A Love Letter to Melbourne
Dear Melbourne,
When I first arrived, a friendly taxi driver brought me straight into your heart, dispensing valuable advice about sunscreen along the way. I was kept awake by the crash-bang-smash of bars recycling glass bottles outside my window in the shared alleyway with the hostel. Windows flung wide open to let in the balmy summer air; warm and comforting even at night. Despite being friendless and without a permanent place to stay, I was not fearful; this stands as a testament to your beauty and grace. I remember one night within the first week after I had landed, with too many suitcases in tow, I sought comfort from a bowl of fishball noodle soup and a glass of champagne. I remember fondly the waiter, who could see that I was embarrassed about ordering such an odd combination, went out of his way to make me feel less self-conscious.
The long summer days afforded me languid, exploratory walks around the city. It took me far too long to realise the cleverness of the “King-William-Queen-Elizabeth” street name order, but it made me smile widely for a few days after I did. I am sorry to say that I didn’t immediately appreciate the majesty of all the heritage-fronted buildings around, and that I initially took those facades, laden with history, for granted. Now as I move about, I find myself tripping over things in front of me because I am loathe to tear my eyes away from them.
You play host to festivals and fairs, tiny bands and large traveling shows, fostering such a heady atmosphere of possibility, inspiring me to think more deeply, and allowing me to plumb depths of emotion I never imagined possible. At any given time I can seek to edify and exhilarate myself with the vast array of art and science that you tenderly nurture. I am never left wanting.
I have been embraced by the people you have raised – openly, instantly, lovingly.
For all that I am and all that I have, my flaws accepted, my strengths celebrated. I have broken bread by warm hearths, sustained stretches of conversation that meander through time and space, moved freely through the networks of people that grow here whose company brings me so much joy. I constantly marvel at the quality of the crowds you draw and am flattered to be counted among them.
Others may bemoan your temperamental weather and protest too much at your merciless winter. Some complain that you have far too many streets with the same name, that your main streets are impossibly long and span too many suburbs. I vehemently disagree with your detractors. I find it endearing that if the weather is upsetting, I can wait for it to pass. I adore the puzzle navigating your roads presents, and the rough but serviceable mental map I have developed.
A few years ago, stepping off a flight at Singapore’s Changi Airport, I received a text with instructions on how to “call home”. Disoriented by the flight and confused by the similarity between the Singaporean and Australian international calling codes, I couldn’t figure out if the instructions were for calling those I count as family (both by blood and not) in Singapore or back in Melbourne.
That’s when I realised, for the first time ever, there are two places I call home. Two places my heart longs for, two places I carry with me, two places I need to be for my heart to feel like it belongs.