Still standing on the tram platform, Kirk ogles the trams as they appear to fly weightlessly along their tracks. “They’re just so darn cool!” Kirk has endured open-mouthed awe of Melbourne’s trams since we arrived. A bus/train hybrid, the tram is the best of both worlds. All the speed and efficiency of a train with the frequency and accessibility of a bus.

Another tram whizzes by.  “What number did we need again?” asked Kirk.  I double-checked the city transit map. “Number 112, heading west.” For three days we had one single task: explore Melbourne. The catch was to spend as little money as possible. No costly touristy stuff like theaters, zoos, sporting events, tower skydecks, or anything really that charged admission. This made it all the more challenging. We had just finished a peruse around Federation Square, the modern-styled plaza of the downtown area. Here we stopped in the ACMI (Australian Center for Moving Image) and spent nearly two hours inside exploring the exhibits. We actually high-fived each other when we found out admission to the center was free. Our favorite part was a video recording room that allowed you to make your own slow-motion Matrix action sequence. You could even email yourself a link to it online. (You can even watch it here: Matrix Timeslice)

How do you see a city for free? Get down to street level and start walking. It can be quite daunting to open a city map the size of a billboard and pick a single spot to begin. Melbourne made this decision easy for us with its “precincts.” These highlighted areas claimed to possess interesting character worthy of investigation.

The quiet tram smoothly brought us into the area of Fitzroy, home to the Brunswick Street Precinct.  Supposedly Melbourne’s “bohemian and artistic centre,” Brunswick promised to be a “visual feast.”

A visual feast it was. Eclectic and artsy, grungy yet creatively posh. Shop after boutique, cafes following bookstores, flower shops and record stores galore. Fantastic graffiti covered bare walls. We walked and walked, looked in every store window and tried to keep up with what was passing on the opposite side of the street. Never before had a place made me feel like such a dull person. Ever hear of “retail therapy”? We were approaching “boutique burn.” Kirk suggested we give our eyes a rest and turn off onto a side street. From crazy commercial we stepped into calming residential.

The architecture in Melbourne is so much more varied than anything we’re used to. Especially compared to Chicago’s blocks upon blocks of red brick three-flats. Here contemporary-modern lines sidled up next to ornate filigree. We treaded quietly down leafy streets and cobblestone alleys. Now this was cool. After spending all of our time amidst the skyscrapers of downtown, it was refreshing to wander among the homes of real Melbournites.

Around 4 o’clock we hopped another tram heading south out of the city. We headed for St. Kilda, an area that all of my Sydney friends had talked up immensely.  “Oh, I just love St. Kilda,” raved Toyah back in Manly. Hmm, I thought. Must see this St. Kilda place.

It’s always a bummer when the bar is set too high. Maybe it was the lame weather that hung drab overhead. Maybe it was the wrong time of day. The main drag, the Acland Street Precinct, was sort of happenin’, but it just didn’t hold our interest. It was about then that we had to find something that could speak to us. We walked to the waterfront. Kite-boarders!

We watched orange, green and red kites slowly zig-zag across the silvery water. The suns rays sliced through the heavy clouds and streamed glory down onto the shallow bay. Nothing short of beautiful.

Strolling the Fitzroy Street Precinct, we found our place for dinner: an Italian restaurant called Leo’s. Though the evening was rather chilly, we still sat outside, but underneath the heaters. A couple of beers added to the warmth. Ever the explorer of new varieties, I ordered a Bees Nees honey wheat beer. You could nearly see the dollop of honey floating in the glass. And ever the sucker for ‘oldies but goodies’, Kirk and I decided on an Hawaiian pizza to share. We decided to go all out and even ordered a piece of cake for desert, some sort of chocolate-honeycomb-fudge deliciousness that I’d most certainly blow one of my three wishes on if I had a genie in a lamp, if only I could eat it again.

Exhausted from the day’s explorations and most definitely blowing our tiny daily budget on – heaven forbid – a couple beers and pizza (and cake), we caught a tram back to our motel to turn in. It takes a certain style and frame of mind to travel on the cheap. When you do finally spend your diligently saved cash, it does make the purchase all the more sweet.

Melbourne doesn’t hit you like the way New York does with its skyscrapers or Chicago does with its deep dish pizza.

When you think of Australia, what’s the first thing that comes to mind (besides kangaroos and crocodiles)? Probably the Sydney Opera House. Melbourne and Sydney have sustained a metropolitan rivalry ever since the latter surpassed the former on the economic world stage in the last half of the twentieth century. It’s true, Melbourne can’t really compete with Sydney on the surface. Sydney steals the spotlight with its iconic Opera House and complimentary Harbour Bridge claiming the award for most unforgettable postcard skyline. Not to mention the harbour itself, so charming with its white sails moving to and fro in water that sparkles in all the right places.

No, Melbourne is not a city that takes your breath away through the airplane window. It doesn’t boast many recognizable monuments or sit idyllically on the ocean. It’s weather is nothing to sing about, either. It is, however, a city not to be dismissed. Melbourne’s beauty runs more than skyline deep.

Our first afternoon in Melbourne fell hostage to our travel exhaustion. After a couple hour nap, we awoke to the daylight already bleeding away into evening. In an effort to make the most of it, we headed out to get some sidewalk under our sneakers.

Kirk can’t pass a bicycle shop without walking in, even if it’s only for a minute’s browse. As we neared the Chapel Street shopping precinct, a particular establishment advertising custom designed bikes attracted Kirk to the window like a fly to fruit pie.

A bell dinged our way in and the shop owner meandered over and introduced himself as John. “Looking for anything in particular?”

We told him not especially, we were mostly in to admire. Sensing genuine interest, he struck up a conversation with Kirk. Sensing a comfortable air and ensuing license for photography, I broke out the camera.

After shooting a fair amount of frames, they were still at it. “Any plans for Melbourne?” inquired John.

“Well, she wanted to go see the penguins,” Kirk said, nudging me with his elbow, “but the trip seems pretty expensive.” The ‘penguins’ were the famous Ferry Penguins of Phillip Island, a two-hour drive from Melbourne. Every evening they come waddling out of the sea up the beach in a big parade that ends only after each bird has found his own nest. Supposedly it was a sight to see.

“Now there’s a waste of time,” John countered. “The thing about the tourists is they always come with a checklist. Like in Sydney, they have to see the bridge, the opera house.”

What can I say? I’m a sucker for flightless birds dressed in feather tuxedos.

John goes on. “It’s not about the checklist. It’s the lifestyle. It’s harder to see, you need a little more time.”

And maybe some green. Unfortunately for us, attempting to experience the lifestyle of the urbanite requires a bit of cash, of which we couldn’t spare much. We stepped out of the bike shop onto the street, the sky now indigo in twilight. Past the nice restaurants and designer boutiques we walked, past the swanky bars and even the local pubs with happy hour specials. Like obedient children told not to spend their allowance all in one place, we dutifully stretched our dollars as far as they’d go. At the grocery store.

Apples, bananas, sliced meat and sliced bread. We acquired provisions to make ourselves packed lunches to avoid spending quadruple eating out. We would be seeing Melbourne on a shoestring. It was the ‘look but don’t touch’ method. Fortunately you don’t need to touch anything to admire – take a photo or two – and enjoy.

Luna Park is a tiny little amusement park with an iconic clown-face entrance. It’s across the harbor, opposite downtown Sydney. To get there, Kirk and I walked from Circular Quay all the way across the Harbour Bridge (which wasn’t actually that far, just 1149m). Even so, we had worked up an appetite. At the end of the bridge, a fish & chip joint wafting a smorgasbord of seafood delights nearly did us in, like bees to honey.

No, no, photos first, food later.

Amusement parks are a photographer’s play-ground. Colorful lights, people, and moving objects abound. I love capturing motion-blur from the rides. The ribbons of light that show up on camera can’t be seen in real life. Normal pictures usually portray a moment in time, whereas a motion-blur image is a time capsule.

We set up shop in the median of the thoroughfare, where we could squeeze both the ferris wheel and the merry-go-round into the frame for a time-lapse capture. The remote shutter snapped only about a minute’s worth of pictures when a security guard walked right in front of the lens, his weight obscuring the entirety of the frame. Hey now! What’s the big idea, mate?!

“Sorry sir,” he says to Kirk, “No professional photography in the park.”
“Oh, no worries, I’m not professional photographer.”
“That tripod makes you a professional photographer.”
“Oh really? Will you tell my mother that?”

Grumbling but not yet defeated, we took the camera off the tripod. Fine then. We don’t need no stinkin’ tripod. We’ll set it on the ground. That worked for a little while. The camera couldn’t really take any other decent photos without something to rest it on. And the angle from the ground got old fast. Our photo shoot quickly petered out. You can see the security guard for a brief second in the time-lapse movie.

We walked back to the fish & chip joint only to discover dim lights and upside-down chairs on tables. Dang it. Oh how battered and deep-fried food had sounded so good! Now what? Up and down the street we roamed, and after much ado, we settled on the reasonably priced Stir Crazy Thai. We ordered one appetizer (here called an entree) and one entree (here called a main). (Confusing, no? When I first started waiting tables here I kept asking people if they wanted to order an appetizer with their entree, and they looked at me, stupefied.)

We split both dishes, the appetizer/entree – aka, the first food to arrive – being my favorite. It was called Money Bags. I wasn’t sure if this was a typical Thai specialty – wrapping vegetables and chicken up in deep-fried money-bag shaped dough – or just a cool dish that this specific restaurant had created. Although yesterday, I spotted a Thai place on the opposite side of town that was actually called Money Bag Thai. It would please me to no end to be able to order those little tasty bags of goodness at Thai restaurants everywhere. Or, in so many words, maybe there is hope to find Money Bags wherever I travel.

We had a jam-packed day scheduled. Not even allowed to sleep in, I had breakfast ready for Kirk at 7:30AM. Some mild misfortune had us planning the day around getting Kirk’s laptop into NextByte yet again (yes, the newly replaced logic board wasn’t exactly living up to expectations), however this wasn’t to spoil the day. If anything, it provided the impetuous for birthday carpe diem. After bacon & egg croissants, fruit and hash browns, we tugged on wetsuits and headed out for our early surf date we had planned with Stacey. I know Stacey because she works at the surfboard shop right next to Ash’s Table. Friends in high places? Mm, yes. We got to take out a couple of boards for a spin on the house. Stacey plucked a bright yellow 7-foot longboard from the racks for her and me to share. Basically a log raft, longboards are the easiest board to learn to ride. Kirk selected for himself a 6-foot fish-style board. Wide at the middle with a swallow-tail end, a ‘fish’ is great for catching waves easily but also cranking out the turns once you’re up. His daily practice over the past month has caused him to outgrow his current board and triggered the itch to move to a shorter board. This surf session would serve as a great test run for him on a more challenging board.

We grabbed the boards, crossed the street to the beach, and paddled out through the whitewater. Only a handful of surfers bobbed in the clear, green-blue sea. The waves were sizable, but mercifully spaced out for the more-or-less beginner in the midst, yours truly. Or so I thought. If you’re not paying attention, a wall of water can come from nowhere. “Here we go!” yelled Stacey. CRASH! then THUNDER came the wave, a five-foot high body slam. Then and there I decided to try the grab-n-roll method of evasion. First, grab the rails (sides) of your board. Second, roll upside down, so you’re “hanging” from your board, serving as a weight to keep it just below the crashing wave. If all goes well, the wave should pass right over you like a cumulous cloud floats by in the sky. I gave it a whirl, and it actually worked! I popped back up unscathed. A bit more wave dodging, and we were out past the breakwater.

Paddle, float, paddle, CATCH THE WAVE! fall, crash, paddle out again. Stacey and I passed the longboard leash back and forth, taking turns. I stood up on a couple of rollers, and even rode down the face of one! Kirk ripped it up on his fish. Despite the skills discrepancy between us, we managed to paddle for a few waves together.

Just like that, it was time to get out, clean up and get to Sydney. At the Manly wharf we bought day transit passes which allowed us unlimited rides on buses, trains and ferries. Once arriving at Circular Quay, we dropped off Kirk’s laptop to be fixed. With our single obligation fulfilled, it was time to relax. We hopped on a train that took us across the harbour bridge to Milson’s Point. Underneath the bridge supports stretched a couple acres of nice green lawn. We found a spot in the shade and spread out the beach towel. We talked, soaked up the sun and played a couple hands of cribbage.

Mid-afternoon we caught the Milson’s Point ferry back across the harbour to the CBD. When visiting Sydney with his family four years ago, Kirk had walked past a particular bar that caught his eye. Since then he wished he could have gone in, but didn’t think he’d ever get the chance. With only a faint idea of it’s relative location – “I think it’s that way,” Kirk said, pointing vaguely southeast – we went on a mission to find it. Surprisingly after only retracing one block, we found it. It was the Customs House Bar, nestled on a small diagonal street across from a stamp-sized park.

Kirk had a Boag’s Premium, and I a cappuccino. Because it was only late afternoon on a Thursday, the bar wasn’t quite as Kirk had remembered it – bustling, lively, musical. That was alright, we might try it again another day.

Finished with our drinks, we moved on to our final port of call for the evening. Kirk’s parents so kindly gave him $100 to have dinner in Darling Harbour for his birthday. It was still early to eat, so we grabbed a tiny table at the Tokio Hotel and took advantage of the drink specials. Here in Australia, bars are very often called “hotels” which can become confusing when you’re jetlagged off the plane just trying to find a place to sleep, or contrarily, you’ve got a buzz on and keep bypassing the bar, thinking it’s an accommodation establishment.

The sun baked us as it crept slowly lower in the sky. We drank a few $3.50 Toohey’s Extra Drys, and then decided to move on to mixed drinks. Kirk wanted a caipirinha (kah-PREEN-ya) if they had Cachaça (kah-SHA-sah). I ventured to the bar to find out. I ordered a rum & coke and asked about the Cachaça. The bartender went on a hunt at the other end of the bar dusting off bottles – kidding – and discovered the Cachaça. He held up his found treasure to me, and I gave him an “OK!” to make the drink. Then, he cracked open the recipe book. Uh oh.

Five minutes later, he came back with the caipirinha. “Nineteen dollars, fifty.” WHAT? So much for taking advantage of the specials. “ASK how much it’s going to cost before you order it!” a mildly exasperated Kirk scolded me. It was a good drink though, in my opinion.

On to dinner. Circling Darling Harbour in its entirety, we inspected each menu at every restaurant. We settled on a smaller place called I’m Angus. The hostess seated us at a table with a lovely view of the harbor. Reflections danced on the water, lighting up its inky color. When the waitress arrived, owing to our extensive prior analysis of the menu, we ordered immediately. I chose the Atlantic salmon with prawns, and Kirk picked the kangaroo fillet (pronounced here with the T, as in “fill-IT”). My entree was exceptional. A drizzling of beurre blanc made the seafood savory and – as our British flatmates would say – just brilliant. Kirk’s kangaroo was also very good, tasting sort of like lamb (in Kirk’s opinion), and sort of like duck (in my opinion.) The jury’s hung on that one. You’ll have to try for yourself.

Ah, but no birthday without a cake right? And no birthday cake without candles. Upon arriving home, I kicked Kirk out of the kitchen so I could bake. With forty minutes to wait while it sat in the oven, I had a problem to solve. Not one of my flatmates was a smoker – which I’m not complaining about – but when all you need is a lighter, my goodness it was like trying to find a cupcake at Passover. No matches to be found either, and I wasn’t about to start rubbing sticks together. I quickly called the restaurant. “Are you guys still there?” I asked urgently. “Yeah! Come on down, no worries,” said my co-worker Toyah.

I slipped on my flip-flops and grabbed the key as Kirk click-clicked on his computer.

“Jetstar has some cheap flights to Melbourne,” he said from his spot sitting on the bed.

“Oh really? Cool. Cake will be done in about twenty minutes.”

“OK.”

And out I went. Down the elevator, sprinting down the sidewalk. After a short explanation about non-smoking roommates and birthday business to the manager, I procured the lighter we use to light the table candles. “Good luck!” Toyah yelled after me while she stacked chairs. Back the four blocks, up the elevator and into the flat. I slipped off my shoes.

Clickity-click click. “I think I want to invest in real estate in Michigan.”

“Oh ya? Sweet. Cake will be done in a couple minutes.”

“OK.”

After getting it out of the oven and letting it cool for a few, I frosted it. White cake with sprinkles inside, white frosting with more sprinkles on top. I stuck in all twenty-six candles and lit them just outside the bedroom door. Reaching with my free hand into the room, I switched off the light. Slowly, so as not to accidentally let a draft blow out any of the precious candles, I stepped into the room.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…!” I sang, pretty terribly. But Kirk loved it anyways.

Kirk had his cake. And ate it, we did too. ?

It took only fifteen minutes to drive to Mission Beach, but it took twice that to find a parking spot big enough for Kyle’s giant truck. Kirk, who normally drives a Jetta, decided against attempting to parallel park the monster. I agreed. We found some generous length of curb on a corner and eased right in. We lifted the bikes out of the back, navigated down a few back streets and spilled out onto the boardwalk. The sun gleamed off the ocean. Lazily, we began peddling. Up and down the path we rode, admiring the beach residences and checking out the tourists. Early afternoon we left the crowds on the boardwalk and turned inland to explore the bay. We cycled out onto a peninsula fringed with boat slips. Settling on a small arc of quiet sand, we ate our packed lunch watching moored sailboats bob in the blue shimmer.

Later on, we headed back to the house for some dinner and a change of clothes. Dan, a friend of ours from the waterski team and his roommate, Dimitri, said we should meet them out for drinks. The bar turned out to be one of those hole-in-the-wall looking places that seems to open up into the Silverdome when you get inside. All of us – friends, and friends of friends – drank merrily the night’s special, three dollar bottles of Rolling Rock. Kirk, the misfit, joyously drank his Captain & cokes. Our conversation was an animated one, owing to the fact that somehow, nearly a third of our number worked for the US Navy on a nuclear reactor. (Too many smart people with engineering degrees in one bar.) Naturally this led to ridiculous questions like, “Aren’t you worried you’re going to blow to smithereens at any second?” and hypothetical silliness, “Your children could be born glowing green with eleven toes.”

The hour turned from late to early, and we said goodnight to Dan, Dimitri and the rest. Kyle, Dana, Kirk and I went on to find our fourth meal. And thankfully, it wasn’t Taco Bell. Not a single fast-food joint was open. We walked for what seemed miles (probably a few blocks) and found a small Mexican place specializing in take-out. I know, hardly seems a far cry from Taco Bell, but oh, it was. I had a couple battered fish tacos, even better than the day’s before, and to the chagrin of everyone else, I could not stop raving about them. My perception of their greatness might have suffered a bit of merry inflation, but never you mind.

~ ~ ~

Our third day was all about the outdoors. Sure, we were at the beach the day before, but the beach is easy. The outdoors demand some effort, some stamina. Physicality. What did we do? Hike a mountain. Cowles Mountain.

It was more of a hill than a mountain, and more of a walk than a hike, but I was huffing. I should grant myself some credit. At nearly 1600 feet, Cowles is the tallest peak in the city of San Diego.

After the hike, we stopped home for a bit of lunch and then it was off again on another adventure. It was low tide, perfect timing to explore the Point Loma tide pools.

We jumped rocks, poked at anemones and searched for the elusive starfish. The sun was setting, casting a rich golden hue on the landscape. So what do you want to do tonight guys? Kyle asked. I said, Eat chocolate cake.

Too wiped out to go out, Kyle, Kirk and I stayed in. Before we holed up however, we decided we needed to procure some provisions. In doing so, I had to make good on my one desire for the evening. At the grocery store we picked up brownie mix (not cake, but close) and some El Jimador to make margaritas. Odd pairing, I know. At home, I mixed the batter, Kyle mixed the margaritas and Kirk popped Superbad in the DVD player. We settled in for a cozy Friday night. ☼