The Yellow Brick Road

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Gina and I spent our last few days in New Zealand decompressing in Christchurch after a 1300-mile jaunt. Having departed Twizel without forward accommodation for the evening, we decided to power through the last few hundred kilometers to exploit the conveniences of a major metropolitan area - thankfully our hotel could take us a day early.

On our approach to Christchurch we quickly realized the city lacked the grandeur and sophistication of Auckland and Wellington, instead emanating an awkwardness of an oddly cobbled-together architecture and population. We navigated our way down several one-way streets, often retracing our path, before finding our hotel - a chic boutique reminiscent of a W hotel with a rotating exhibit of nude female art. A smile broke out on both of our faces when we learned that our room had complimentary broadband Internet - a commodity that would be leveraged extensively over the next two days as rain confined us to our room.

What little we did see of Christchurch on the sun-filled morning of our departure wasn’t overly impressive, though we managed to snap a few decent shots of Cathedral Square before heading to the airport.

Naively we queued with the rest of the passengers headed to Melbourne, unaware that our travel agent had not secured the promised electronic travel visas for Australia. When the woman behind the Air New Zealand counter swiped our passports, I caught the Do Not Board warning on her screen out of the corner of my eye. “Did you get your Australia visas?”

“Yes, my travel agent said they were electronic,” I answered.

“Maybe it has to do with the III (3rd) on your passport. Your tickets are booked under Gene Sawyer. Let me try to enter your passport number.”

A few keystrokes later and she looked dumbfounded as if I was on some terrorist watch list.

“I need to go talk to my supervisor.”

Minutes passed until she returned and confidently said that neither Gina nor I had visas for our flight to Australia. Shit.

“Is there any way to secure a visa without going through my travel agent or the embassy?” I asked urgently.

“Luckily, you’re from a friendly country.”

God Bless America.

Thirty minutes and $50 later, I secured electronic clearance from Australian Immigration for our transit into Melbourne.

Several hours passed until we found ourselves clearing Customs in the fifth country of our around-the-World adventure. Exiting the Melbourne terminal we headed directly for Hertz, determined not to repeat our car rental experiences in Los Angeles or Auckland. There it was, emblazoned on a LCD board: Gene Sawyer K26. The ease made me so happy, I could have danced - Gina was happy too.

Bolting down the M1, in our nearly new Toyota Camry, we found ourselves consumed by the size of Melbourne. According to our Lonely Planet Australia book, the city has 3.2 million inhabitants (almost the size of Chicago) and is the fastest growing city in Australia.

Gina fumbled through the several hundred page street directory, while I weaved through traffic approaching the CBD (central business district), and did a masterful job of directing me to the Radisson. A few minutes later we were negotiating with a valet and the front desk staff, famished from several hours of travel. Acknowledging our hunger pangs, we expedited our check-in and sought out relief at a nearby eatery. Gina had snagged several tourist pamphlets while waiting for the hotel’s elevator and suggested Melbourne’s Little Italy area, situated a few kilometers from our hotel.

Patrons seemed to pour out of eateries onto the sidewalks and streets as we cruised looking for a parking spot - an unusual sight for a Sunday evening, we thought. Then we passed four red Ferraris and orange and yellow Lamborghinis parked adjacent to a packed restaurant. That must be the place.

Having to park a few blocks away, we leisurely strolled back towards the action and began examining menus. Not knowing Tuttici from Il Pizano, we diligently scrutinized menus for familiar dishes and the al fresco diners’ plates for presentation. At each stop, we were heckled by an eager maître de to Come’in! Come’in!, evocative of Latin America where shop and bar owners try to herd in anyone with a spare buck. By about the tenth restaurant, we grew tired of the exercise and decided that we’d just pick a place to eat as both of our stomachs were growling.

“Table for two? Why you goin’ over there… the food here is much better and cheaper too. They have filet mignon for $40, I have for $28. Look at this soup (pointing to one of the handful of diner’s plates as the lady was half-stroke through her bite). You don’t get it any better than this. Come’in! My wine is cheaper too.”

The squat, balding, Italian man had rattled off about 20 sentences in the span of 5 seconds as a stall tactic to prevent Gina and me from walking to the next restaurant - it worked.

“This table is reserved but I give to you,” as he motioned to a table squarely situated in the open window at the front of the restaurant.
Gina and I looked at one another as we scanned the inside of the restaurant and didn’t spot another patron. “I guess he was trying to make us feel special?” Gina laughed.

For the next hour we sat watching other clueless diners parade up and down the street examining menus and presentation, trying to ferret out a decent eatery. Every ten minutes, our host, Fernando, would stick his head in the window to interject in our conversation such non-sequiturs as: “You see my kitchen, no fryer. These restaurants aren’t Italian. You see that plate, chips (fries) under Parmesan. What are they thinking?” and “You see my sign (pointing to a hand scrawled sign of various colored marker on Styrofoam hanging by a broken coat hangar)? I been here the longest. Everyone else come after me and charge more money.” And, of course, “I’m the only Italian owner. There is only one other Italian on this street. No one else here is Italian.”

Between each interruption of our conversation, Fernando would accost passersby, variably dragging them to a chalk board of daily specials or an outside diner’s meal, pointing out the intricacy of preparation often while the patron was mid-stroke through her bite. His animated production was met by a combination of dunning stares and feigned interest, though he managed to reel in about 1-in-8.

Finishing the last bits of our spaghetti carbonara and cheap Chianti, Gina and I bid a quick adieu to Fernando and wished him the best, retiring to our hotel for the evening.

We awoke early the next morning, excited to explore a new city. As I drew back the curtains to stir my slumbering bride, I was caught by the hot air balloons dotting a colorful sky produced by the rising sun. What a pleasant way to start a day.

To be expected in any large city, we were lost within ten minutes of leaving the hotel. Between the cluttered map, one-way streets and odd road signs (e.g. Right Turn Only from the Left Lane), we found ourselves retracing our route until arriving at a parking complex across from Federation Square - the epicenter of our daily adventure. As I pulled into the parking structure, Gina noticed the Early Bird Special, $12 for entry before 10 A.M. “Go, go, go…” she shouted, like a toddler repeating a demand. I looked at her dumbfounded and then realized the clock on the ticket dispenser read 9:59A.M. With sleight of hand, I pulled a ticket right before the time changed and the full-day rate of $40 was imposed on those unlucky souls behind us.

Lonely Planet in tow, we began a lengthy, several-kilometer walking tour of downtown Melbourne. We filled the next several hours ducking in and out of shops, cafés, cathedrals and landmarks. Passing through crowds of young and old, we quickly came to a consensus that the city is extremely cosmopolitan - most women donning short skirts and men sharply dressed in form-fitting suits. Gina muttered something about her ‘first real competition’ since leaving the States, but I carried on pretending not to hear her as we turned down one of Melbourne’s retail alleyways.

Determined not to be outdone, Gina emerged from one of our final fashion pit stops with a provocative new outfit and a look of victory - she was now ready to take on Australia.

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Comments

[Debbie]

Competition?
Gina laughs in the face of "competition" - with that CACKLE (which I miss so much...and her singing...inabilities). I recognize the Evil Koala look though :-). xo

[darby]

hustlers.
screw the old bald men. they need to get a couple of hot chicks to stand outside. "hey baby, wanna try my pasta with clams?"