My first time

Liv and Matt at their local




It was magical. It was more than I had imagined... It was my first time in Melbourne. I finally managed to catch a plane south for the weekend to visit friends and explore Melbourne and its surrounds.

From the moment I arrived, I had the uncanny feeling that I had been there before. The city felt so familiar. More than the sense of familiarity I would have gained from watching Kath and Kim and the Secret Life of Us, though aspects of these shows admittedly crept into the weekend. Whatever it was, this was a place I was happy to be reacquainted with.

Melbourne CBD is deceptive. With its prerequisite number of highrise and commercial buildings, it is like any other city. But pleasure is never far from business in Melbourne. Also within the city, hidden, are old cobblestoned laneways, footpaths lined with alfresco eats and coffee shops, talented artists creating museums on the streets, and horse-drawn carriages ready to take off towards the Yarra River which lazily snakes alongside the metropolis, markets covering its banks on weekends. The famous green and gold trams easily pick us up and drop us off whenever we feel the urge.

The people are so well dressed, though fashion does not seem to be effortful here. In Sydney, I so often feel that there is a nervous insecurity that drives the fashion industry. In Melbourne, looking good is all about expressing the art and culture of the place. People, themselves, are walking statements- not of power or position, but of subculture, youth and artistic freedom. The barrista guessed I was not from Melbourne. Oh no, I thought. Do I look that unfashionable in my cargo pants and thongs? Do I scream "tourist" with my camera? No, I had said "skim" cappucino, not "skinny" he offered reassuringly. I was not convinced.

St Kilda was swamped with trendy locals enjoying the line up of cafes, retro bars and- wait for it- practically a whole block of European patisseries! I lingered too long outside one of the cake shops and then realised that I had caused a human traffic jam. To get out of the way, I ducked into the little shop. The sight of the pastries, cakes and breads had been bad enough. Now I was hit with the smell. There are few smells in the world that force a person to think of their future, mostly smells remind us of the past. But whenever I am hit with this smell, my future flashes before me. Maybe I will live in a little flat above such a shop, maybe I will enjoy my breakfast and coffee each weekend surrounded by these perfumes, maybe every special occasion will be marked with a ritualistic drive to buy these treats. I happily left with a fresh poppyseed strichtel in one hand, a "skinny" cappucino in the other.

Next was the nearby Yarra Valley with its melange of vineyards and boutique wineries. We stopped at a couple. At Chandon we ate our fill on platters of cheese and antipasto washed down with a bubbly glass of sparkling rose, it's light pink colour resonating well with the arrival of spring in the area.

The restaurants, bars and clubs were warm and friendly. Melbournites had alot to show-off- they boast an international culture- the food, the music, the art, the mentality. But inspite of this, or perhaps because of it, the city welcomes the newcomer with modesty.

The club we went to took two taxi rides and half an hour of wandering and asking before we found it, tucked away in a dark ally behind some rubbish bins. By the time we arrived, we felt that the city had not intended us to go there, that there was a secrecy behind its friendliness. But we realised that even the locals had not known where the club was, and with possibly the nicest bouncers in Australia welcoming us in, we soon felt that the search had been necessary, that Melbourne wanted to give up its secrets, but only to those who perservered. We walked into what felt like a house party- half indoors, half in an outdoor urban yard- grafiti, metal and bricks looked beautiful here. And the music! I cannot describe it. Just go there. It's called St Jerome's.

Driving towards the airport on my last day I realised Melbourne had been a fusion of what I loved about Australia and what I find so magical in Europe. I had tested out my backpack, but more importantly I tested out this country. A little test before I leave it. Melbourne passed with a high distinction.

Mountain high, mood low

I had to write something for my travel writing course...

This happened to me in 1999. The story is- for the most part- fact. How we managed to get back to civilisation however, has been sprinkled with a little fiction.

Food trails in the French Alps

The passion for the region’s cheeses, breads and pates has long been alive in my family and, like finding the source of a great river, I wanted to explore the origin of this food, to uncover its secrets. The emotional and physical pull of this food was the first secret I would learn…

We were lost. We’d been lost for the last hour or so but no one was brave enough to say it. The cold and thirst were our physical threats. The hunger was both a threat and a lifeline. All we could think about was food.

I’m cross-country skiing in the French Alps, near the Italian border. I left Les Saisies, a tiny resort town in the foothills of Mont Blanc, almost four hours ago. The Mont Blanc (white mountain), standing at 4 808m, is the highest mountain in Western Europe. Today, its thick and perennial white ice peak flashes in and out of view behind white clouds. When the peak can be seen, a postcard-perfect background frames my first cross-country skiing experience.

Lucie and Olivier, a friendly French couple from Lyon whom I met at my hostel, accompany me. Between my broken French and their broken English, we understand each other. They tell me a little about the region, particularly their love of a small town nearby- Beaufort and it’s Swiss-like cheese of the same name. They give me tips on my skiing technique- “move forward” I hear a lot, assuming it means, “lean forward,” though they may just be berating my slowness on the trail.

We would simply stick to the clearly marked trail, right? The trail looped around like an oversized athletics track, so that we would predictably finish where we began in no more than two hours’- back before dark.

But the trail stops. We have not come across a marker for some time, and turn back only to find the light snowfall was not light enough- our own tracks have been buried under a fine layer of powder snow. Cold air from the Mont Blanc has descended into our valley and it is difficult to see even five metres in front of us. Patches of forest, and- more worryingly- changes in slope and snow cover can no longer be anticipated.

A team decision, and we give up trying to retrace our steps and opt to press on, hoping that another marker will direct our way soon- then it could not be more than a kilometre before arriving back in Les Saisies. Through squinted eyes, we see no marker.

It is snowing heavier now, and we can feel our skis are sinking further and further into the snow, making it almost impossible to move more than a few centimetres with each step. The temperature bites suddenly, as though it has dropped 20 degrees in minutes, and snow has managed to find its way inside our boots, turning our feet into heavy iceblocks.

Lucie and I begin to panic. Between chattering teeth, Lucie curses something angrily in French. I begin to imagine the search party that would find us the next day, too late, our bodies sacrificed to the Mont Blanc. It would be a typical “tourists underestimate weather” story that puts all fault on the stupidity of the travellers, sympathy coming only from our families. I think of the two burly St. Bernard dogs outside she ski-hire shop. They are too old now to rescue us with a barrel of rum around their thick necks- they are retired and serve only as a pseudo-tourist attraction for the town.

Only Olivier remains calm and optimistic, assuring us that the town could not be more than half an hour away, that we would soon be drinking steamy chocolat chaud and dipping soft white bread into a bubbly, velvety mixture of cheeses, the prototypical fondue for which the region was famous.

With this, we step up the pace. A snow-white rabbit, sensing our hurry, skirts out of the fog into view, only to disappear into a patch of forest. Olivier begins to talk about food again- rabbit and red wine stew (ragout de lapin) his mother makes on special occasions.

My mind firmly on being alive long enough to taste such a wonderful dish, I follow the rabbit’s own trail towards some conifers. A hallucination- I see lights coming through the trees to our left. Lucie and Olivier agree- I am not hallucinating- these are lights. We are soon met with the sight of a farmhouse.

The residents- a dairy farmer, his wife and son- quickly usher us in from the cold and we are instantly hit with the warm smells of a Savoie kitchen. The family try, without much success, to hide their amusement at our ordeal. Lucie is in histrionics and Olivier looks relieved but also amused at Lucie's exasperation. I have removed my boots, hold one foot at a time in my hands, and look around the kitchen- there are pots bubbling away on the stove, flour dusted like snow on the benches, bread baking, and mouldy cheeses stacked to the ceiling along stone walls. The farmer tells us we are not in Les Saisies but in Beaufort. As though reading our minds, he mentions that the mouldless cheeses are kept in another house altogether, ripening patiently. We would not be allowed to leave until we had had our fill of his family’s produce.

As we are revived by the cheese, bread and cassoulet- a dish of white beans, pork stomach and duck- rich by design to provide energy for peasant farmers working long hours in cold conditions (or perhaps lost and forlorn travellers!). I wondered at the powerful magnetic pull this food had offered. Food had never tasted so good, but the thought of it had been it’s ultimate gift.