Ground Zero

I suppose I’ve got the space to start off with an airline rant, right? It’s a total bandwagon-style affair, but god they just keep getting worse and worse. With my options being $10 for movies on a mini screen or slogging through that book I’ve taken forever to read (House of Leaves for anyone who’s interested), I’m kicking myself now for not writing sooner. Granted, there was the whole butterfly colony in my stomach to contend with, so mulling over a mixture of worst-case scenarios and romantic ideals won the bout. Four hours and a mild share of turbulence later (okay it wasn’t that bad- I only felt like we were going to crash twice), I looked out the window to see the vast barren expanses that were the outskirts of Melbourne. Oh joy. What an interesting start.

Melbourne pls

Fumbling through customs, dragging our luggage aplenty, we finally made it out of the airport. Fuck me. It’s hot here. So hot. As in “I’m going to be so smart by wearing my heaviest clothes to save on weight limits” turned to “FUCK FUCK I’M MELTING FUCK” in a painfully drenched scene with yours truly rivalling the Wicked Witch of the West.

I'm so pretty.

On a side note- can someone please explain to me how people can chat on the phone for hours on end? Do you not just run out of things to say, or do you have to be bland enough to find an account of what someone else has eaten today to be terribly entertaining? Anyway, our taxi driver never fucking shut up. Except to collect his money, I guess- but at least we were there. Twisted the keys, dumped our shit, and the city was ours to hit. My spirits were already at an ominous low as the trail through what I now assume to be suburbia painted a picture of Melbourne resembling much more of Manukau than the Wellington 2.0 I’d been led to imagine.

And that's how you killed your father, Simba.

A good fumble through Google maps and a few wrong turns later, we finally made it to the right train station. (Side note: In case you haven’t heard, these Melbournians have a pretty legit transportation system. It’s basically HOP done right. Wait, wasn’t this where HOP came from anyway? Back to the story though.) Still down in the dumps (almost literally, god that train was filthy by nightfall), I crossed my fingers and toes, hoping for the best. I mean, I’d come this far, committing to the cause was obligatory. But as soon as those bright, shiny lights started peeking out from the distance, I knew things were about to change. With a beacon guiding me home, the city kid inside me rejoiced and sang. Hopping off at Southern Cross station left me giddy with joy. This was it. A real city.

Ayo peeps, you know how we do

I’m not quite sure I know how to put it into words, but there’s just something magical about a city by night. It’s like it switches faces- or puts a mask on, I should say. Work gets tucked away, and it’s all time for play. Like a child on his tenth sherbet stick, I was simply ecstatic (and a little hyperactive). Running down alleyways, waltzing through sidestreets and arcades, that sherbet was pretty much crack.

Bubble Girl knows what's up.

The next few hours were spent pacing through the city and getting familiar with the new place I’d call home. Every poster was an event I wanted to see, all these restaurants had me promising to come back later. The shops screamed out for my attention, and boy- did they get it. Eventually though, the shortcomings of being human were made apparent as my legs threatened secession and the rest of my body cried out solidarity. Bargained down a taxi and made our way back to the temp flat, crashing almost immediately upon arrival. Right before sleep claimed me, I swear I let pass a smile and a chuckle. 

Oh Melbourne, we’re going to have such fun.