Melbourne. City of interesting architecture, arts, culture, bars, and Australian Rules football. And us, for a week.
My carefully-selected customs-appeasing clothing appeared to do the trick, as NZ security passed me through unmolested, despite the scruffy beard. Janine was subjected to a metal-detector paddle search, but I think that's because she's hot and the customs chick wanted a closer look. Similar scene at Melbourne, although no search for Janine (she'd scooted through ahead of me using her fancypants new electronic passport - which, by the way, is actually very very cool. Not so much the electronic scan element, which is an unsurprising and somewhat overdue development, but the excellence of the graphic design; each page hosts a different, beautifully-executed picture which when viewed in sequence describe natural- and human-history development and features of Aotearoa. I like it.)
Timed our departure gate arrival perfectly and were on the plane early. Janine had the window seat, as usual, despite her refusal to look out the window ever. Next to me on the other side was Vengchallaram Vengchallaram - "Same name, first last" - a Fiji Indian travelling to Melbourne on a Canadian passport to visit people he didn't know. He spent the majority of the flight staring at a screen full of code, as he'd played with the remote while the crew were rebooting the entertainment system, and got me to fill in his Australian arrival card for him (he did the signing himself, in case any Australian immigration officials are reading)... Fairly typical trans-Tasman flight (X-Men Origins: Wolverine is a bad movie, don't watch it), and only one bathroom trip for nuisance wife. With her as window-seat occupant this necessitated much shuffling of foodtray detritus and moving both of us and Vengchallaram Vengchallaram. The bathroom trip took a while, as she'd timed it perfectly in sync with the bladders of at least half the planeload, and she was surprised on her return to find that I'd not ensconced myself in the window seat during her absence. The rationale behind my inertia became much clearer when she moved the small cushion off her seat preparatory for alighting upon it and saw the puddle where I'd knocked over the not-as-empty-as-I-thought water cup. Marital harmony ensued.
Highlight of Melbourne airport was a wee chap called Michael.
We'd first become aware of Michael's existence not long into the flight, when Michael's mom began what turned out to be a lengthy and both generally and ultimately fruitless series of exhortations in favor of behaviour modification. The headphones blocked her out for the majority of the time, but whenever they were removed for crew interactions, inter-film conversation, the bathroom trip, etc, the train of instructions, pleadings, comments, and diversionary tactics was still in full flow. We didn't sight them until partway through the flight, when Michael made his first foray forward down the aisle, with relatively hot Mom in hot pursuit. This performance was repeated several times, although Mom eventually tired of the chase and delegated pursuit duties to early-teen daughter.
So far so banal - there's only so far a three-year-old can go on a plane.
Immigration hall at Melbourne airport, though, was much more amusing. It turns out that three-year-olds are just the right height to run under those spring-loaded retractable queue-management ropes, whilst early-teen girls are not. Michael had his head down and his little arms and legs pumping as he scrammed to the far side of the relatively-cavernous hall. Early-teen daughter - by now we'd learned her name, courtesy of Mom's increasingly irate and not entirely reasonable cries of "For goodness' sake, catch him, Selena!" - had her pursuit rendered almost completely ineffective by the fact that she had to stop every two steps to duck under a rope. Mom's agitation and volume levels were increasing as she - with perfectly-behaved middle daughter in tow - moved closer and closer to the head of the queue. Everyone else in the place, including Passport control, Immigration, and Customs officers, and other passengers were chortling. Even the Airport Security guy's beagle looked like it was enjoying the show. Eventually a Customs woman scooped Michael up as he ran past (for the second time - she watched and laughed the first time he passed her) and held him until Selena, bright red and out of breath, arrived. Took a wee while for Michael's brain to work out and/or pass on to his body that he'd been captured, as his little legs kept pumping in mid-air like a cartoon character who'd not yet realised they'd run off the edge of a cliff.
Eventually, I made it through passport control and rejoined Janine. We made our way in a relatively leisurely fashion to the baggage carousel... which is where we saw Michael again, on the carousel, kicking someone's bag repeatedly. Selena removed him to the safety of the floor, and was promptly scolded by Mom for interfering with his activities. Bemusing.
Skybus to city, train to Hawthorn, feet to Mortlock residence. Spare key located, we entered the house to the chirrupping of what we thought was a security system, but turned out to be a pair of birds. They were enthused by our arrival, but not nearly as excited as the dog, who found Janine's voice and pats so enjoyable that she created a small puddle of wee on the floor. Janine wanted to play Rock/Paper/Scissors for clean-up duty, but I know that she knows that I always choose Rock, so I refused to partake, ostensibly on the grounds that she was the one who'd over-excited the dog, and that the puddle was therefore hers to address. Janine and Honey played fetch while I located the car key, then we said farewell to dog and birds and set off into the wilderness that is inner-suburban Melbourne.
Such an easy city to get around in! Only once during the entire week were we sat at the same set of lights through more than one cycle, and that was a right turn off a major thoroughfare during rush hour. Apparently the bridges over the river become serious choke points during peak traffic flow times, but even there we had no issues. Someone from Auckland Transport should go have a look, with an extra eye peeled for the cycle-friendly elements, which far outweigh those of Auckland. Trams are very cool, and very useful, although fare machines which accept notes would be handy. More than anything else, though, it was the attitude of the drivers which I found most different from NZ. People let people in! No-one was angry! I was mildly concerned that I'd be called upon to execute a hook turn, but even those began to seem like a blimmin good traffic management idea once I'd had the chance to watch a few in progress.
Would NZ drivers cope? I have my doubts.
