I arrived in Melbourne, the "cultural capitol" and my sister's adopted city, feeling jittery and cold, despite the fact that I had just left China's freezing winter only 10 hours prior. Where was this hot Australian sun I had heard so much about?
Actually, I hadn't done much research. Melbourne is like Australia's Seattle and as the following weeks proved, I was just lucky it wasn't raining too. In the brisk wind, I wrapped my thin cardigan around me and double-stepped it to find Ingrid.
It's a strange feeling meeting up with someone you've kept in contact with--almost daily via video--but haven't seen for months. The last time we had said goodbye, I was feeling jittery before returning home--jobless. Luckily that had changed and this time we were both employed and with much better jobs than before.
We shuffled out of the station and onto a passing tram, a Melbourne speciality. I pushed myself on, heaved my suitcase behind me and continued to gush with eagerness about all things China.
"Oh, and our last banquet, Ingrid, the baijiu, you know how I feel about that, oh and the
Christmas soiree, finals, and blah, blah, blah...."
Ingrid jabbed me, "Anna, quiet down. Everyone can hear you and a few are staring."
Ingrid didn't like it; I hadn't even noticed.
"WHAT?!" I asked in what probably seemed like a yell to her.
"Everyone can hear you," she jabbed harder into my side.
Right. I looked around. I certainly wasn't in China anymore. Hair, evoking the colors of the
rainbow lit up the tram in comparison, natural and not.
"Oh, and you don't need to push so much to get on. People usually line up," Ingrid added while she had my attention.
Sure, I'm not Han Chinese. For credibility, I'm a slaughterer of tones. However, when it comes to acting like one, at that moment, I felt like I should have been in Zhongguo fighting my way onto a busy bus on WeiWu Lu.
After 4 months of living in Zhengzhou, I had dropped the habit of eavesdropping. When I tried, a conversation usually sounded like: This-aldjf-person-a;lfj-China-;aldfj-is-;alsdjf-bus. If that.
I smiled and whispered to Ingrid, "I'll try to remember my manners."
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We hopped off and I gazed somewhat jealously. Ingrid's neighborhood is just so cute. Sure, cute is a word for conversation, but for a blog, Anna? Yes, I admit it, even in the third person. It's hard to find any other word to aptly phrase it better.
As Bill Bryson, a native Iowan as well, stated in his book Down Under; you fly for hours, across oceans, Asia, more oceans and suddenly you arrive a day later and you can't believe this exists. Tucked seemingly away from the rest of the world, it just seems magical. His words, more or less. I had to ditch the book in Vietnam after I finished it. But it's true, *quaint* row houses, dating back only as early as the mid 1800s, line the neighborhoods. Cafes spill out into the sidewalks. In the morning, Ingrid tells me, the wafting smell of espresso and bacon fill the air. Boutiques and book stores, both used and new, wedge in between. I take a deep breath; I can breathe again! People run. People relax. People, just be.
"I want to stay here forever," I tell Ingrid.
We hadn't even gotten food yet, but the celebratory bubbly had hit me just right.
"I told you," Ingrid reminded me yet again, "just wait until you have your first parma."
Parma is the quintessential Melbourne pub food experience, especially when paired with a good microbrew. It's gooey, cheesy, large, pasta-riffic, carb-heavy and in finale, topped with a large breaded chicken breast. It's everything you probably shouldn't love about food, which makes it even better, especially with fries on the side. Or as they say, chips. We dug in and swished it down with a beer I can't recall for a name, but it tasted just as good, well, almost. Maybe after the third.
That's the thing about living in China. Microbrews are nonexistent in vocabulary and real life. You're lucky if you get a draft and its cold. Stout or imported varieties are the winners of the comment, "hey, this tastes pretty good." In Zhengzhou, it's the little things.
In Australia, the beers needed no justifications, save only for price. Making bank in China, in relative comparison, I felt like a king that had just got dethroned in another land. Nothing was cheap, especially for my kuai-accustomed mind. In China, a big beer will set you back only 50 cents at many local restaurants.
For background, the Australian dollar is now 1:1 with its American equivalent. The great problem, however, lies in the fact that on the big island, the minimum wage usually starts around 15 dollars, and as so, most of the prices reflect that. They can afford it. A beer at a restaurant will hover just under the double digits. The cheapest we found was 4 dollars a pop. Just one place, a brewery connected to a hostel and we didn't want to leave there either.
Nevertheless, Ingrid reminded me yet again, this is part of the magic of Australia. It's Western and you'll pay those prices, and sometimes more too. Still, we were in post-parma bliss with much to look forward to. I still had 16 more days of Australia-time with my sister and it was already shaping up to be pretty, pretty good.
(This picture isn't of the brews we had in Melbourne, but actually Sydney. I take a lot of beer photos, but apparently not enough.)
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