I’ve been busy recently, nursing a broken arm that it is as stubborn as a spoilt child in its efforts to get better and working twelve hours a day on a project that will save no hungry children nor cause any statues to be built to me in years to come but will merely oil the wheels of Capitalism a little more. I’ve also been looking for a new place to live so time has been as elusive as Osama Bin Laden.
That search at least came to an end today when my better half and I signed a lease on a chocolate box house in Carlton. It has everything we’ve been looking for. A kitchen to stretch my new found culinary skills, space to store the debris that life builds and a loft above the garage which will substitute for the shed I’ve been subconsciously searching for since I turned 35.
But the thrill of arriving necessarily includes the pain of departure and our move to Carlton will involve leaving St Kilda which has been my home since I arrived in Australia.
After we signed the lease, I jumped on the tram back to St Kilda and as it turned onto the esplanade I felt a sadness that was akin to the day I left Ireland in 2007. A pale winter sun hung low in the sky and sailing boats bobbed on the bay in a vast white sailed armada. My mind was drawn to many things I would miss about St Kilda, even though it would only be a tram ride away.
It’s nice to have a pub within 50 metres of my front door. When I got to Melbourne first, I chose to live in the suburb of St Kilda because it was beside the bay and seemed to have the sort of exciting takeaway food options that suited my then bachelor lifestyle. I didn’t factor in the multitude of pubs that St Kilda boasts, because being Irish I assumed that every suburb would be the same in this regard.
I’ve since discovered that I was very lucky in this respect, because I could very easily have found myself living in a place as dry as the Sahara desert. If you leave the City Centre and travel east, you’ll pass through endless suburbs boasting KFC and McDonalds outlets on every intersection but as few pubs as you’d find in Mecca.
Each local council apparently can designate their areas as ‘dry’ and the Mormons and Free Presbyterians have clearly done a great job stacking these councils.
My local is The Village Belle, a pub that evokes memories of Victorian bygone days when the parasol carrying gentry of Melbourne would come out to the seaside on a warm summer’s day and finish their day off with a cooling ale at the Belle. Now it is home to hundreds of Irish backpackers and steak connoisseurs. They do a damned fine steak and the only decent chips I’ve tasted in Australia to date. An Irish friend of mine once said that the only thing she misses about home is real chipper chips. Every time I have a meal in the Belle, I’m reminded of that.
I didn’t realise I liked Ice Cream until I came to Australia. When I was the kid, the ultimate sophistication in restaurant deserts was to offer a ‘galaxy of ice cream’. This always turned out to be a single scoop of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry ice cream, as though those were the only flavours imaginable. When Dad treated us to a ‘slider’ on summer holidays, you might be lucky enough to get raspberry ripple or the glamorous ‘Neapolitan’. But nothing that would be memorable beyond the two weeks of our holidays.
Australia has taken this a lot further. It’s not only hot here for nine months of the year (which let’s face it is the time to be eating frozen products) but boasts a high number of Italian immigrants. As a happy result I now have three ice cream shops within walking distance of my apartment, all competing with each other for ever more exotic flavours.
My favourite shop is “7 Apples” who do a great line in mint and pistachio. They call these ‘Gelato’ which adds some mystery to the process, as though this is a superior product to simple Ice cream. I’m not convinced but it looks like I’ll be leaving St Kilda without ever solving this mystery.
On a hot night these ice cream shops on Acland Street are as busy as a Turkey seller on Christmas Eve. They are quieter now that the mercury has dropped but still popular among the weekend strollers and Europeans like me who find 19c to be positively balmy.
My doctor mightn’t agree but I think having a gourmet pizza restaurant across the street from your house is fantastic and has led me to dream that I live in downtown Manhattan or the back streets of Naples. I’ve eaten a Quattro Formaggi from there at least once a week for the last three years which are tasty as hell but are probably causing a traffic jam in my arteries as we speak.
Carlton however, is the home of the Italian community in Melbourne and hosts the famous Lygon Street. So I shouldn’t be short of pizza options anyway. But I will miss the place across the road, if only because I can get food there now without any verbal interaction. A simple raising of my right eyebrow and a casual nod of the head elicits a thumbs up and a tasty meal 15 minutes later.
But what I’ll miss most is the sea. St Kilda has a rubbish beach by Australian standards. It’s pretty much man made and rumoured to be littered with needles and condoms (although I’ve never seen any). But it is a beach none the less and a stroll along the esplanade in summer while the sun is setting over the bay is the most pleasant thing you can do without getting wet.
But as that sun sets, a new one is rising in Carlton.
