Kookaburra Sits in the Old Gum Tree

The crisp morning air carries a snap, fresh with the scent of dew-dampened earth. By smell I could almost believe I'm home in the high desert, except crimson and blue parrots gleam in the sun as they dart across the small clearing out front and white cockatoos perch amongst gumtrees while kangaroos bed down on the lawn overnight and spiders the size of my hand make themselves at home on kitchen cupboards. By midday, however, the sun beats through air drier than anything reminiscent of Oregon gorges rimmed in juniper and sage.
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I touched down just after midnight; my passport is the first of the year in Melbourne International Airport to read "28 FEB." I walked down a hall filled with automatic passport processors and agents who greeted me with a twang. By 1:30 AM I collected my bags and found the welcome embrace of my mom's cousin Esther. In an offhand tone she informed me that "I'd normally go home across country, but we'll take the freeway tonight because there's more chance of kangaroos."

Between the kangaroos and the accents, I'd walked straight into a movie.
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I spend my first week with Esther, becoming re-acquainted with the developed world. We go on a sustainable houses tour, where buildings collect sun from the north and back yard fruit trees droop with ripening apricots. We take care of the nitty gritty, setting up my first international bank account and obtaining a sim card while I apply for jobs on the side. We take time to explore the area around Esther's place, an hour's train ride northwest of Melbourne in a rural town called Woodend. We drive to Mt. Macedon, a deceptively large undulation rising above the countryside, from which we look over the plains extending below. We walk around a historic sanitarium's small remnant lake where Esther points out laughing kookaburras as they fly amongst gumtrees growing tall over sun-dappled ferns. We head north for a morning, hiking a trail amongst rolling land filled with small rises and dry runnels and the sun glares through trees' slender leaves.

Terrain is different here, lacking prominent landmarks. The earth undulates with windblown trees, but I find no ridges or mountains or rivers or valleys by which to gain my bearings. Other things have changed, as well: I've traded earthquake architecture and tsunami protocol for summer shade maximization and wildfire evacuation plans. Instead of deer, I scare up kangaroos. And, kangaroos are... simply a part of everyday life.

I remember watching the womens' world cup years ago when it was moved to Portland on short notice, and seeing my first streakers as they raced onto the pitch, streaming banners reading, "Adidas kills Kangaroos!" Funny thing is, they really do seem to simply be Australia's version of backyard deer, commonly regarded as pests.  They graze on lawns, they're ubiquitous on road crossing signs and their meat is sold in supermarkets... apparently kangaroo bbq is a thing here. I never foresaw myself writing "no kangaroo" into dietary forms.

I find my way into Melbourne after a week basking in the blessed quiet of the non-Southeast Asian countryside. I meet up with a blast from the past at the Sydney Road Party, a once-yearly block party reminiscent of Alberta Street's Last Thursday. It's been six years since I studied next to Juan De Dios in the Galápagos Islands; somehow we managed to miss each other when he came through Cat Ba during my last month or so working in Vietnam.

Photo: Juan De Dios Morales

Together we wander Sydney Road at its liveliest: street bands play in front of historic churches, food stalls line sidewalks in front of Victorian facades from which the road draws so much character and women dressed as flamingos on stilts dance around children as they weave through the crowds. An old man in a fuscia plaid hat, rubber boots, translucent shift and crimson polka-dot thong wails on a harmonica as he manipulates a wooden duck marionette with gusto. A massive concert organ parked on a side street belts classic tunes in a one-machine symphony. I eat my fill of watermelon and massive wraps as I navigate the mayhem, eventually following Juande into a hardware store to provide moral support as he builds a camera base for an upcoming trip to Indonesia. Also, I buy proper shades for the first time in years.

I spend the night at Juande's place near the university where he's finishing grad school, reminiscing with his girlfriend and roommates in a welcome reminder of Latin American hospitality and relaxing in a place that feels so comfortably lived in after extended time in hostels homestays and hotels. 

I crash the following nights with Georgia, an artist recently returned from overseas, originally from Esther's town of Woodend. We wander city parks and avenues brimming with factory outlets and secondhand shops as I pursue my mission to reestablish a wardrobe decimated by SE Asia's heat, humidity, wind, sun, saltwater and corrosion. We bond over tattoos, world travel, shopping, and some quality time in my first proper-sized bouldering gym since leaving home.

My search for functioning clothes also takes me to Brunswick Street, lined with Victorian facades and independent cafes, vintage shops and high-class grafiti-filled alleys.  Cathedrals bookend the avenue, glowing in late afternoon sun as trams cruise the center lane. If Sydney Rd is Alberta St, down under-style, then Brunswick St is most definitely Hawthorne Blvd with a twist.

I take a day to explore the city's botannical gardens under low clouds, wandering through pockets of succulents and plush wetlands full of unfamiliar birds, long toes splayed through slender rushes. I pass sweeping arrays of flowers surrounding the Governor's Mansion as I work my way toward the city, eventually finding a bridge to cross into downtown. All around me an odd mix of Victorian influence and cathedrals mix seamlessly with ultra-modern architecture bursting with color. Federation Square, ringed in abstract glass and metal paneling, sits across from the classic Flinders Street Railway and shares real estate with St Paul's Cathedral, dwarfed by surrounding skyscrapers erected since its construction in the 1880s.

In some ways, Melbourne reminds me of home. The city sings with art and music. Everywhere I look I see tattoos displayed carefree. Coffee shops wait on almost every corner. In other ways, however, I experience a stark contrast to the town which raised me. The metropolis carries a staunchly urban atmosphere. Rather than cold, clouds bring humidity and pounding monster raindrops to interrupt the day's dry heat. Parakeets flock in place of starlings. In the afternoon, streets swarm with youth in old-style school uniforms. Sprawling metro stations burst to overflowing during afternoon rush hour. At the end of the week, however, the train carries me back into the countryside, to family and kangaroos and gumtrees and kookaburras, and the crisp morning scent of dew-dampened bush.