Melbourne, Australia
It was a sunny July morning as my boyfriend and I descended the steps out of Flinders Station, the central transit hub of the city. I glanced over
my shoulder at the building. It stood majestically in the heart of the city as
the oldest train station in Melbourne, surrounded by other contemporary
structures. Its mustard colored walls framed the Victorian-style building,
capped with a mint green dome, which was blackening at the top from decades of
rain. The buildings in the city resembled a clash of eras. The tinted glass
windows of modern skyscrapers glistened under the sun, while the ornate windows
of Victorian churches sparkled as the jewels of the city; their classy stone walls
heavily embroidered with baroque designs, and one church had gray gargoyles
carved into its exterior. Melbourne’s pride and beauty vested in its fusion of
classical and contemporary structures, making it a desirable city for the
locals and tourists.
The big
streets like Collins, Swanston and Kings Street often diverged into smaller
streets like Smith Street, where the buildings that lined the roads were of an
older era. The busy atmosphere of Flinders Station shifted as we walked along
Smith Street, past a small Chinese restaurant that was known for its Peking
ducks, and further up ahead were shops selling famous sports and surfing goods
at half price. This street wasn’t uncomfortably crowded unlike the major
shopping and food streets, and although the sidewalks were a little narrower, I
enjoyed my stroll along the quaint shops, stopping at Krispy Kreme to get a
chocolate glazed donut.
It was easy to fall in love with Melbourne.
This was a high-culture city, bustling with people from every corner of the
globe. Melbourne was a fusion of cultures, all mixed together to form a large
melting pot. International students flocked here to pursue a higher education
at the prestigious universities like University of Melbourne and Monash
University. American businessmen lingered in Starbucks with their coffees and
iPhones, while attractive French tourists wore their chignons elegantly as they
settled for expensive coffee and macaroons at Lindt’s, a slightly overpriced
chocolate café on Chapel Street.
Chapel Street was
paved with diamonds and gold. Designer labels flashed everywhere I
turned, until my eyes hurt from so many gold- and
silver-plated signs exuberating luxury. Chanel fitted smugly between Tiffany’s
and Prada. Pretty Australian women jogged by in shorts and tanks in the middle
of winter, while proud mothers in Gucci sunglasses pushed their fancy prams
containing babies clad in designer outfits. This was the Rodeo Drive of
Melbourne, burgeoning with extravagant labels and expensive restaurants.
Winter was at
its peak this week. The sun was beaming upon the city, but I could barely feel
its warmth. It seemed to be frozen behind the large slate of ice which was the
sky. I quickly buttoned my trench coat and walked toward Swanston Street, past
dozens of oriental restaurants ranging from Vietnamese to Indonesian. We paused
outside Ten Ren Tea House to browse the menu of endless Taiwanese tea
varieties. Ten minutes later, we were drawn to Harajaku, a tiny Japanese
dessert shop tucked between a Japanese restaurant and a bookshop. The windows
displayed plastic crepes, modeled after the original ones on the menu.
Stepping into
the little shop, a waft of fresh crepes and bananas greeted our nostrils. The
sweet smell of chocolate tinged the atmosphere, and I watched the skilled Asian
chef behind the counter as he smothered Nutella on a thin layer of crepe. Then
he added banana slices, a scoop of vanilla ice cream and a generous serving of
whipped cream before carefully folding the edges of the crepe until it resembled
an odd triangle, bursting at the seams with its sweet filling, threatening to
spill over.
Later that
afternoon, we walked into Eureka Tower, the tallest tower in the city. We saw
the breathtaking view of Melbourne hundreds of feet beneath us. The city, systematically
mapped on a grid, stretched so far that I barely saw the end of it. The roads
were always inhibited by vehicles. Buses and trams were the main
transportations in the city, apart from cars and cabs. The trams resembled the cable
cars in San Francisco, traveling obediently along the specific routes designed
for them.
Style was the essence of this thriving city. The
people parading the streets were dressed to the nines in their winter coats and
boots. The females were walking catalogue models, strutting their frilly
blouses and skinny jeans beneath leather jackets, swaying their small hips
rhythmically to the clicking of their high-heeled boots on the pavement. They
walked with their chins up, dark-rimmed eyes imperturbably flicking to the
other girl at the corner of the street. They did a quick mental decision what
they liked and disliked about her fishnet stockings, the frayed denim shorts,
the pumpkin-colored fake leather jacket and the purple suede boots. Heavily
adorned with shiny accessories, they strutted around with an air of confidence
riding on their heels, emanating Chanel fragrances.
As we
continued down the streets, we heard the sound of hooves among the roaring of
vehicles. Policemen on horses cantered through the busy Melbourne traffic. I
watched them in wonder, wondering why other cities hadn’t adopted this
intelligent idea. Carriage horses lingered at the pavements as their masters
stood on the side, negotiating prices with tourists. The contrast between
mammal and machine was a unique sight. The horses cantered throughout the city,
past Crown Hotel, the most luxurious hotel in Melbourne.
The hotel accommodated thousands of celebrities, including Tom
Cruise and family, Kim Kardashian and more. The hotel’s lobby was elaborately
embellished; crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, prisms of light
danced off the crystals onto the white marble floor, which was graced by the
soles of famous people. Walking deeper into the chambers of Crown, we spotted
Nobu, an overpriced Japanese restaurant, sitting across Topshop and Zara.
Inside Nobu, customers sat at glass tables and ordered fresh salmon, lobsters
and glazed eels.
The sky
darkened slightly after 4.30 p.m., and the streetlamps sprang to life, bathing
the city in a therapeutic orange glow. I was dismayed to learn that all the
shops in the city closed at 5 p.m., except restaurants and bars. Cabarets and
bars pulsed with young and working adults. Restaurants were packed with people.
We took a tram across the city to Lygon Street, contoured with a long line of
foreign cuisines. We settled for a decent Italian restaurant, gobbled our
delicious seafood olio spaghetti and started walking back to Flinders Station
to catch a train back to the suburbs.
The streets seemed different at night. Melbourne,
like every big city in the world, was haunted with a sad side. As we passed through Swanston
Street again, beggars sat on the pavements with their tin cans and bowls,
looking pitiful as they shivered under their battered jackets. An old woman
with scraggly white hair and a crooked nose, held out her plastic bowl to
passers-by with a shriveled hand, dotted with old age. The deep lines in her face were hard to look
at, because they broke my heart. What was an old lady doing there? Where was
her family? Where was her home?
As I glanced
over my shoulder one last time to look at her, I saw the other beggars, slumped
and shivering, and the sad truth sliced through my conscience. This was their
home. The streets, plagued with rubbish and horse odors, were their home. In
the cold winter night, the only thing left to keep them warm was the small
flicker of hope in their hearts, impelled by every kind penny in their bowl.
*
Two weeks
later, I was on the plane back to Malaysia. As the plane lifted off several
thousand feet into the night sky, I glanced out the window and drank in the
beauty of Melbourne city for the last time. That was how I remembered the city;
a massive sea of gold and silver lights, shimmering resplendently in the night.
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