I slept uneasily due to fretfulness. Boy, is that a fucking waste of time and energy. Stepping out of the hotel and turning the corner reveals a café that advertises an ‘excello’ breakfast, the main ingredients of which are fabulous coffee and BACON. I pledge allegiance to Australian bacon. What it might lack in ‘crispy’, it more than makes up in ‘porky’.
We amble down to the National Gallery of Victoria, the NGV, to see what we might see. A wonderful and exhaustive exhibit of art and artifacts from Australia’s colonial past, 1770-1861, fills the museum. Much of what’s here belongs to the period before Melbourne was founded in 1835. The profound strangeness of pre-colonial Australia and the implacable cultural juggernaut of Britannia fascinates, repels, and discombobulates in equal measure. Right as we enter, a long row of Aboriginal shields sets a tone of resistance that colors the whole history lesson. Then, on the third floor, current Aboriginal artists have been asked to respond to the story below and what we see is fierce, funny, and furious. In the museum store we discover many beauties. Look! Dame Edna potholders on sale! Now they belong to me.
Heading back to the hotel, we detour up Hosier Lane, a back alley and graffiti heaven. A fellow on a cherry picker is putting the finishing touches on an enormous portrait of Biggie Smalls, the one with the crown. Groups of schoolkids are hanging out, fooling around and smoking or texting and just being cool by association. Ali is most impressed. We fade back to the Windsor to put our feet up and our heads down. I need this. Thus rested, we go in search of more postage; quite a flurry of postcard composition has been going on at the dining room table.
The true nature of our present mission is to buy sheets and towels for our forthcoming voyage on the Murray River. The houseboat we’ve rented won’t supply linen. A nearby Target has just what we’re looking for. Heeding the muse of practicality, a small suitcase gets bought to carry our burgeoning tchotchke collection.
Consolidating our purchases in the handy little suitcase, we roll on down the street looking for some place for dinner.A stylish-looking Italian bistro beckons. Yeah, but sometimes stylish only pretends to have a decent kitchen. So what: I’m starving. We fall for the tasting menu, which is very good until it sucks.