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« October 2007 | Main | December 2007 »

Nailing the Differences

I told myself that I wouldn’t enter the Sydney versus Melbourne debate. I told myself that it was trite and tedious and that each city had its own strengths and weaknesses. I told myself that not another thing needed to be written comparing the two cities.
But oh it’s irresistible. With a frozen lower back that has given me several sleepless nights, agonising days in an office chair and, so far, four physiotherapist’s bills (and counting), I’m feeling bitter and twisted and bad-tempered enough to write what I please — and call my old Melbourne boss with a grovelling tone. But of course that would be premature and irrational.
So instead, I’ve been looking at Sydney toenails.
Today, I conducted a poll in the office, asking my colleagues to show me their toenails. The result was a landslide victory for pedicures. One set of toenails after another, de-cuticled, filed, buffed and polished: Melon of Troy, Cosmo — Not Tonight Honey, Suzy Sells Sushi by the Seashore, Your Villa or Mine, Cajun Shrimp, I’m Not Really a Waitress, Chocolate Moose (nail polish colours, stupid!).
All right … I’m fibbing. There’s no way I’m comfortable enough with my new colleagues yet to ask to see their feet, let alone to ask what colour toenail polish they’re wearing, but my point is this: I don’t need to survey my colleagues about their toes, because mostly, I can see them. You see, Sydney people don’t wear closed-in shoes. Sydney people wear sandals, strappy high heels (even when it’s clear that they hurt), toe-peeping wedges and open-toed platforms and thongs and flip-flops.
I’m trying to understand the differences in the cities’ characters and I’m wondering if painted toenails might not be a lovely and useful analogy. Quite apart from what polished toenails say about the two cities’ quite different climates, I’m wondering if they don’t make some other statement about the cities too. Sydney: flashy, appearance-obsessed, conforming, preoccupied with money and leisure. Why, even the graffiti and the skateboarders I’ve spotted here seem sanitised, contrived, self-conscious. Meanwhile, Melbourne: subtle, nonchalant and non-conforming, affluence mostly suggested, not spelt out, too much gloss and sheen considered, well, too much.
And let me return to the subject of thongs (flip-flops, whatever you want to call them). If Melbourne has Melanie Griffiths to blame for that monstrous sports-shoe-and-business-suit commuters’ look, Sydney should be looking for someone to blame for the office-suit-and-thongs commuters’ look that tribes of office-working-women (and, presumably, a few men) adopt between station/bus-stop and office. Bad look, such a bad look. Hilarious look! (I wish I had some photographs of this bizarre thing to show you … but my camera hasn’t left its case since I arrived. ... it will come out — I promise.)
It hasn’t been an easy move — are interstate moves ever easy? — and I think I’ve been looking for differences and for things to mutter about as, at times in the past month, my frustrations have boiled over. But still, it’s extraordinary how Sydney, in mood and smell and sense, feels like another country altogether.
Extraordinary too, just how worried I am about fitting in an appointment for a pedicure this weekend.

Did You Know...

Did you know...

Billie Holiday’s famous, haunting song Strange Fruit was about lynchings in America’s Deep South? (I had no idea…) According to David Margolick’s book, Strange Fruit (Harper Collins, 2001) Holliday first sang Strange Fruit at Cafe Society in New York. Extraordinary YouTube video of Holiday singing the song here and lyrics here:

Southern trees bear a strange fruit,
Blood on the leaves and blood at the root,
Black body swinging in the Southern breeze,
Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.
Pastoral scene of the gallant South,
The bulging eyes and the twisted mouth,
Scent of magnolia sweet and fresh,
And the sudden smell of burning flesh!
Here is a fruit for the crows to pluck,
For the rain to gather, for the wind to suck,
For the sun to rot, for a tree to drop,
Here is a strange and bitter crop.

“There wasn't even a patter of applause when I finished,' she later wrote in her autobiography. 'Then a lone person began to clap nervously. Then suddenly everybody was clapping.' The applause grew louder and a bit less tentative as Strange Fruit became a nightly ritual for Holiday, then one of her most successful records, then one of her signature songs, at least in those places where it was safe to perform."

Did you know...

Coffee seems to have been a Yemeni invention, according to Tom Standage in his A History of the World in Six Glasses (Walker, 2005):

"The custom of drinking coffee seems to have first become popular in Yemen in the mid-15th century. While coffee berries may have been chewed for their invigorating effects before this date, the practice of making them into a drink seems to be a Yemeni innovation, often attributed to Muhammad al-Dhabhani, a scholar and member of the mystical Sufi order of Islam, who died around 1470. By this time, coffee had undoubtedly been adopted by Sufis who used it to ward off sleep during nocturnal religious ceremonies in which participants reached out to God through repetitive chanting and swaying.
"Coffee shook off its original religious associations and became a social drink, sold by the cup on the street, in the market square, and then in dedicated coffeehouses. It was embraced as a legal alternative to alcohol by many Muslims. Coffeehouses, unlike the illicit taverns that sold alcohol, were places where respectable people could afford to be seen. But coffee's legal status was ambiguous. Some Muslim scholars objected that it was intoxicating and therefore subject to the same prohibition as wine and other alcoholic drinks, which the prophet Muhammad had prohibited. ... [A ban against coffee was therefore enacted by a local governor, Kha'ir Beg, and] was proclaimed throughout Mecca, coffee was seized and burned in the streets, and coffee vendors and some of their customers were beaten as punishment. Within a few months, however, higher authorities in Cairo overturned Kha'ir Beg's ruling, and coffee was soon being openly consumed again ... [since] coffee clearly failed to produce any intoxicating effects in the drinker ... [and] in fact, it did quite the opposite. ...
"By the early seventeenth century, visiting Europeans were commenting on the widespread popularity of coffeehouses in the Arab world, and their role as meeting places and sources of news. ... They were also popular venues for chess and backgammon, which were regarded as morally dubious. ... George Sandys, an English traveler who visited Egypt and Palestine in 1610, observed that 'although they be destitute of Taverns, yet they have their Coffa-houses, which something resemble them. There they sit chatting most of the day; and sippe of a drink called Coffa in little China dishes, as hot as they can suffer it; blacke as soote, and tasting not much unlike it.' "

Did you know...

A spice is not an herb … “herbs are leafy, whereas spices are obtained from other parts of the plant: bark, root, flower bud, gums and resins, seed, fruit, or stigma,” writes Jack Turner in Spice: The History of Temptation (Vintage, 2005).

“Herbs tend to grow in temperate climates, spices in the tropics. Historically, the implication was that a spice was far less readily obtainable than an herb--and far more expensive. ...
"Chemically, the qualities that make a spice a spice are its rare essential oils and oleoresins, highly volatile compounds that impart to spices their flavor, aroma, and preservative properties…
Briefly, the chemistry of spices — what in the final analysis makes a spice a spice — is, in evolutionary terms, what quills are to the porcupine or the shell to the tortoise. In its natural state cinnamon is an elegant form of armor; the seductive aroma of nutmeg is, to certain insects, a bundle of toxins. The elemental irony of their history is that the attractiveness of spices is (from the plant's perspective) a form of Darwinian backfiring. What makes a spice so appealing to humans is, to other members of the animal kingdom, repulsive.
"By any measure the most exceptional of the spices, and far and away the most historically significant, is pepper. The spice is the fruit of Piper nigrum, a perennial climbing vine native to India's Malabar Coast. ... Black pepper, the most popular variety, is picked while unripe. ... White pepper is the same fruit left longer on the vine."

Did you know:

“The Indians introduced the colonists not only to new foods, but to more interesting ways of preparing them,” according to Bill Bryson in Made in America Made in America (Perennial, 1995).

“Succotash, clam chowder, hominy, corn pone, cranberry sauce, johnny cakes, even Boston-baked beans and Brunswick stew were all Indian dishes. In Virginia, it was the Indians, not the white settlers, who invented the Smithfield ham. Even with the constant advice and intervention of the Indians, the Puritans stuck to a diet that was for the most part resolutely bland. Meat and vegetables were boiled without pity, deprived of seasonings, and served lukewarm. Peas, once they got the hang of growing them, were eaten at almost every meal, and often served cold. The principal repast was taken at midday and called dinner. Supper, a word related to soup, was often just that — a little soup with perhaps a piece of bread — and was consumed in the evening shortly before retiring. Lunch was a concept unknown, as was the idea of a snack. To the early colonists, snack meant the bite of a dog. ...
"By the time of the Revolution, the main meal was taken between 2 and 4 p.m. A typical meal might consist of salted beef with potatoes and peas, followed by baked or fried eggs, fish, and salad, with a variety of sweets, puddings, cheeses, and pastries to finish, all washed down with quantities of alcohol that would leave most of us today unable to rise from the table — or at least rise and stay risen. Meat was consumed in quantities that left European observers slack-jawed with astonishment. By the early 1800s the average American was eating almost 180 pounds of meat a year, 48 pounds more than people would consume a century later, but fresh meat remained largely unknown because of the difficulty keeping it fresh. Even city people often had chickens in the yard and a hog or two left to scavenge in the street. Until well into the nineteenth century, visitors to New York remarked on the hazard to traffic presented by wandering hogs along Broadway. Even in the more temperate North, beef and pork would go bad in a day in summer, chicken even quicker, and milk would curdle in as little as an hour. And even among the better classes, spoiled food was a daily hazard. One guest at a dinner party given by the Washingtons noted with a certain vicious relish that the General discreetly pushed his plate of sherry trifle to one side when he discovered that the cream was distinctly iffy but that the less discerning Martha continued shoveling it in with gusto. Ice cream was a safer operation. It was first mentioned in America in the 1740s when a guest at a banquet given by the governor of Maryland wrote about this novelty, which, he noted, 'eat most deliciously.' "

I’ve had all these fascinating bits of information land in my inbox over the past few months thanks to Delanceyplace, “a brief daily email with an excerpt or quote” from a non-fiction work that the Delanceyplace editors “view as interesting or noteworthy, offered with commentary to provide context”.
Food information is in the minority, but most of the daily emails are just as interesting, containing the sort of stuff that will make you sound extraordinarily well-read and rounded at your next dinner party. You'll find details about how to organise your free subscription here.

A Dancer's Story

As I've mentioned before, very few of the articles I write for theage(melbourne)magazine (and, from now on, for The Sydney Morning Herald's the(sydney)magazine), end up online. The magazines don't have websites, nor pages within their home newspaper's websites, a situation our division is working to change.
But here's one that did go up: a profile I wrote for the November edition of theage(melbourne)magazine of Li Cunxin, the ballet-dancer-turned-stockbroker turned-bestselling author of Mao's Last Dancer.
He's a fascinating man who wins hearts wherever he goes and, early next year, Australian film director Bruce Beresford (Breaker Morant, Driving Miss Daisy) will start work on the film version of Li's life — from Chinese commune and poverty, to the world's stages as a principal dancer.

Street Life

Thought Fitzroy could be an edgy, troubled place… antsy, bellowing, early-hours drunks … fighting, stripping, feigning defecation on the streets below my Brunswick Street apartment. But they were mostly young, silly, affluent, with a belly-full of beer and testosterone. Mostly, they made their noise towards the end of the week. Lads and their stumbling scantily-clad girlfriends, all with incomes and homes. Only occasionally a crystal-meth user, violent and screaming; the boarding-house old men subdued and downtrodden and almost invisible.
Kings Cross is an altogether different story. A life-force of destitution and addiction. In the bank yesterday morning near my hotel, getting a cheque drawn up for an alarmingly large dollar-figure to pay a rental bond and one-month’s-rent-in-advance for my new apartment: a stooped man, probably not so much older than I in years, but inexorably aged; bearded, ingrained with dirt and a harrowing amount of street experience. Maroon-coloured anorak, thongs (flip-flops) and long dirty toe-nails. Asking the teller how much was in his account, telling the teller that there should have been $$ in there, deposited, I think he said, by the Matthew Talbot hostel. Struggling to read the figure the teller wrote on a piece of paper. Peering at it through bloodshot damaged eyes. Then asking to withdraw the whole amount. Took his small amount of cash, counted it painstakingly and shuffled across to where two cohorts sat in a waiting area. They, bearded and shabby too. But younger and a little more robust. The older man doled out some bills to them, which they clutched, looked at, pocketed.
I wondered, waiting in the queue behind his trail of body odour, if perhaps there was something sinister happening. Were they standover men… threatening a vulnerable older man they’d met in a homeless men’s hostel, demanding play-money on Melbourne Cup day?
But they walked out together and, when I drove away in the backseat of a taxi 10 minutes later, I watched the three of them wander up Darlinghurst Road. Older man trailing behind the younger ones. Together physically at least. I hoped for more than just loose physical companionship for the old man with dimming eye-sight.

Grief and Pain

And tonight, home late with expensive Thai takeway and a half-bottle of pinot gris, after more hours in an office than I care for or am used to, alarming noise from the pedestrian square three floors below my hotel window. Man! the noise. Clearly, he was shockingly drunk; a young man, shorts, thongs, mobile phone. Screaming obscenities into the phone. Other tenants peered down at him from their apartment windows on all sides of the pedestrian square. “I want to see my fucking son … I want to see my fucking son,” he shrieked. “I’m not handling you being in a fucking refuge.” On, and on, and on. Him shrieking and crying. Pacing and pacing, from the dry-cleaner’s shop front to below my window, and back again. I might be in a refuge too if he were the father of my child, but I stood there looking down from my window for a voyeur’s amount of time, stricken and fascinated by his raw pain and grief.
I often think how close we might all be to such grief and pain and struggle. How close we might all be to the streets, to their patterns of violence and addiction. A lost job and a broken relationship simultaneously perhaps, or a period of ill-health and isolation coupled with a death in the family, an addiction that had always hovered perhaps, and there you are. …
All that, apropos nothing, except that I’ll be leaving this neighborhood soon for the less-troubled streets of Surry Hills, for a comfortable life shielded from the grittier realities of the city, as so many of us are...
I am astonished, everyone I talk to is astonished, but one week to the day that I was “uplifted” from Fitzroy by my smelly removalists, I’ll be “downloaded” into my new Surry Hills apartment by a different lot of blokes. Apparently it’s unprecedented to have found a suitable apartment in this city and then have been accepted for it so quickly … (I put it down to the oily charm I deployed on the property agent at the apartment last Saturday), but of course I’m not complaining… just wincing about the price of it and wondering if the restaurant where my brother works might take me on as a runner on the weekends to help pay for my indulgence:

“Fantastic 89m2 unfurnished 2 bedroom modern apartment in luxury security complex. Spacious living area leading to a modern gas kitchen including dishwasher, two good sized bedrooms, large balcony with district views + security undercover parking for one vehicle.
Great facilities within the building include a large heated indoor pool, spa, well equipped gymnasium and sauna + on site building manager.
Located within easy walking distance of Surry Hills’ excellent array of restaurants, cafes and shops.”

I have to say ... it's not that luxurious ... not luxurious at all, in fact, and I’m still missing Melbourne. (And... I can't tell you how all your comments on my last post buoyed my spirits. Thank you!)

Tears for Melbourne

Four stinky removalists.
161 big boxes+furniture in a big, big truck.
A lonely lock-up of an empty apartment. Mixed emotions, tired to the bone, packed car. A drive to the border up the Hume Highway.
Lambing Gully Road.
Faithful Creek.
Yarrawonga.
Wangaratta.
Albury. Motel with lace curtains and a slot for a breakfast tray. Beer and rice crackers for dinner.
Sleep troubled.
McDonald’s in the morning and another seven hours on the highway.
Gundagai. Can’t keep my eyes open. Nap under a tree near a caravan park.
Fill up the tank. Allen’s Oddfellows mints. Red sports drink.
Yass.
Gunning.
Goulburn.
Snake Gully Creek.
Cat Empire and Missy Higgins and the Best of Gershwin.
The kilometres add up.
Euphoria on a Southern Highlands highway stretch.
Signs to Sydney CBD.
Motorway, Eastern distributor, exit at William Street.
Lost now. No map. No idea. Going in Kings Cross circles. Can’t remember everything. Including hotel address.
Find it. Finally.
Here. Unload. Shower. Family. Champagne. Dinner. Brother’s stuffed zucchini flowers. Chablis. Niece. Blonde and curls and growing up.
Sleep.
Saturday.
Apartment hunt.
Redfern.
Bellevue Hill.
Randwick.
Surry Hills. Like it. $$ terrifying.
15-minute queue for sourdough at a trendy bakery.
Silly.
First bad coffee.
Take me home to Melbourne.
Collapse.
Sunday.
Slow start.
That sourdough only so-so.
Walk.
Elizabeth Bay.
Rushcutters Bay.
Darling Point.
Blue, blue, blue.
Sails.
Jacaranda trees in amethyst bloom.
The smell of barbecues. Bloody everywhere.
Pitifully missing Melbourne.
First babysitting duties.
A niece’s tears with the shampoo.
First day in the office tomorrow.
Tears for Melbourne.

Article Spotlight


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