I prepared for my first day of class at the kitchen table the night before. An array of Melbourne maps spread out before me, displaying varying levels of detail: a city map with arrows pointing to important sites, a public transportation map abstractly noting what trams, trains and buses stopped where and when, a map marked with the main roads by my house, and a map of the University with a purple ‘X’ marking the corner where I needed to arrive at 9 the next morning. I planned my route. Allowing for plenty of time, I would get on bus 504 from Brunswick Road to Sydney Road, take tram 19 down Royal Parade, and finally board bus 564, bringing me to my final destination at the corner of Swanston and Grattan Streets.
I waited on the corner of Brunswick Road for 20 minutes before getting worried. Nervously checking my watch, I was sure that a bus had to be on its way. Ten minutes later, and truly dismayed, I began heading back to my house to call the director, when Jim pulled around the corner. “Get in mate,” Jim waved me in, “bugger all, you were waiting when I left this morning!” Dropping me off at Sydney Road, I waved thanks to Jim and hoped leg two of my journey would go more smoothly.
Half way down Royal Parade I realized the tram driver wasn’t calling out stops like I assumed he would. Route maps absent from the wall, I strained my neck at the window to see the street signs rushing by. A second wave of anxiety in as many hours hit as I sat down for what could be a long ride. So I got off when all the other student-aged passengers did – when in Rome, I guess. Lo and behold a University of Melbourne building stood before me.
Now wary of Melbourne public transportation, I decided to skip leg three entirely. I walked towards my destination and noticed I was already ten minutes late. Not wanting to full-out run, I race-walked towards Swanston Street, generating some interested stares. I finally arrived, flustered and without the coffee I was planning on buying with all of my extra time.
Actually looking forward to a few hours in a lecture, my reaction wasn’t exactly jubilation when Bill, the director, described our first activity. The “Melbourne Drop-off” he called it. A chance to jump into the city and practice some participant observation. On a another tram into the middle of the city he handed me a piece of paper and sent me on my way at the next stop. It read, “Go to Richmond, on Victoria Parade, between Church and Hoddle Street. Report on what you find, talk to the locals, sample some cuisine, buy something significant and be back by 12:30.”
I briefly contemplated making up a elaborate story of my trip to Richmond while eating lunch at the pizza place right behind me, but decided Bill would know better. Instead, I found the tram to Victoria Parade and took it to Richmond. When I got off at Hoddle Street, the landscape had completely changed. Vegetable hawkers called out their prices from sidewalk grocery stores and shop signs advertising ‘Classic Vietnamese Bridal Styles’ and ‘Chinese Pathology and Surgery’ hung closely on buildings. I walked up Victoria Parade and entered an impromptu produce stand. The fruits and vegetables were labeled in Mandarin, making browsing a difficult task for the uninitiated. Suprisingly, I found something I recognized.
A custard apple, just like the ones I’d eaten in India at my cousins’ house. I’ve never seen them in the States, and I asked the grocer if they were ripe. She shrugged, but I bought one anyway. Under a canopy of store awnings and vendors' stalls, I gawked for another five blocks at butcher shop windows, trinket stores, clothing boutiques and combination herbal remedy/mobile phone shops. I stopped at a café to take notes, and a man in overalls flanked by two beers asked what I was doing. I told him I was soaking up the neighborhood. He chuckled, finished the second beer and stood up. "Well, good luck with that,” he said, “I’ve got work just down the street, if you come by I’ll find some people for you to talk to.”
I got back at 12:30. The group shared their own experiences and observations and took out various objects representative of their neighborhoods. First came some pastries, then some candy, some more pastries, a mango-guava malt beverage and then my ugly, speckled custard apple. It was ripe and tasted like I remembered. In the end, a little less apprehensive about taking a tram and determined to reduce my nearly religious reliance on maps while discovering all of Melbourne’s neighborhoods, I went home, day one down.
