate and confronting. Better to not believe I even exist.

The other thing that drives me mad is people pressing me from behind as I stand aside to let passengers off the train, before I try and board. It's as if they think the train will leave before the one hundred people on the platform board. The same thing happens when trying to disembark during peak hour - people push from behind to get you out of the way. Then they press you up the escalators and press you through the turnstiles to exit the station.

Everyone needs to get on and off the train. We all need to travel together, so why not be courteous and considerate of each other as human beings? It's not difficult and you may even be rewarded by a smile and a thank you!

Where's your preferred travel spot on public transport? What's your strategy for securing a seat?

City return - time for the photos.

I love Melbourne, but having over a month away has been a tonic. It's as if the dust that had settled on everything has been blown away and there's a new light on everything. I'm feeling reinvigorated and ambitious for the year ahead.

Cowgirl
© divacultura 2014

My time away was spent outside Toowoomba in Queensland, in country NSW, Tamworth and Lennox Head. Some of the time was spent hanging out with various family members, some of it was spent at Summersong music camp and some of it overlapped with the Tamworth Country Music Festival. When I've attended a gig there before I couldn't see for the hats, so this year I wore one too!


On my flight home yesterday, I was reading a physical book called Difficult Men. It's about television covering both the characters (Tony Soprano) and the creators (David Chase). It is absorbing reading and I barely noticed anyone else around me. After we'd landed and everyone was standing quietly in the aisle waiting to deplane, the bloke who had been sitting next to me said in a booming voice: "That book you're reading...Do you have one? Do you want one? Did you get rid of one?"

I laughed and responded: "Well, this morning I finished a book about psychopaths*, so draw your own conclusions!"

That hit the mark. I'd never thought about the potential for stand-up comedy in this context. I'd also forgotten about the privacy afforded by reading e-books.

While away, I took some photos that I really like and will share them from time to time. Hope you like them.

© divacultura 2014

This little wallaby is a regular visitor.
© divacultura 2014

In the shadow of the windmill.
© divacultura 2014

* The Psychopath Test by Jon Ronson - another absorbing read.

Being 15 again - or where's the thermostat?

After spending Christmas in Queensland with my family, I found myself sitting in the backseat of my parents' car with Alfie, the dog, driving back to the farm in NSW. Suddenly I was fifteen again. The radio in the car was intermittent and when it worked, was permanently tuned in to the cricket with heavy dose of static. The only thing worse than cricket on TV is cricket on the radio. The CD player has given up the ghost. This may have been a blessing as the selection was likely to include Slim Dusty live in Wagga Wagga. I put my earphones in and listened to my ipod. I'm enjoying discovering the dark corners of my music collections by setting it to shuffle all songs; although with my eclectic taste in music there can be moments of surprise as I lurch from Miles Davis to Michael Nyman and everything in between. Most startling is the voice recordings of invoices to do for my brother that have made their way onto my ipod the last time I synced. The move from Mozart to "standard horse dental" is quite confusing - especially if it happens when I'm dozing.

Overall the trip was pretty good and I've been enjoying the garden at my parents' home. It is alive with birds and native wildlife.

On the first afternoon I spotted a large koala in one of the trees in the front yard. I marveled at its strength as it was able to rest on two twigs and happily sleep while the branches blew in the breeze. He looked down at me and stretched, giving me a good glimpse of his strong claws. At one point he growled, reminding me that he was a wild animal and not a cute cuddly toy.

At dusk every evening, a tiny rabbit and a family of kangaroos come in to graze on the green lawn. I've discovered that the kangaroos rest under the bushy row of oleanders that shield the house from the road. I'm trying to sneak out and capture them on film, but so far my efforts have resulted in lovely shots of grass with a dark smudge in a far corner as the kangaroo hops away.

Yesterday while Alfie and I were out for our evening stroll, he went one way and I went the other. Suddenly I heard a yelp and Alfie streaked past me. I couldn't see what he was chasing but wasn't concerned because he's slowing in his old age. When he was younger, he'd give everything in pursuit of hares and kangaroos, but now he's back to a more sedate pace and seems to run just for the enjoyment.

White cockatoos are noisy in the trees at any time of day. They chatter amongst themselves, sometimes amiably and at other times they sound like a cranky parent arguing with the children. Whenever I open the door to go out, the noise crescendos and dozens of birds fly overhead, a slight tinge of yellow visible in their white wingspans.

The other challenge I face while with my parents is temperature control. Anything higher than "polar" causes my mother to declare that she's hot. Constant questions about whether the temperature is right for me result in nothing, despite constant responses that I can't speak because I'm busy chipping away at the layer of ice that has formed all over my body. I blink my eyes and ask if she can hear that noise - it's the sound of ice cracking on my eyelashes. The thermostat on the car remains on 18 degrees Celsius. The thermostat in the house remains on 20 degrees Celsius. At one point my teeth were chattering and this too resulted in no further action except silent contemplation. As I was travelling during summer, I didn't think to pack my thermals, but clearly I should have. I'll have to remember for my next visit.

That's all I can manage to write today as I'm not wearing my fingerless gloves while I type. Knitting some is out of the question as my fingers would surely snap off while underway and the resulting trip to the hospital on New Year's Eve is too much to contemplate, especially since I'd be travelling in the car with that layer of ice forming. At least I won't bleed to death. I empathise with the people on the boat stranded in the Antarctic ice at the moment.

I don't understand what happens to mothers and temperature control. When I was younger my mother's sole mission was to ensure that I was warm enough. This quest resulted in me always being required to wear singlet and socks to ensure no loss of body heat. At one stage I defined a singlet as "something you wear when your mother's cold". What happened?

Lawyers & politicians - taking calls on the train to Footscray.

Travelling home last night I was reminded why my heart sank with the recent news that aviation authorities are considering lifting the ban on the use of mobile phones on aircraft.

Just in front of me a bored looking young woman, dressed in a chain store suit, pale blue shirt and adorned with fake pearls, made a call.  She was like, oh-my-god, like, describing how awful her job is? But also how, like, busy she is and she just realised - oh-my-god - they'd be stuffed without her. To add to the charm of this inane public conversation, her voice had a particular quality; it struck right at the heart of my brain - loud, piercing and monotonous. She stared into space and her lips barely moved as she spoke.

She's working at a law firm. Two of the clients are witnesses in the royal commission looking at churches who abused kids and stuff, you know, whatever that things is.  Oh my god. She rolled her eyes and looked at her phone. Thankfully she had fallen victim to the mobile phone black spots on the train line to Footscray and the call had been terminated. We had all been spared. Not for long. Her phone soon rang and the conversation continued.

A whole bunch of documents had been delivered to the law firm and they had just sent them over to the barrister, thinking all the documents were in the order on the index, but then they weren't!

The call cut out again. Another brief reprieve for the rest of us.

This happened 10 more times.  I wouldn't have the patience for that. I'd send a text and tell the other person that I would call when I arrived home and could talk in privacy.

Just before Footscray, a phone rang behind me and a woman answered.
 -
"What? Oh crap! Is that man, whose name I can't mention because I'm on a train, being obstructive? I thought we had the support of the Minister and the Secretary on this! .... Is Lucy there? Well, she's such a B - I - T - C - H!'

I felt like turning around and telling her that we could all spell.

This was the atmosphere in the train carriage for about 15 minutes and it was unbearable. Can you imagine being on a long haul flight for twenty or so hours and being subjected to other people's endless phone conversations?

I'm sure that if you were sitting next to me on a train or a plane and I was engaged in a conversation on my mobile phone, I would come across just as awfully as these two women.

I remember once sitting on a tram and a woman opposite me was issuing directives to someone on the other end of her phone. It was like sitting in a meeting at work and at the end of a long day at work, the last thing I wanted was to feel like I was still there. I didn't say anything verbally, but my body language must have been telling her to shut up! She interrupted her call and asked me if I had a problem. I told her that I did actually and that I probably wasn't the only one.  People around me started to nod, so I continued, telling her that we had all finished work for the day and didn't care to sit in her meeting.

She looked stunned and was about to push back when other people nearby gave me a round of applause!  She hung up and then gave me some body language to let me know she was not happy. The rest of the tram was though!

I've noticed since I updated the software on my iphone, I can send a text with the push of a button if I don't want to or can't answer the phone. Why can't people wait until they have some privacy and can also be considerate of others? Or why can't they be witty, erudite and speak in melodious tones? Perhaps we really do live in a post-privacy world.

What do you think about allowing mobile phones on planes? Do you answer your phone in public and talk at length? Are any subjects off limits?

Support Travellers' Aid - grab a funky myki cover

I just discovered this fundraising activity for Travellers' Aid, an organisation that provides assistance to people needing extra help when using public transport. (Thanks Daniel Bowen.) You can order a funky holder for your myki card and help support a good cause at the same time. Covers are free and you pay $2.50 postage and handling.

I walk past the Travellers' Aid centre at Flinders Street station most days, on my way to platform 10 and have often wondered what they do. After reading their website, I was very happy to also make a donation to support their work. As well as providing physical facilities in four Victorian locations, they also provide people - carers and medical companions for people who need assistance to attend medical appointments. I imagine that this service is appreciated and valuable for many people.

One of the benefits of having my myki is a special cover is that it will help me avoid the embarrassment of accidentally using something like my library card and wondering why the gates won't open!

They'd be a cute stocking stuffer for the public transport user in your life at Christmas time too.

Which one/s do you like?

ETA on public transport? Five and a half hours early.

Public transport gets me where I need to go, when I need to go, most of the time.  On Sunday I bumped right up against its limitations and instead of paying $3.50 for all day travel on Saturday and Sunday I had to drive my car.

I worked all weekend and had to be ready to start at 8am on Sunday morning, just near the MCG.  As usual, I used the Public Transport Victoria Journey Planner to search for my best transport options and said that I needed to arrive by 8am.

It gave me four options and the best option had me arriving in plenty of time...at 2:34am after a journey involving a train, two buses and two periods of walking and a total travel time of 1 hour and 12 minutes!  I wasn't sure what I would do with the spare five and a half hours before start time, I looked at the next arrival time.  That had me arriving late at 8:07am (assuming it was running without delay) and took 1 hour and 22 minutes after travelling on a bus, two trains and three intervals on foot.

I decided to drive instead.  The journey took me less than twenty minutes and I parked on the street for free.  I had always wondered why people chose to drive to attend church when they are right next door to tram lines and railway stations.  Now I now.

If I didn't have a car or wasn't in a position to drive I suppose I would have to take a taxi or plead forgiveness for being a little late and prepare for the epic journey.  I suppose cycling is another potential option.  I can't comment on this as I'm not familiar with travel times or methods for cycling, but I would require facilities at my workplace to enable me to change, store the bike on so on.

I don't expect that public transport options on a Sunday morning are going to be as available as they are during a weekday peak, but with changes to work patterns and lifestyles, this serious lack of public transport must be problematic for many people.  Even if I wanted to arrive at the same destination by 9am, my best travel option requires me to be on a train at 7:58am and I arrive 33 minutes early.  The option before that is the one that delivers me at 8:07am and the later option would see me arrive at 9:11am and take 33 minutes, station to station.

Melbourne is a great city.  Indeed we're the world's most livable city.  What must the public transport be like in other cities?  And now we are further condemned to languish with a new federal government which stated prior to the election that they would not be funding urban rail.  They're all about roads.

Checking in - what are they typing?

I've often wondered what hotel, airline and rental car check-in staff are typing when I'm checking in.  While I rarely deal with airline check in staff these days (I've usually checked in online), this week I've checked in to two different hotels in two different cities and rented a car.

On arrival at the hotel in Sydney the other night, I was very tired.  The drive had taken longer than usual because of road works and Sydney drivers.  It was 8:35pm and I also needed some food.  I didn't get to my room until 9pm.  Why?  Because the guy was TYPING.  What? Surely he wasn't updating his facebook status.  Perhaps he was tweeting or writing a chapter in his novel.  While he was typing, he was grimacing. Was he struggling with syntax? Parsing a sentence or two? Quickly jotting down the next line of dialogue in his award winning screenplay?

I asked him if there was a problem.  He said there wasn't.  He continued to type.  After further typing and grimacing, he left the desk and loped over to a man sitting at a desk opposite where we were standing.  That guy started typing too.  After what seemed an interminable amount of time, my artist in residence, loped back and did some more typing.  

I changed tack and asked if everything was okay.  He said it was. I started to shuffle impatiently as he added a line or two to his sonnet. Then he handed me my keys and announced that I had been upgraded to a suite. I was relieved that I hadn't had my cranky pants on. Twenty-five minutes it had taken!

Fire plume over the Stadium, taken from the 12th floor balcony
 of my hotel in Olympic Park.
Picture copyright divacultura 2013

The suite had everything except a butler and a friend to share it with.  The spa was heaven sent after the physio had prescribed soaking in a bath for my knee.  There was room to sleep, room to work, room to cook (well heat stuff in the microwave), room to relax and room to swim laps in the enormous spa. There was a balcony to step out onto and view the fires in western Sydney.

As I stepped out onto the balcony, a sticker on the door caught my eye.  It warned me that "for my own safety" the door would close and lock behind me.  I gripped the door and didn't step too far out.  I imagined what would happen if I was trapped on the balcony with no mobile phone.  It would be hours before I was found.  It would be the cleaners in the morning.


That would give typing man something to write home about.  It would be a story for his blog that's for sure.

The morning after the fires, from the same spot.
Picture copyright divacultura 2013

Life in the tropics

Yesterday it was 13 degrees in Melbourne.  It was 33 degrees in Darwin.  It is much the same story today, except three degrees cooler in Melbourne.  Yesterday I sat outside a cafe on the edge of the Smith Street Mall  and ate lunch.  Nearby a man dressed in a collared shirt talked too loudly on his mobile phone.  I wonder if he's a minder for a politician as the conversation moves to management of Twitter, Facebook and media dates.  The name "Warren" is mentioned, so it's either Warren Snowden, Member for Lingiari (ALP) or Warren Truss, leader of the National Party.  I shudder as I realise that I was him a few years ago.

Politics seems a long way away as I enjoy a day off, even though Darwin is synonymous with politics for me.  As I move around the city I recall the long days of campaigning in the 2007 election.  Streets are familiar and I know I must have door knocked particular houses.

I restrain my attraction to brightly coloured clothes in tropical prints and Balinese batik, reminding myself that I live in Melbourne.  

Yarnbomb! Darwin
© divacultura 2013

I noticed a tree in the Smith Street Mall has been yarn bombed, including a cheeky caterpillar and reflect that you'd have to do something with your knitting up here - too hot to wear it!

It's a beautiful time of year up here.  The air is dry and warm.  The skies endlessly blue.  The mornings and evenings are gorgeous.  This morning, I woke just before dawn with a breeze blowing through the wall of louvers in my bed room.  Palm trees planted close to the house combined with the sound of unfamiliar birds give the feeling of being somewhere in the jungle.  What a beautiful environment in which to surface to consciousness. 

I took my friend for dinner at Stokes Hill Wharf to take in my final night in Darwin.  The boats out in the harbour shone their lights and the water changed colour as the sun set.  We ate oysters so fresh they tasted of the sea, barramundi and prawns.  It was dark when we left and the place was still crowded with people.

Whenever I come to Darwin I find the place so appealing.  The lifestyle feels more laid back and the tropical weather lends an air of permanent holidays.  Thinking about winter back home in Melbourne, I feel the lure.  Then I hear about rents and remember the cost of living and the distance from everywhere and remember what the build up to the wet season is like.  I wonder whether I can find a way to work here during the dry season and be in Melbourne for the rest of the year?  That would be ideal.

Night sky from Stokes Hill Wharf, Darwin
© divacultura 2013

Sunday in Darwin...bliss

It's far too hot and humid for the dry season in Darwin.  There were even clouds this morning.

After checking out of my hotel, I met some friends for breakfast at the Roma Bar and caught up on news.  Then I went to the art gallery to see the Telstra Awards (Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Art Awards).  There was some gorgeous works and some that did nothing for me, but it did provoke thought about the lines between art and craft.  When does an everyday item cease to be what it is and become art?  The answer today was probably a) when it's made by an artist and/or b) when it's in an art gallery.

A quick market fix at Nightcliff resulted in a purchase of a dress from the $20 rack.  Mindil Beach markets yielded little in the way of interesting purchases (there's only so much batik and tie dye you can have in a Melbourne wardrobe), but I did stop to admire the view.

Mindil Beach, Darwin
© divacultura 2013

Darwin
© divacultura 2013

Hotel room rule book

My hotel room is fine, albeit full of strange requests, directions and statements.  For example, in the bathroom, hanging on a hook, is a laminated photograph of a hairdryer which includes the following statement: "FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE A HAIRDRYER IS LOCATED IN THE 2ND DRAWER OF THE DESK".

I'm confused about a few things.  How is it convenient to put the hairdryer in the desk?  Where the hell is the desk anyway? Why is it in the 2nd drawer?  What's wrong with the top drawer or the bottom drawer? Why is there a special hook on which to hang this laminated card when the hook would be the perfect place to put the actual hairdryer?Why does the hairdryer need photo identification?

All of these questions are unanswerable.

Then there is a sign that hangs over the doorknob which declares itself to be "your green card for the environment".  It contains six points, mainly about linen choreography (where to put the towels if you don't want them washed, or if you do want them washed, what to do if you don't want the sheets changed), and a stray instruction to turn the television and lights OFF when you leave the room, before we discover point five:

5. Please be aware that excessive steam build up in your bathroom may activate smoke detectors in your room.   Your co-operation on this matter is greatly appreciated.  

Cooperation is something that I am happy to do where I can, but I'm  confused by this statement.  The only way it can be understood is that it is a request for steam build up to be created.  I washed my hair this morning, but couldn't get the smoke detectors to go off.  The only thing that did happen was the shower wouldn't drain.

Finally, point six on the card is a charming reminder that I'm in the tropics:

6. During your stay in tropical Darwin, you may encounter small insects and ants in your room.       Climatic conditions make them very difficult to eradicate totally.

Now I'm nervous about the other creatures which may find their way in, but relieved to read the fine print on the card.  I am advised that I can call the manager on extension 9 for further clarification.  If I had more energy that might be entertaining.  Instead I'm off to build up excessive steam in the bathroom.

On approach to Alice Springs

A quick turnaround in Alice Springs en route to Darwin has turned into a four hour extravaganza.  I'll miss the afternoon I had planned to reacquaint my skin with sun and my body with the hotel pool as I'll now arrive at dinner time instead of early afternoon.  Ah well, this is not within my control so there is no point being anxious or angry.

Since last week's bag-falling-on-head incident, I have switched my seating preference from aisle to window and enjoyed the view as we flew over the heart of Australia.

It is a red heart, nothing but sand stretching on and on and on.  Ten minutes later there may be a smattering of vegetation, small wiry clumps looking like the stubble on the chin of a dark haired man.  Rocky outcrops appear.  Some of them look like a partly submerged crocodile, the khaki-coloured lumpy spine curving to meet its head.  Beyond the head I see a formation that looks like foot prints from a gigantic prehistoric bird.

The land changes again and I understand the paintings made by the Aboriginal people.  Looking at the land below, I could be standing before one of their canvasses covered with dots and lines and concentric circles.  Small sandy circles appear.  Perhaps they are water holes.  Without access to an aircraft I wonder how the Old People knew what the land looked like? A ribbon flows through, the centre of the bed tattooed by trees.   I wonder if this river of sand once - still? - carries water.

I see no houses.  I see the veins of dirt roads but no vehicles.  There's the glint of the railway line, proudly declaring its straight, true lines in contrast to the deceptive softness of the harsh country.

The rocks change and I am reminded of drawing contour maps in grade 9 geography under Mrs Rosenthal's instruction.  They have meaning now.  Other memories of that class come to mind - learning about barchan sand dunes out in the long jump pit and writing out one hundred times that a wind is named according to the direction it comes FROM.  (Of course I knew that the grammar was wrong, but this was geography, not English, and the formal "from whence it came" would be unwelcome as a piece of smart aleckry.)  Patches of white stand out against the dark grey-green of the rocks - sand, salt or ash? I wonder.

We near Alice Springs. The vegetation thickens again.  The road is bitumen and the markings are visible.  I count four vehicles going about their business.  The geometry of buildings contrast with the natural shapes.  The township pulsates just ahead.

The plane's shadow is tiny on the ground and I have to look slightly backwards to see it.  I know we are descending as this shadow grows larger, finally meeting its creator as we gently touch the tarmac.

Disembarking down the rear stairs and onto the tarmac, the warmth is welcome.  It was 9 degrees Celsius when my cab picked me up from home this morning.  It feels like a very pleasant mid-twenties with a very light breeze.

I will find a way to make the most of this delay.

Flying over the heart of Australia - view from 20F
© divacultura 2013

Red sand, red sand, red sand
© divacultura 2013

My favourite things... this week

I was away in Sydney this week having a very busy time.  The days were long and time available to think and write was limited.  Prioritising sleep was critical.  So, sorry there were no posts this week.  It's a freezing, wet and windy Friday in Melbourne so coming back from lovely weather interstate was a bit of shock.

Here are my favourite things this week.

1. Time spent walking up and down the long driveway of the place I was visiting - to retrieve a forgotten item from the car, to meet a visitor, to make an appointment with a colleague - was to be relished.  I spotted this marvellous tree.

© divacultura 2013

 When I looked out the other way, this is the view I saw:

On the third trip up the driveway, I stopped and took in my surroundings.  I could forgive the long days and the lack of space to do my own work.  It was like a mini relaxation session.

2. As I was reading a notice advertising changes to train services over the weekend I noticed someone had failed to proofread:

Footscary?
© divacultura 2013

Last time I checked, Melbourne did not have a suburb called "Footscary".  There is one just down the road, along the train line, called "Footscray".  Footscray gets a bad rap.  Any wonder when the people running Melbourne's trains can't even get your name right.  When I tweeted this photo, many responders advised that the misprinted name was more apt.  #changefootscray2footscary

3. Sitting in my assigned seat aboard a Qantas flight yesterday afternoon, I was reading my book.  The flight was full and it seemed most people had 27 pieces of hand luggage.  (Why don't they enforce the limits?)  Suddenly I was hit directly on the top of my head.  A man was moving bags in the overhead locker and a very heavy one landed on me.  I cried out and then burst into tears, both from pain and shock.  It really, really hurt.  The man said nothing.  Didn't apologise.  Didn't check to see that I was okay.  

A fellow passenger who witnessed the incident asked if I was okay and asked me if I was bleeding (I wasn't).  He advised me to tell cabin crew and told me he would be a witness if required.  

Qantas cabin crew were amazing.  They brought me pain relief immediately and checked that I was okay to fly.  Throughout the flight most members of the crew checked on me to make sure I was okay.  I was most worried about my neck and I had a hell of a headache.  

You might be wondering why this is a "favourite  moment"?  Firstly the care I received from cabin crew was wonderful.  Secondly, so far, I seem to be okay.  I'm monitoring myself for any evidence of an impact injury.  I've also changed my seating preference from aisle to window.  (It's the second time a passenger's activities in the overhead lockers have resulted in something landing on my head!)

4.  It's great to be home!  (Even if it is cold and miserable!)

What were your favourite moments this week?