Hey, I’m back. You’re back? Yeah. Since when? Not long. Catch up? Coffee? Coffee. See you, then: Monday/Tuesday/Wednesday/Thursday/Friday/Saturday/Sunday/soon.
I’ve been here a little more than a fortnight. It doesn’t really feel like a fortnight — then again, it doesn’t not feel like a fortnight. You know when time is nothing? That. And my diversions have been so charming.
There was the bruschetta and the coffee and the reminisces over a “holiday” to Canberra at Journal (253 Flinders Ln, Melbourne 3000). Tomato, for the traditionalist (hello!) and avocado + lemon. I had Pimm’s but it wasn’t the same.
The heatwave days (they melt into one, indistinguishable) when I was silly enough to wander out of the air-conditioning to watch the tennis. I think that was the day someone I like lost — so it could have been any day, sob. Well, my view of the giant, public screen was obscured by an umbrella so I wouldn’t know. The main thing was that I had a salt caramel doughnut and a new pair of shoes and I doubt it gets better.
Another heatwave day — but this one I know was different because the tennis was over and that’s how I mark time in summer. Also it was a Russian cultural festival and you don’t tend to forget things like that. I have made the following observations: first, if you’re going to call it ‘Slavic Pancake Festival’ don’t hide the pancake stall; second, most Eastern European nations have identical food with diverse, beautiful, impossible names — trdelník is prügelkrapfen is makara is kürtőskalács, allegedly; third, Russian folk dress really wasn’t designed for the Australian summer. It seemed a little unusual to set this celebration at such a scorching time of year but, hey, I got pancakes out of it so who am I to judge?
More coffee; this time to talk travel (past and future), and reconciling practicality and quality of life. And a bonus confrontation with the (very) naked body of a woman last seen on Neighbours or Home and Away or something. It was on a screen, though; that is, we saw the Wolf of Wall Street. Hugo it ain’t.
This place, Cobb Lane (13 Anderson Str, Yarraville, 3013), is inner west — otherwise known as home, to me — and all things good. Yarraville is like a little village and, although I risk sounding like a tourism bureau, worth a look around. It has an Art Deco cinema with the finest choctops and if I haven’t convinced you yet, by god I never will. Although I will add that the salt caramel doughnut and its delicious cousins are made at Cobb Lane itself, so.
A little shopping, too. Decent success I promise to share soon, but for now:
To round it off, a stranger handed this to me on a train. It’s rare to feel special on public transport — which is a stupid line but the best I can think to write. I don’t know if I can put into words how good it made me feel.