I like to think that my wife and I live in the perfect part of Melbourne. The photos above were taken one morning on my way to work. I drive along a back road that winds its way through borderline bush country, through vineyards and olive orchards, to deposit me in the typically dull suburb where I teach. We live about five minutes from rolling hills and wine country and are about 30 minutes from the heart of the city.
The people are nice where we live yet there are the odd moments when I feel like I moved to Shitkicker, Alabama instead of an island nation 14,000 away from any Good Ol' Boy I may have ever known or avoided. One of those moments came when I was doing some grocery shopping at the local Bi-Lo supermarket. Bi-Lo is supposedly a discount supermarket but I have found that the only reduction that goes on in one of these stores is on how much food they carry. They were out of eggs for three days once and couldn't say when they'd be getting more in. The food costs the same, there is just less of it. But what they lack in food quantity they more than make up for in incidental entertainment. I was at the deli counter one day and one of the gentlemen in line was standing with his basket without shoes or a shirt. My eyes darted from him to the meat and fish that were behind the counter and I couldn't help but think that some of his back hair would undoubtedly find its way to rest on a nice fillet. Half-naked people and food should be resigned to the beach. I felt mildly snobbish looking at him with undoubtedly disgust and disbelief vying for dominance on my face, yet how does one get to the point where they dress in public just enough to cover their genitals? It's as if he has decided to compromise with society's rules just enough to keep from being arrested. Needless to say I left without purchasing anything from the deli.
On another occasion a girl-creature was shopping with her mom and I was utterly incapable of taking my eyes off her. All of perhaps thirteen, she had six-inch heels on her shoes, a skirt little more than an ambitious belt, and makeup applied aggressively enough to offend not only prostitutes but also any god-fearing circus folk that may have been within eyeshot. While not obese, her fast-food-fueled physique, wrapped in too-tight-tart-wear, gave her the look of a kransky sausage stuffed to the point of jeopardizing a hull breach. I can say all this because she snapped at her mom and acted thoroughly embarrasses to be with her.
Nina and I tend to avoid the Bi-Lo and drive the five minutes to the nearest Safeway. People there are fully-dressed.
I guess in a way, hillbillies are a part of life here just as much as they are in the US. They even call them hillbillies here, which I think is fantastic.
What I like about where we live is that we can be at the local pub or farmer's market and see people of every walk of life. At St. Andrew's Market on Saturday mornings farmers, potters, jewelers, bakers and knitters set up their stalls, along with rune readers, psychic healers, flame twirlers, and other purveyers of the not-so-legitimate. I bought some homemade licorice from a hippie who had to first educate me on how consuming mass-produced licorice was akin to tipping a bucket of dioxins down my throat. It was good, though.
The market is smack in the middle of a tiny country town woven through by towering gum trees, and once all the produce has been bought, we mosey on over to the little pub that hugs the edge of the market and listen to a live blues band with all the assorted locals, tipping back a few beers before we head back home.
It's quaint and country when we want it to be, and if the desire hits us, we can drop in to the lovely and vibrant downtown cafes, museums, pubs and restaurants of Melbourne for our cosmopolitan fix.
We've got it good.
