Hans the Greeter and His Tour of Melbourne

   Across Swanston Street from Flinders Street Station (probably the most photographed building in Melbourne) is Federation Square. It’s sort of the meeting place for the city; cool stuff like one of the National Gallery of Victoria locations and the Australian Center for the Moving Image is located there. It also has a very nice visitors’ center with all the things that a visitors’ center should have, like maps and souvenirs and people to help you book tours and things like that. It also has a fleet of volunteer Greeters that provide three- to four-hour tours, absolutely free of charge.

   I had read about this service in my trusty guidebook, “Melbourne, Free & Dirt Cheap,” and once I settled in with Mylo-the-cat, I checked the web site and sure enough, there was a way to book a spot on the tour. Following the specific instructions, I was there at 9 a.m. sharp (the first one, I would like to note for the record) and met Hans, a German gentleman who moved to Australia I the ’50s, worked, raised a family, retired and decided to volunteer and give tours. This presented yet another accent challenge to me: a German Australian accent. The group grew to a total of six: an Asian girl, a young German couple (that held hands throughout the entire tour) two young German girls, and me. I was the oldest by a number of years, sort of bridging the gap between Hans and the 20-something-year-olds.

   The first stop was Flinders Street Station (shown above at night and on the right) located, appropriately, on Flinders Street and Swanston, two main streets in the Central Business District (CBD). There are photographs of this lovely Victorian lady on just about every piece of tourist literature available. Flinders was the original train station, the first one, the oldest, the Grand Old Lady, as she is called. And yes, this building is female – substantially female. About half a million pass through every day: Melburnians on their way to and from work, tourists exploring the CBD, pensioners out and about at the museums. Although the exterior has been meticulously maintained, the interior is due for a refurbishment. In fact, the building itself (including the Railworker’s Club Ballroom) can’t be used because it’s not up to code. The problem is that the city can’t shut any of the platforms down to accommodate an update without causing all kinds of disruption to the already overloaded system. So, Flinders Street goes on as it is.

   I made mention of how Sydney was difficult to navigate because of how its street evolved from pig trails.  Melbourne, however, is a planned city that its founders built on a grid. Straight streets and a terrific tram system (largest in the world) make it quite easy to get around. Well, if you get the right tram, anyway. I have a tendency to just get on the first tram that pulls up at a stop without looking at the route number. After riding the tram from midnight to after 1 a.m. one day, I learned my lesson. So I should qualify this by saying that it’s easy to get around if a person pays attention.  

   Hans, already acting the instructor, asked us if we noticed anything in particular about the streets. Umm – there are trams? Yes, he said, there are trams. Do you notice anything about that? We all remained silent as a class that didn’t study for the test. Well, he pointed out, they have trams and cars, and wide, green boulevards running down the center. Melbourne was built before the automobile by those of European descent and by all rights, should have been like Sydney with its narrow streets. But the Yarra River was really the center of the city when Melbourne was founded (on gold money) as a financial and manufacturing center. All the beautiful old Victorian buildings downtown are edifices that housed front offices, clothing factories stretching out behind them. Materials were shipped from Port Phillip up the river, unloaded onto carts and then pulled up the streets by ox and horse teams. The streets, therefore, had to be wide enough for the beasts to pull a U-turn.  Now they’re wide enough to accommodate both tram and car traffic.

   We walked beside the Yarra where the landscaping is no longer sleeping quarters for the homeless. In fact, I haven’t seen many homeless people around, most likely because they’re being helped, although Hans did mention that he would show us their newest popular hiding place. We walked onto Southern Cross Bridge, which is decorated for the Holidays. We looked over the river at the National Gallery of Victoria and the Arts Center with its spire. We went to visit an eccentric opal dealer where we saw his collection of lizards and spiders and how an opal is cut. We walked the laneways of downtown Melbourne, strolling Collins Street and Little Collins, Flinders Street and Flinders Lane, Bourke Street and Little Bourke Street. (Just because it’s on a grid doesn’t mean it’s not confusing.)

   Hans was a little bit too interested in the scatological history of Melbourne. He put on the pedant’s hat once again and asked us if we knew why there were so many laneways in Melbourne. Again, we remained silent. So he launched into a general description of how people back then didn’t have indoor plumbing and used chamber pots, and someone had to dispose of the waste, so they’d put the pots out in the lane and at night, a guy with a big tank would come along and take it away. And dump it in the river. Where all of the rest of the waste from manufacturing was dumped. When indoor plumbing was finally installed, Hans told us the toilets were always put at the back of the building. Sure enough, he showed us the tangle of pipes on the back of just about every old building. Of course, once there was indoor plumbing, there was no longer a need to set out the chamber pots ever night and the lanes were used for delivery of materials and such. But now that manufacturing has ceased and the factories have been turned into chic lofted flats or cool offices, the lane have become full of shops, some that you can practically touch both walls at the same time. Every third one is a coffee shop and/or bakery.

   But Hans, for all his interest in the history of Melbourne's potties, was quite informative, as well. He showed us laneways full of street art, AC/DC Lane (Digression: The rock band started its performing life here.  Melbourne's Lord Mayor John So launched AC/DC Lane with the words, "As the song says, there is a highway to hell, but this is a laneway to heaven. Let us rock."  Bagpipers then played "It's a Long Way to the Top (If You Wanna Rock'n'Roll. What's not to love about this city?)  We also toured the wonderful shopping arcades, the balcony on Town Hall where the Beatles waved to the Melbournian crowds in 1964 (Paul came out with a boomerang).  We walked past the Atheneaum theater, where The Women’s Library was (and still is, it’s just called the Athenaeum Library) named such because when Mum and Dad came to town to do the marketing, Dad would stop and have a few at the pub and where was Mum to go? Well, they started a library for the ladies to gather and improve their minds while the men were taking care of business. I would have thought that allowing women to read while men were off doing something else would be a dangerous business, but these Australians are fairly liberal.

   Hans also pointed out the 975-foot Eureka Tower, with its crown of gold and streak of red symbolic of the 1854 Eureka Stockade in the gold mining community of Ballarat, or “blood under the Southern Cross.” Until 1901, Australia was still a group of colonies under the rule of England, with any and all resources discovered deemed property of the Crown. In order to look for gold, a Miner’s Licence had to be purchased. Licence fees were high, and had to be paid monthly whether gold was discovered or not.  Some miners banded together to protest the practice. One of the groups, the Ballarat Reform League, passed a resolution: "that it is the inalienable right of every citizen to have a voice in making the laws he is called on to obey, that taxation without representation is tyranny". The meeting also resolved to secede from the United Kingdom if the situation did not improve. Sound familiar? A flag was designed – the Southern Cross – a beautiful flag. Hans said that Australians are ambivalent about symbol now; it enjoys a similar reputation to our Bars & Stars rebel flag. Hard to imagine a nation thinking that one rebellion of mistreated miners is equivalent to our bloody, years-long conflict. Perhaps another Australian misconception of the United States. There are some that insist the conflict had nothing to do with Australian identity whatsoever. Others believe that Australians revere this riot, the only one in its history bearing any resemblance to the French Revolution, the American War for Independence or the Irish Civil War.

   The rebellion was in fact a brutal slaughter. Of the 36 casualties, 22 were fatalities. Troops had to be ordered to stand down and stop bayoneting the miners. Women threw themselves over men to appeal for mercy and stop the killing. Licencing practices were changes after the rebellion.

   Eureka Tower is the highest residential building in the world, the second tallest in Australia, and the 34th tallest in the world.  The building's gold crown represents the Victorian gold rush of the 1850s, with a red stripe representing the blood spilled during the revolt. The blue glass cladding that covers most of the building represents the blue background of the stockade's flag, the white lines, the cross and stars. The white horizontal stripes also represent markings on a surveyor's measuring staff.

    Melbourne (actually pronounced “Mel-bn” or “Mel-brn” but NEVER “Mel-born”) was given its name by Governor Richard Bourke in 1837, in honor of William Lamb, the 2nd Viscount Melbourne, who served as Britain’s Home Secretary and then Prime Minister. He is best remembered for mentoring the young Queen Victoria in the ways of politics, but never presided over any wars or great conflicts, so history often sort of ignores him. The city was also the first capital when Australia was united in 1901. Government stayed in Melbourne until 1927 when it was moved to the planned Australian Capital Territory. (Victoria and New South Wales each believed that they should host the seat of government, so ultimately, a separate area was formed, much like we did with Washington, D.C. )

   As Hans pointed out the Melbourne Cricket Ground, which is really the area dedicated to all athletic endeavors in Melbourne, he informed us that football (that’s rugby) in Australia is a religion. He looked mournful as he told us that his entire family is for such-and-such, but his daughter went off and married a guy who is for so-and-so.  Now that they’ve had a son, it’s difficult to say how the child will be brought up. Right now the parents plan to take the boy to both teams’ matches and then him choose when he gets old enough to decide on his own. I was going to tell Hans that these things are often traced through the maternal side, but I stopped myself. Hans had difficulty with both my sense of humor and my accent.

   After four hours of constant information, Hans left us somewhere downtown – I think it was right across from the Myer department store, where people line up for hours to see the annual Christmas window displays. I wasn’t interested in looking at the windows right then because it was nearly 1 p.m. and I hadn’t had lunch yet. So off I went to get even more thoroughly lost than I was and eat. Melbourne may be set up on a grid, but all these lanes are like rabbit warrens that you wind through until you pop out the other side, blinking in the bright light like a mole. While we were on the tour, I saw a dress I planned to go back and try on. After all, it turns out that I will be at the Opera House on New Year’s Eve. I still have not managed to find that store, and doubt I will, except maybe by accident.

   Next, Bendigo, another gold rush town and a place that I absolutely would be happy to live.

Where the Snowy Meets the Sea

    My fourth roommate at the Cambridge Lodge in Sydney was man named Nigel from Leeds, England. A couple of days before I left for Melbourne, he took off for a cattle station somewhere in New South Wales where he would be helping with the stock and other duties as assigned in exchange for room and board. When I asked him how he found the gig, he told me about a web site called Help Exchange, or HelpEx.  I had heard of this concept before – in fact, a major reason why I decided I could travel longer was because of ideas like this and house sitting. An exchange? Well, why not? And if one can save the cost of accommodation? So much the better.

    Before I had secured the Mylo-the-Verbal-Cat gig, I had decided that I wanted to make sure that I got out of Melbourne to take a look around. After all, I’m in the area for about six weeks – too long to stay in just one place. So I looked at the HelpEx site and found everything from assistance needed at a Bed & Breakfast, to cleaning up after horses, to milking the house cow, and so on. Most of the things looked like a pretty good deal. (Well, all but the ones that required help with child care.) The fee to join was nominal, so I paid it and formulated my profile. This was on a Tuesday afternoon.

    By Tuesday evening I had a call from a woman on King Island (between Australia and Tasmania) inquiring about my availability. She wanted someone to work in her dairy immediately and stay at least through Christmas. There might even be pay involved if I had the right sort of Visa. (I do not. Unfortunately.) I had to turn her down; my budget doesn’t allow for a plane or boat ticket over to King Island, nor was I interested in working in a dairy.

    Wednesday morning, I had my second call, this one from a man, A., who lives with his partner in the Gippsland region of eastern Victoria, just outside a little town called Marlo. He said that my name was the first he saw when he logged in on Wednesday morning. He clicked on my blog and read a bit, decided I might benefit from work rehabilitation, and thought he’d give a call to see if I’d like to spend some time out in the far eastern part of Victoria, where the Snowy River (yes, as in “The Man From …”) meets the sea. I said I’d get back to him.

    I’m not accustomed to getting calls from foreign men inviting me to come on out and spend some time with them miles from not much. But he did also mention D., his partner. A. also told me that he and D. had been hosting couch surfers for the past year and really enjoyed meeting people from all over the world. The references on the couch surfing site were good, so I decided to go out to Marlo, population 340.

    When I spoke with A. initially, I asked what he needed help with, since the whole idea was to be helping. In exchange. You know, Help Exchange. He said, well, he could use some help catching up with housekeeping. Some things had gotten away from him, and the windows needed washing, and maybe some work out in the yard and garden … Sounded fine to me. Since each host and exchanger determine the routine, A. thought three to four hours of help a day would get me a room and board. I agreed, and arranged to take the train out to Bairnsdale where he would pick me up. I said I’d be the one without a funny accent.

    I have not ever been on a train for more than a few minutes at a time, and I enjoyed the trip thoroughly. I’m a fan of VLine. Someone else driving? I can write, count my arm hairs, play iphone Solitaire, even look at the scenery. When I could tear myself away from other absorbing activities, I saw rolling hills, mountains of a sort off in the distance, small towns with fresh subdivisions, probably for commuters. Cows. Sheep. Horses. Hay bales. More small towns with auto repair shops and farm implement dealers and even one grain elevator close to the tracks. Commuter parking lots. Victorian vintage train stations that never fell into disrepair, their red brick and gingerbread trim a fact, not a feature. For $32 I traveled First Class and watched rural Victoria roll back beside me.

    Turns out that Bairnsdale is a hub of activity and the place that A. and D. get most of their groceries. Aldi is a much loved chain over here, so that’s where A. and I went. He asked me several times if I wanted anything in particular, if I had any dietary restrictions, if there was something that I didn’t like at all. Since six months have passed since I had a real kitchen of my own, those questions baffled me. We got groceries – and a few more groceries – then proceeded toward Marlo, via Lakes Entrance where we got a bite of lunch. Lakes Entrance is actually the name of the town, named thus because it is, oddly enough, the entrance to the Gippsland Lakes. Actually, the town was named Cunningham in the late 1800s, but some master of the obvious changed the name in 1901.The unimaginative name did not affect the spectacular view.

Lakes Entrance, entry point to The Lakes National Park and one end of the 90 Mile Beach.

    We stopped in Orbost on the way back, as well, about 14 kilometers north, population 2,452. It’s the town where there are schools, where there’s a couple grocery stores and a baker or two, where D. teaches school.

   Then, on to Marlo. The town is located at the mouth of the Snowy River. There’s a hotel, pub and a couple caravan parks (campgrounds), a boat ramp, post office, convenience store and, of course, residences. Some of the homes are vacation places that are inhabited weekends and holidays. Since Marlo is an inconvenient distance from Melbourne, it’s not a place where folks come for a long weekend. However, around Christmas, the summer season starts and there will be more traffic through Easter. My host relayed this information with a sigh of resignation as we were driving the coastal road from one beautiful scenic point to yet another breathtaking scenic point: “In a few weeks you won’t even be able to move around here.”

Salmon Rocks, Cape Conran.

    According to my sources, James Stirling was the first person to occupy the Marlo area around 1875.  The name “Marlo” thought to be a derivation of the aboriginal word “marloo” meaning “white clay” which might refer to Marlo Bluff, or “murloo” which means “muddy banks.” Stirling built a two room structure of bark with earthen floors and a shingled roof. It grew to nine rooms, and became the Marlo Hotel, where we ate on Saturday night. The hotel was variously a general store, hotel, unofficial post office. Its deck affords one of the best sunset views in Marlo.

Marlo Hotel in its current incarnation.

    I’m quite sure that A. thought at many times that I was a ditzy blonde – or a dumb American. Or both. During the drive back from Bairnsdale, I saw a yellow road sign bearing the silhouette of a kangaroo, the universal symbol for “this here is a kangaroo crossing area, little missy.”  I said something really smart like, “hey, was that a kangaroo crossing sign?”

    The answer was yes.

    “There are kangaroos out here?”

    The answer was nonverbal, yet perfectly clear.

    “Well, I just didn’t … I mean, they’re here?

    “Yes, Kimbel. There are kangaroos in Australia.”

    “Yeah, I know that, I just thought they were, you know, out in the middle of the outback somewhere. Not, like, right here.”

    Silence. He was probably considering how to tell me we were heading back to the train station.

    “Maybe I’ve been watching too many National Geographic specials.”

     He nodded.  “Maybe.”

Eastern Gray 'roo - what I would have seen. Photo: interllectual.com

    Back to the whole helping thing.  Windows. Cool. Windows. No problem. Then I saw the house. Lots of windows. Large windows. Two stories of windows. He had remarked that the house was “not the Hilton.” Nope. It was much better. A. and D. built it themselves. Half of it is a two story photo studio with some ancillary furniture if they care to relax. The other half of the second story is an office area and master bedroom. The kitchen is downstairs, as are two other bedrooms and another bathroom. I had complete privacy, my own room (quite comfortable) and my own bathroom. A. is also a terrific cook – lamb chops, steamed veggies, baked potatoes, leg of lamb, pizzas – the list goes on. I contributed Swedish limpa bread and a flourless chocolate cake. A. and D. also had plenty of chocolate on hand, showing that they are indeed civilized individuals.

Plenty of windows.

    Because house cleaning is largely the same the world over, I will not bore you with details about washing windows and screens, vacuuming floors and sills, sweeping cobwebs off of siding. Even though I know you want me to. I won’t do it. Because the real value to the Help Exchange is that the exchange is really a cultural one. A. and D. and I had terrific dinner table conversation – everything from American foreign policy to Australian use of the English language and much, much more. The whole point of going off into the boonies and meeting other people was to meet other people. Live like a local. Learn about the country. Attempt to explain why Americans aren’t doing anything (effective) about Wall Street running our government. And so on.

    A. and D. live on what is referred to  a lifestyle block, which means that they have a larger piece of land and are out of Marlo a few kilometers. The additional land allows them to keep a garden (in the works, probably for the next HelpEx person), build a chicken (or chook) run (already done before the house) and of course, keep a guard cat named Houdini (because he escaped certain death when he was adopted by D.). The chooks contributed to the household good by providing fresh eggs, which were much appreciated as an ingredient in flourless chocolate cake. Houdini provided constant supervision as well as plenty of fuzz to keep me busy with the vacuum cleaner.

   A. and D. were also happy to play tour guides, and one evening we went out in search of kangaroos. Turns out that kangaroos act sort of like deer. They snooze during the day in the shade, and come out at dusk to graze, sometimes by the side of the road where they can get startled by automobiles and dash out in front of them. A. and D. said that sometimes the ’roos come up onto their lawn and graze. Barely down the road, one dashed – hopped – sprung? – across the road. Out at the Marlo Aerodrome (yep, there’s an airport there) they were grazing, but it had gotten dark enough that even with the flashlight (torch) we could barely see them. But, on the way out to the aerodrome, we saw emus. Actually, I had to be told that they were emus, because they looked like large shrubs. Clearly, their heads were somewhere else (under a wing, in a hole, etc.) so in the dusk, they just looked like lumps. I understand that they are not afraid of cattle, and have been known to chase cows. Sorry to have missed that.  Wombats also populate the area, but no luck on a wombat sighting, either.

Joiners Channel, Cape Conran.

    One afternoon, we drove to Cape Conran , stopping at superb lookouts where the Snowy River flows into the Southern Ocean. The Cape Conran Coastal Park has pristine beaches, rocky cliffs, walking tracks and the occasional hysterical site. The West Cape offers scenic views of Salmon Rocks. The East Cape boasts a scenic coastal boardwalk, which we didn’t take. We even stopped at a river that is brown, not because of mud but because of a tree (the ti tree) which colors the water like a tea bag would. Nothing wrong with the water –  it won’t stain skin or bathing suits. It just resembles iced tea. A goanna lizard (lace monitor) zipped across the road and up a tree.

Lace monitor. It's up there. Really.

    When I mentioned that I would be near the Snowy River, friends and family immediately thought of the movie. In fact, when I called my brother on Thanksgiving evening, they had been watching the film. But although I was near the Snowy, I wasn’t in the area where The Man did his famous ride.

The movie was inspired by The Man who was immortalized in A. B. “Banjo” Paterson’s poem of the same name. Some say that the setting of the poem is in the region of what is now Burrinjuck Dam, northwest of Canberra in New South Wales.  Others say that the ride does not take place in the Snowy River region at all.

    The little town of Corryong on the western side of the Great Dividing Range claims stockman Jack Riley as the inspiration for the character, and uses the image of the character to attract tourists.  Among their claims is that Paterson met Riley on at least two occasions. Another possibility is that The Man was Charlie McKeahnie, who was an exceptional and fearless rider and when he was only 17 years old (in 1885) performed a riding feat (unclear exactly what) in the Snowy River region. Paterson would have been familiar with the story of McKeahnie as well. There’s another poem about McKeahnie by Barcroft Boake.

    The Man from Snowy River is like our John Henry, the Steel Driving Man – larger than life, daring, masculine, and heroic.  Like so many stories about folk heroes, the poem was written during a time when the country was developing an identity, long before the country became a commonwealth in 1901 and was still a bunch of independent colonies under British governance. Like our Wild West heroes, The Man was a character with whom the nation could identify.
    Next, Bendigo.

A Dog Named Otis and a Cat Named Mylo

    When I arrived in Melbourne, I thought I had rarely seen such an ugly city. The drive in from the airport yielded views of architecturally uninspiring tall buildings, tagged underpasses, ugly apartment buildings in primary color blocks. Of course, everything looks ugly after not enough sleep and negotiating unfamiliar trains and airports. Breakfast on the 6:45 a.m. flight was especially ugly – pre-mixed muesli (granola) and yogurt with some sort of gelatinous berry goo and sour coffee. And when I disembarked at Southern Cross Station (at least the name was cool), I was overwhelmed with diesel fumes. The train system in Melbourne is still petroleum fueled – at least trams are electric. Thank heavens I was able to get a cup of coffee and a ham and cheese croissant which both tasted like Cordon Bleu.

    I had heard quite a lot about how wonderful the public transportation system was in Melbourne, but when I got on the train, I was not impressed. Diesel. Slow. Ugly stations. Tagged walls. Weedy tracks. A freight train on the next track over.  Nontheless, I arrived at Bentleigh East, the location of my house sitting gig at the appointed time, found a seat by a bus stop, called the home owner, and settled in to wait.

    In July, I had learned of a web site called Housecarers.com which offers services to those looking for house sitters and those looking to house sit. I registered immediately, and realized that this was the perfect way to make my travel dollar go farther. On the site, I posted a profile and references as well as a sort of ad for my services that includes how I am the perfect person to watch over some stranger in a foreign country’s property while they’re on holiday.  The site sends updates to my email address daily listing house sitting opportunities in areas that I’ve set in my preferences. From there, I can respond to any house sitting requests. Joining the service cost me $50. I figured that if I got even one house sitting job through the site, I would have made my money back. I’ve made my money back a hundred-fold.

    In late August, I finally confirmed two house sitting jobs in the Melbourne area and was ecstatic – virtually the entire month of November was covered. Knowing that lodging expenses would be low for at least part of the time and certain that I’d find more, I bought my ticket. A week later, both gigs cancelled. Two months later, while I was in Sydney, one of the people sent me an email asking if I still might be available. Of course!

An example of a Bentleigh East home.

    The homeowner and her 4-year-old son collected me from the bus station after a swimming lesson.  I don’t want to share her name… and think it would be awkward to call her “home owner” or h.o., so I’ll call her … Linda. Ok. Linda and I and her son zipped down to her lovely home. The suburb, Bentleigh East, is in the band of farthest south inner suburbs. Post-World War II homes of sand-colored brick line the streets.  The front yards, or gardens, are lovely, planted with roses and kangaroo paw and hosta and other plants that I recognized but can’t name. Most have fences (many of them picket) and pretty little front gates. Streets are quiet once the parade of uniformed kids heading off to school passes.

    Once Linda opened the front gate, I was greeted by a ball of Otis, who is a Shitzu/Maltese cross of nearly 14 years. (That’s 91 for you and me!) I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a small dog fan. Yes, I had a Pembroke Welsh Corgi, but he wasn’t a small dog. And no, he didn’t think he was a big dog. He was a big dog, in a small package. Anyway. Little dogs don’t seem like dogs to me. They seem more like … ummm…toys. But Otis was something else. The first day that we were there alone, he snapped at me repeatedly. At that point, neither of us was impressed by the other.  But his desire for walks every morning belied his age, even while his unreliable ability to hold his bladder overnight reminded me of his dog years. On day two I heard a shuffling and snuffling in the little boy’s room. Otis had the bean bag chair by a corner and had dragged it out into the hall. For fun? His bed wasn’t comfortable enough? He looked terribly disappointed yet unrepentant when I closed the bedroom door and he had to content himself with pushing his bed and blanket around. I didn’t find it as cute when, on day three, he smelled the vitamins in my bag and went after the ones in the Ziplock bags. I disposed of the ones dark with dog spit, and called him a little shit. He took it in stride. We worked through it. By day four he had figured out that he was stuck with me, and started following me from room to room, happy to get pets. We parted good friends.

    Since I was out in the ‘burbs, I didn’t go in to the city once. But I did explore the shopping areas around Bentleigh, walking the 30-40 minutes down Centre Road in the morning to get a decaf flat white (latte, no foam) and walking back in time for lunch. Days passed with getting breakfast, going for our walk, showering up, walking downtown for a coffee, walking back for lunch, starting the car, getting the mail, checking email and writing, getting dinner. I watched a movie every night I was there – saw all three of the Godfather movies. (Okay, I only watched half of Godfather III. Puh-leez. Coppola was right – it was over after the second one.)Saw Mama Mia (finally). Marly and Me. (I cried.)  A much needed change from the communal living of a hostel in an inner suburb in Sydney. So grateful. Thank you, Otis' mom and dad. 

*

Row houses in Richmond.

    While Otis and I were hanging out, I found another house sit closer to the city in Richmond. It’s one of the inner suburbs right by the Melbourne Cricket Grounds, which include much more than the cricket grounds – like the stadium where the Olympics were held in 1956 – that’s right, they had ‘em before Sydney did, the first in the Southern Hemisphere.  It’s where football (rugby to you and me) and soccer are played, where concerts are held (Foo Fighters the other night).  I walked past the grounds in a downpour (digression alert!) to meet Mylo’s mom and dad and get the cat’s stamp of approval.

    Speaking of downpour:  Everyone I talked to in Sydney sang the praises of Melbourne’s culture and less frenzied pace. And every time I asked one of them why they didn’t live there, they shuddered and said, “The weather.” As the saying goes in Melbourne, if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes, it’ll change. They also say that in Melbourne, you can experience all four seasons in one day. Sort of a bonus plan. My acquaintances in Palm Springs told me that when they were here for the Australian Open tennis tournament, the temperature dropped 30 degrees in one hour.  If the Spring weather in Sydney was like a woman trying to decide between the red strappy sandals and the Ugg boots, Melbourne’s weather has been like a woman switching between her bikini and parka –then wearing both, just in case. The other day, I found myself wearing sunglasses and carrying an umbrella. I needed both. At the same time.

    So I showed up on Mylo’s doorstep looking rather like a semi-drowned two –legged something or other, was invited in by his dad (cute guy … then I met his girlfriend, who was also really cute, and skinny, and has great hair), and then I met Mylo, who was cute, too, and also has great hair. I heard him before I saw him. He came trotting in from the other room, meowing, walked up to me, flopped over on his side, then rolled onto his back.

    “Uh – does he want his belly rubbed?” I’m sure I sounded more than surprised.

    “Yeah. He’s really friendly.”

    And so he is.

    Yet another advantage to being The Lone Traveler with No Set Itinerary: I got the job, partially because I happened to be have a flexible enough schedule to get there first. I stayed for about 45 minutes, got the tour of the two-story 19^th century townhome and left with a key. They were even okay with me coming in a day late; their neighbor would take care of Mylo for one day.

    On days one and two, I considered Mylo the most friendly, affectionate, outgoing cat I have ever met, an anomaly among felines who is more remarkable for his resemblance to a canine. I mean, what sort of self-respecting cat rolls over and allows his tummy to be rubbed without latching on to your hand and lacerating it with those back, evil, bunny-like feet?  We meowed to each other (hopefully I wasn’t saying “I want to use your sister as a litter box” in cat) and I did my best to figure out what he was trying to communicate.

    Days three and four, after being awakened by pitiful and LOUD meows at 3:30 a.m., I decided that Mylo, for all his seeming charm, is needy, possessive and a little demanding.

    He has a full and versatile vocabulary, although I am not fluent in conversational cat, and haven’t figured out what each plaintive wail means.  The only inflections I’ve figured out are, “Where have you been?” and, “Let me sit on your computer keyboard and that way I’ll be close enough for you to pet me.”  He has the fullest complement of intonation and pronunciation I’ve encountered from any animal:  meow, meeeow,  mee-ow-ow-ow , mahoww, mrrow, owwwww, roww, rrrrrrreh (rolled ‘r’),  reh, meee, mew, mmm, and on and on. Each is delivered with a different tone, from querulous to pitiful to a tone of deep and abiding sorrow for the plight of cats everywhere. If any cat could meow “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen,” it would be Mylo.

    I’ve tried to get him to relax, even suggested inner kitten work, but he’s quite set in his ways and likes the way things are. And a cat’s really got to want to change.  Today I left, and will miss the guy and his big voice, but not at 3:30 tomorrow morning.

    Thanks to house sitting, as it stands I have paid for exactly two nights of lodging since I got to Melbourne on November 11, a whopping $74. Between house sitting and a thing called Help Exchange, my lodging expenses are minimal. More on Help Exchange and a town called Marlo next.