Obama With Bangs and Other Victorian Treasures

It’s a warm and sunny winter day in Melbourne. We sit inside an old train that started its service between Pakenham and Dandenong in 1978. I feel the sturdy vintage design: the worn seat under my thighs, the uninviting metal frames with wooden panels on the walls, the smell of age and countless stories. The train stopped running in 2014.

The modern graffiti on the walls brings me back to the present. We’re chasing graffiti art around the city today and have stopped for lunch at Easey’s. I finish my beer and take a final look at Melbourne’s skyline through the small square window. We walk through the metal doors of the burger joint and down the 5 flights of stairs.

Melbourne shrinks away. I lift my hand—the whole city could fit in my palm. The grand skyscrapers are slowly, passively replaced with water. A foamy white trail behind us. Hands holding onto hats as wind creates its own choice of hairstyles. Melbourne completely disappears, and soon massive palm trees, a historic carousel, and sunshine appear from the other direction. Mild sea sickness, life, and anticipation fills us. Hello, Geelong.

Where are you?

On the train. Where are you?

On the train.

No, you’re not.

He was. Just not the right train. Departure in 4 minutes.

Okay, listen. Platform 2. Go!

Excitement left at the platform behind us, we sit in the colourful seats, facing each other on our way to Dandenong.

Gentle rain trickles down the massive windows, forecasting the moment just hours later when we’ll be ankle-deep in mud wondering whether we should go back, the kookaburras mockingly laughing at us from the branches above.

Forecasting the moment we decide “to hell with it” and shuffle on along the trail, holding each other up, laughing with the kookaburras at the hikers who chose to wear white.

Forecasting also the buckets of water we’ll need tomorrow to wash the mud out of our surprisingly salvageable sneakers.

I’ve never driven on the left side before. Any advice?

How long have you been driving?

Oh, like ah—8 years?

You’re good.

He drops the keys into my hand, wipes the remaining sandwich crumbs off his chin, and walks smugly back to his office.

We drive out of the rental car garage onto the complicated city streets. I turn the left indicator light on. The windshield wipers jump to life instead. I jump along with them. And the 4 hour drive to Wilsons Promontory begins.