Breaking Free

I feel so much better after getting out of Melbourne. At the weekend I trekked down the Great Ocean Road with a coachload of wrinklies and backpackers, saw the twelve Apostles, proper surfing waves and some two-dimensional seaside towns. I took photos, nibbled buttery fish and chips on the beach and stared out at the ocean. Now I feel revived, reinvigorated, and I’m almost afraid to admit why.

Because it was beautiful. And Melbourne just… isn’t. Fed Square, Flinders Street Station, Crown Casino, the Arts Centre; all paragons of architectural ugliness. It’s all new and sharp, angles and concrete, blocks and sprawling roads, and – what I hate the most – the tram lines everywhere, dissecting the sky, like giant fishing nets to hold us in.

Swings and Roundabouts

I’m well aware that I’m not posting about very cheery things at the moment. I guess I’m just accentuating the negative because that’s what sticks in my mind long enough for me to write about it.

There was the creepy man rubbing himself on the bus. Groups of people that walk straight into me like I don’t exist. Jellyfish, talking into voids, pity, narrowly missing being splatted getting off the tram, being in a city I haven’t quite clicked with. Realising everything I can’t change. And nice as it may sound, living in a hotel starts to become not so fun after a while.

There are things that balance all of that out. The joyful op shop on Chapel Street. The guy on reception at my hotel who gave me 11 free days of internet instead of my usual hour. The surprise postcard from my best friend. The feeling of real responsibility at work. Realising I can make an impact. Pushing the boundaries of what I can do. Getting to know a couple of people that listen. The full moon, being able to spend days playing with Final Cut, finding a big pack of multi-coloured plasticine for $5, nice weather, cycling, warm evenings, the sea. I’m falling into postcard speak. But you get my point: it’s not all bad.