Aussie Openness

With Australia Day coming and going this week, it’s a time for the country to mull over what it means to be Australian. If Australia Day is anything to go by, it means mass eating of tasteless slimy sausages on greasy BBQs, a bit of chirpy singing and waving of a sometimes unsatisfactory flag, a little boozing and gathering in a thong-footed mass of happy families and bogan pride, watching fireworks explode over wonderful, modern, generally civilised cities. Thankfully though, it mostly means not worrying too much about what it means to be Australian and just getting on with things and being Australian.

Australia is of course quite a faraway, isolated place, perhaps only eclipsed by New Zealand in its off-the-radar ways. Occasionally a catastrophe or calamity will remind people it exists, or Oprah will come and visit and you’ll never hear the end of it. Then there’s the sport and while Australian achievements in sport seem to have dwindled in recent years (I think really the rest of the world has caught up), it remains a strong component of the nation’s psyche. Camm orn!

The city of Melbourne is undoubtedly the sporting heart of the nation and, while the ‘G’ fields lovely leg breaks and marvellous marks for the empire and colonial audiences, its one truly international jewel in the crown is the Australian Open tennis championship. And here, my very enjoyable sporting summer continued, not once, not twice (as originally planned), but three times. As a non-tennis watching friend memorably put it (perhaps somewhat ironically)...time to watch some straight sex victories.

It’s a good time of year to be in Melbourne and usually by now it is ridiculously scorching. We know the weather is different this summer and it’s been one of the coldest Aussie Opens on record, though more inconsistent and mild than downright cold. Certainly the Sunday I arrived was a good weather day, ideal for cruising around and chilling before an evening jaunt at Rod Laver arena.





The tennis that night was solid if unspectacular – Sharapova grunting along to a loss to someone with an unpronounceable name and an unpronounceable name happily beating Andy Roddick. I feel sorry for the unpronounceable names – the massive balance of crowd calls squealing out for the easier option – while a few mangle the syllables of Miss Wvyarwvekotfskiovanic. Alas, as well as unpronounceable names, I cannot bring you close ups of frilly skirts and backhand slices, Nazi style camera restrictions in place to desist stalking and encourage more spending of money on official photographs of player’s butts...



The next day, the zoom lens was back intact on a trip out of Melbourne to the very beautiful Dandenongs and Yarra Ranges. Getting there was not especially half of the fun... escaping the Europcar car park the first major challenge, although onward navigation was pretty impressive despite the best efforts of the satnav. Picking up late breakfast from a patisserie in Belgrave saw the day pick up, and eating that luscious apricot and almond slice underneath the tall mountain ash forest was quite probably the summit.



Coming off the Dandenongs (which I think sounds like something you’d find In The Night Garden), it was off into the Yarra Valley, through the rather chicken-less Lilydale and up towards Yarra Glen, where an obligatory tasting of grape juice was warranted. Then across to Healesville, where a rather scrumptious pub lunch was also warranted. And then up and over twisting unsealed roads in the high cloud of the Yarra Ranges National Park, where grape juice and lunch was swirling around in a generally unwarranted fashion. Despite this, the drive was absolutely awesome, through majestic forests and dripping wet ferns, a freshness and purity in the air, a paradoxical thrill and fear about being in the middle of nowhere, the misty clouds swirling among the ghostly white pillars of mountain ash.

Down out of the clouds, back on sealed roads and with one or two other cars for company, the descent zoomed the car down to the small town of Warburton, where, in the steep sided valley and white veils of the Yarra river, life is finer than sliced white bread. It’s nice to see the Yarra all clear and glistening – no doubt an angler’s paradise – before it meets the sediment and tide that turns it brown across the city of Melbourne.

Back in Melbourne, and dropping the hire car off a few minutes late, the evening was spent in Lygon Street. Welcome to Italiano-land, where the pasta is a fasta and just like momma used to make. The most touristy strip dotted with Mario Brothers offering you the not so exclusive deal of free Bruschetta and no corkage. They fail to tell you that they have run out of Lasagne and Bolognese. Whadda mistaka to maker! Still, the excesses of cheesecake and coffee on top of Carbonara made it a breakfast free morning the next day, and time for some non-holiday action via work. This rude interruption was rectified later with some more tennis action – this time watching Djokovic power on through against Tomas Berdych, to the dismay of his excellent backing group.

Australia Day emerged cool and cloudy, the weather being totally un-Australian, but dry enough for tennis to proceed with an open roof. This was the spontaneous day, with tickets just about still available to go and watch a couple of fine ladies quarter finals, followed by Andy Muzzzzzaaaahhhh Murray against Dogopopopopolovic. This time I took my extra long zoom lens, but was thwarted by the bag check man doing too thorough a job... again, very un-Australian. Still, it was a good old day, illuminated by random gun salutes and airplanes interrupting the tennis, and a fairly comfortable win for old Muzzzzzzzzzzaaaaaaahhhhh.





Spending the daytime at the tennis allowed for some soaking up of Australia Day atmosphere in the evening. Of course, this meant random music and displays, lots of people just hanging about drinking, eating, playing ball, and the very Australian embrace of colourful explosions.





While the fireworks were there for celebration, there was a tinge of flatness in the air as in a way it symbolised the end of the summer holidays. No more treats at this point to look forward to. A ramping up of work and chores and even the occasional wearing of trousers instead of shorts. Possible healthy eating and / or exercise. And Melbourne was playing up to the occasion on Thursday morning as I took the journey to the airport... all sunny and clear and pleasantly warm... like it wanted you to stay and holiday on. Flying over the Victorian bush and Alpine country a little seed was planted for a mini-road trip come March... down there, amongst those trees, along those ridgelines, beside those rivers. I mean, the holiday times need to be dragged out for as long as possible, right?