Why do I venture out on such a miserable, Melbourne winter’s day? The simple truth is that I miss the smells, the hubbub and the clamour of the South Melbourne market. It’s been three years since I moved away, but I still journey to Coventry Street when possible.
My tram interchange means a brief exposure to the cold winds of Collins Street. Some early 20th century wit describes these drafts as the “laziest winds in the world, their habit of blowing straight through you, not around…” and so it seems on this Wednesday. My jumper, puffer jacket and beanie are just no match.
Fellow travellers, eyes ever downcast, screen lights reflecting individual pockets of intimacy. I seek shelter in the lee of others more directly exposed to the weather. Rural folk would no doubt recognise this ovine, defensive positioning, as we wait, coldly, at the tram stop.
The 234 tram glides quietly to the stop: it’s one of those new ones that move gently along the streets, engineered without the acoustics of yore – the clangs, screeches and bells so intrinsically linked to the Melbourne tramways. My shopping trolley, and I, muscle aboard.
Everyone’s glued to their telephones, flicking up and down, some with white earplugs, further distancing themselves from social intercourse. The tram jiggles along, but nary a face lifts off their screens. I consider using my leather to join the network. What the heck, I take off my shoe, punch the sole viciously and ask to speak to the operator. Still no reaction. I speak louder. “Hello, is anybody there?” I see a singular face lift briefly, a quizzical expression before it drops down screenward.
At the market I beeline towards the fish shop, I am tossing up between Tuna and Flathead. I’ve heard some tuna fisheries have a big impact on dolphins, so I am leaning towards the flathead. I buy baby Brussel sprouts; they will complement the fish wonderfully. A cauliflower, carrots, olive oil, freshly roasted St Ali beans and a 12-pack of toilet paper. Despite medical advice, I am also budgeting a few shekels at the Fromagerie. They usually have a wonderfully rich Limburger and a few weeks ago they even had the Vieux Boulogne, that impossibly smelly, beer-washed northern French offering.
I am meeting Geraldine at Clement’s for coffee. She and I have both bought mobile machines and U3A classes are teaching us about texting, photography, and being on the alert for scalpers. She will send me a note from her telephone when her shopping’s complete.
I am making my way across to the café. I realise I have forgotten potatoes and detour to buy kipflers, Spanish onions, avocados and some mandarins.
OK. I am now ready for a cappuccino! I see Geraldine on the corner, head down, focussing on what must be her new telephone. She is punching wildly at the keyboard. She looks up, I wave and she abandons her device. “Bloody telephone” is her only greeting.
We enjoy croissants, coffee and camaraderie.