to melbourne, with love

I have always loved a city; the bright lights, the exhilarating hustle, the easy, perfect chaos of it all. Cities are always awake and wired; they draw in life like moths to a flame. 

In my brief life I have enjoyed some fantastic cities. I have walked, wide eyed through the scenic streets of Paris, wandered the delightful alley ways of Dublin and strolled the cobbled paths of London. I have found myself mesmerised in the back roads of Amsterdam, have been stunned by the fantastic beauty of Berlin and was charmed by the diversity of Rome.

Yet despite where I have been and regardless of where I am yet to go, my heart belongs to a single metropolis; Melbourne, the most beautiful city in the world.

Melbourne, I adore you. Every time I walk your streets, I fall in love anew.  Being with you is like coming home. Everybody loves a beauty and your simple and unassuming loveliness draws people to you. In fact, the most diverse of societal cross sections seem to unite here in their shared adoration of your gorgeous parks, historic trams, the eclecticism of your outer suburbs, the way your towering skyscrapers and age old architecture can somehow sit side by side in a happy, haphazard harmony.

On the tram on our way through the city we pass a park. A group of young people sit cross legged on the grass, sharing a guitar. A man snoozes on the bench beside a fountain while a woman reads the paper, sprawled on a red rug in the sunshine. Parents walk beside children who wobble precariously on small bicycles and a businessman paces briskly through the midst; head down, clutching his briefcase like a prize.

I have seen some terrific things in this short life. I’ve stood dwarfed by the Eiffel Tower, had my heart broken by the beauty of the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and spent the shortest day of my life devouring the majesty of the Louvre. I’ve dived with whale sharks and swum in the phosphorescence off the coast of Mozambique, witnessed a lion take down an impala in South Africa  and had they let me stay, I would still be sipping Sangria in the crazy cottages jutting out of the rugged cliff face in the Cinque Terre. Yet in this moment I could trade it all for the freedom that comes from sitting in a warm tram, a mess of thoughts in my mind and the knowledge that I’m headed exactly where I want to go.

 

 

the legacy of the last to leave

I’ve always been a little conservative. Growing up in a family with four children, this was particularly evident. I was the child who put herself to bed while the others were lodging their cases regarding whether they’d eaten enough of their dinner to warrant dessert, or bickering over who should get the next turn on the Nintendo. Since ever I can remember I was self appointed dish rinser and bath runner, ate fruit because it was good for me and it never had to be asked; I had always done my homework.

In view of my prudent and level headed nature, it was taken for granted as we grew older that I would attend university once I’d finished school and that the only serious change I would experience during my adolescence would be evolving from a sensible child into a sensible adult.

Meanwhile, time lapsed and my siblings slowly but surely began to leave the nest. A spirited creature, my younger sister was unsurprisingly the first to fly, baited by the freedom of independence. My older sister was drawn south after having fallen together with a man whose life was already established elsewhere. Our brother ventured interstate to spend the weekend with a friend some four years ago and is yet to return, having found a much sought after brotherhood some place far off.

And so it came to pass that I became the daughter who didn’t move away. Having secured reliable employment within an hour of our family dwelling, while I moved out and even travelled overseas a couple of times, I was never far from home. If I’m honest, I suppose I liked it that way. I’m a terrible sook; I’ve only recently conquered my fear of the dark and letting go of things has always left me feeling overwhelming nostalgic and pathetically tearful. So it’s fair to say I enjoyed the safety net provided by my dad and the familiar. I wasn’t ready to wander off alone.

Call me naive, but until now it hadn’t occurred to me that it might be difficult to be the last to leave. It is. And complicated. Because just as I have grown used to the security of having family close by, so too has my father. And while I have decided it’s time for me to venture further afield and go it alone for a spell, he is dealing with the culture shock of having this decision thrust upon him. I empathise; I’m sure it’s less than easy.

The inevitable guilt of my decision dropped like a dead weight earlier this week and quickly became tangible. What does one do when she’s the last to go? The unexpected pressure has resulted in an onslaught of heated discussions amongst the numerous and all too opinionated voices in my head. The pessimists among them are incessantly claiming that I’m making a massive mistake and that my behaviours are clearly those of a selfish narcissist with an inflated sense of self worth. Mercifully, the majority remain faithfully on my side. Despite my many doubts, they assure me I’m doing the right thing. The truth is I’ve wanted this for years. I’ve simply lacked the courage.

So there’s been nothing for it but to lug the feelings of doubt and disloyalty with me, all the way to Melbourne. Despite what has become a full time search, I haven’t found a place yet, but I’m hoping when I do it will be big enough to contain the mountains of guilt I’ve had to haul along with me. In view of my budget, this is unlikely.

 

So this week is my dedication to all the kids out there who were the last to leave. Guys, I’m feeling you. To their siblings, spare a thought; remember the way their mere presence inadvertently assuaged your guilt when you knew it was your time to roll out. And to their parents, know that the guilt of the child is only marginally outweighed by their desperate desire to grow.