When I first moved to Melbourne at the
beginning of last year, I noticed that Melbournians spend a lot of time talking
Melbourne up. At the time, I put this down to an inferiority complex,
especially when mention of the fact that I am from Sydney gave rise to the
inevitable question, “So, which do you like better, Sydney or Melbourne?”
It’s not a
question that would ever occur to a Sydney-sider. Not because we walk around constantly
congratulating ourselves on Sydney’s superiority, but just because we’re not
insecure about our city’s attractions. Melbourne poses no threat. I also
wondered whether this constant insistence on the marvelousness of Melbourne was
a way of denying the obvious suffering imposed by Melbourne’s terrible,
inconstant weather.
Now that I’m well into my second year of
living in Melbourne, my perspective is a little different. Have I been
corrupted, the balance of my mind broken by hayfever, or have I just seen the
light? By the light, I refer to that powerful glow that illuminates the city of
Melbourne from within, visible and palpable only to those who have joined in worship
of this great metropolis.
Living in Melbourne is a bit like living in
a cult. Insidiously, day after day, you find yourself involved, first
passively, then actively and with an enthusiasm that seems to bubble up from
nowhere, in conversations about how great it is to live here. I’d like to think
that this is simply an example of how gratitude and appreciation for good
things is infectious. It’s part of Melbourne culture to count your blessings,
daily and communally. But there is undeniably a less noble aspect to this
phenomenon. Even when it is not articulated, it is understood: Melbourne is not
just good, not just marvelous, it is better.
The long shadow of Sydney is always there, the darkness that defines the light.
I think it wasn’t until I moved to Fitzroy
that I fully succumbed to the collective narcissism that characterizes life in Melbourne.
It’s a suburb where a quick study break stroll to stock up on Twisties at the
supermarket can end up taking a little longer than expected because on the way
I allow myself to be distracted by the colourful display in the window of a
gallery showing indigenous art. Inside, the attendant, a man of extreme
refinement and extensive knowledge, treats me as if I might be a potentially
major art investor despite the fact that I say things like, “So, what are those poles with feathers stuck on
them? They’re gorgeous,” and “Who’s Christian Thompson?”
Fitzroy is nothing if not arty. The back
streets and lanes are full of street art and tasteful graffiti. On Saturday I
went for a guided tour of some of the highlights, took the photos you see on this blog-post, and got into an argument with
a former city councillor about whether graffiti can still lay claim to being
truly subversive when it’s been commissioned by the council (he said yes, I said no). In any case, I’m
happy to concede that what Fitzroy street art may lack in street cred, it more
than makes up for in style.
But the beauty of Fitzroy is not just skin
deep. This morning, while browsing websites of the dozen or so yoga schools in
Fitzroy to find a class that might suit me, I discovered that the Dance of Life
studio was offering a session described as a Luscious Ovarian Temple, with
lavender foot bath. How could I resist? I thought this kind of thing only
happened in the Blue Mountains. But the precise reality is that it only happens
in Melbourne.
When I emerged from exploring my Ovarian
Temple later this afternoon, I felt as if the cavities of my body were sparkling with interior light. As I floated off down Brunswick Street, I knew I was
exactly where I needed to be. Like an ovarian cyst, my Sydney-bred cynicism had
been finally, painlessly excised.
As J.F.K. might have said if he had
ever come here:
I am a Melbournian.
