Adelaide seems to have a proliferation of two things...
1a. Farmers Union coffee milk. 1b. Trendy coffee bars.
Farmers Union is just like Big M, but everywhere, and it comes in a variety of flavours:
- Lite Coffee flavour. - Extra Strong Coffee Flavour. - Decaf Coffee Flavour.
You get the idea...
The other thing is trendy coffee bars. They seem to have been extrodited from an Ikea catelog in the early 90's and charge five dollars for a latte in a ribbed cardboard cup. They are as much of a scourge in Adelaide as 7-11's are in Melbourne or EasyWay's are in Sydney.
This one, Cibo (pronounced CHEE-bo: it's Italian, natch), is apparently making its way east of the border. Coming soon to a cinema near you!!! Starbucks better look out...and you too.
Coffee Coffee Coffee!!!
Seems like these erudite South Australians just cant stay awake.
I got up at 7 this morning and flung myself into the shower like it was my first day of school. Wash, shave, aesop perfume, blast of nivea under the pits, grease of murrays in the hair, new shirt, pants, jacket, scarf...
70's sunnies or no 70 sunnies? Hmmmm.... NO 70's sunnies today...
I was ready to blitz it.
((( Cut to: Devil Wears Prada-esque montage of my outfits/grooming/general eagerness declinging over time... )))
I was halfway to work, weaving through the flotsom and jetsom of the early morning grind, when I realised that in my said eagerness I'd forgotten to brush my teeth. Furry teeth! I ran my tounge over my incisors to guage the necessity of a dash to Coles and a public toilet. 'Fine!' I thought. Just fine. Not brilliant but fine.
I settled on a packet of Extra and a deck of Styvo's from a nearby newsagency and continued up the road to work. In my ears, blaring, Nina Simone, a fine buxom lass to get you in the mood if ever there was one. I bounced along to this lovely little little tune, life affirming and inspiring at least!
Thats right. I got my ticket, I got my token, I got the life.
Then the office loomed into view above inner-city Waymouth Street. Cue: Psycho Stings.
'Re re re re rei rie rie rie!!!'
I entered the building and met a fellow new recruit, Mark. Mark was about 50 and was recently employed as the head of the classified section. He was also in his best serious outfit. We were promptly put the the OH&S ringer for about three hours with the HR manager, a fellow with wispy locks who - intuition tells me - took an instant dislike to my corderouy jacket and general youthfulness.
Then we had a tour of the building, a glistening, multimedia'd monolith straight outta Shanghai. They issued me with a security pass whose photo makes me look like a 47 year old library monitor.
Then a three hour training module on how to send email and use a start bar. And navigate the company's news integration jewel, a particularly UN-userfriendly program called Cyber, which shares the wire for every story written around Australia and the World.
I felt early onset alzeimas creeping up my brain stem as I was introduced to the Online team, my new workmates... who seemed at a loss as to where to start teaching me exactly how they string this thing together. So let me go home at 5pm. 'Be ready for serious training tomorrow,' said my new boss, Rod. I smiled brightly then remembered the teeth thing and closed my mouth quicly. 'I'm ready!!' I said, before sailing out of the office.
The sun was going down hard as I walked back to my hotel, or, you know, wherever. Rundle Mall passed by in a blur of bra shops and discount CD stores and emo kids making specticles of themselves. Adelaide seems to have alot of emo kids.
I slipped past this kinda alternaive pub called the Exeter and decided to stop in for a schooner before retiring to my suite at the Pacific International. I scraped back a stool and flicked through my book and rested my head on the table.
As the Mountain Goats so lyrically said:
I am gonna make it...through this year... If it kills me.
It's by this chic called Miranda July. Seriously original bird. She did 'You And Me And Everyone We Know', one of the best films of last year. I'd love to have a beer with her. Or, like, a cammomile tea or something.
I landed in Adelaide yesterday and checked into my serviced apartment. 'Pacific International'!! Ba Ba Buuuum! Don't you love the hyperbolic names of these places?
I was a little rusty as we'd had the 1vs100/Deal Or No Deal wrap party the night before, where I ended up bailing Andrew O'Keefe against a concrete wall with mojito clinking loosely in my grip: 'Sh'uknow, Anjrew, I really shink (hic) you are one of ONE OF the besht (cough) presjenters...on tally...'
A smooth exit.
The apartment is nice, precicely how you would imagine it. Random inoffensive prints and crisp bed linen and wrapped soap.
Note Subway remnants on the table, stage left... Graprfruit diet to begin first thing tomorrow.
Last night I put all my eggs in one basket and went out with my two SA links, Amy and Jason. We ended up in this flash bar on Gouger Street (the Brunswick St of the South). It was all mood lighting and snakeskin pointy shoes and revelrous clinking of glasses.
Along for the ride were a preview of hardcore ABC journalists and a slough of toothy young labour representatives. We ended up at another venue called Lotusbar, and teetering on the dancefloor was a prominant local politician fishing for fresh prey. 'Take a photo on your phone,' Jason urged under his breath. 'What a scoop to walk into your first day at the 'Tiser with that piece of snapperazi gold!'
I thought about it, but my cameraphone has a clunky flash and takes murky night time shots. And Im not alltogether down with catching unsupecting RM-Williams clad pollies in dubius Saturday Night circumstances. How will this bode for my future career choice? I snapped one of Jason instead, suckling on Adelaide's finest export:
Slightly mad look in his eye, but it was great to see him.
I went to look at a potential room today. It was in the city, prime location, in the bleakest grid of institutional townhousing this side of Guantanamo. A kooky Columbian chick gave me the grand tour... sparce furnishings, bare walls, and the going room had NO WINDOWS! Who builds a room with no windows? This coupled with the musty international-student smell and I couldnt get out of there fast enough. Next!!
I wandered back down King William St towards the hotel, quiet gray Sunday strollers smattered around, clouds low in the sky.
Forest? Where? I slipped into Subway, chicken footlong with extra jalepinos and loaded up on the Sunday papers. Almost home, I spotted my first church, in this, the city of churches. St Pauls!! Love the font work!! Rock n' Roll!! The first of many, Im guessing.
I thought I'd treat myself to a new jacket to face the South Australian moors, so I gathered up the change in the coke bottle moneybox beside my bed. It was pretty full. The box had been stuffed with shrapnel after those nights when breaking note after note was more attractive than counting out correct change and thus I crashed through the door hours later jingling like a sleigh.
I dilligently piled little skyscrapers of coins into denominations, considering the adventures each tarnished 20 cent piece had been on before landing in my sweaty pocket. Turned out I had over 200 dollars in that box! I took myself off to the bank and proceeded directly on to this little shop on Smith Street called Some Buddy Loves You with the express intention of blowing the lot on the first thing I saw. This was the first thing I saw:
Yeah, I know.
It wouldnt be out of place in the Arctic Circle. Even though Melbourne's current forecast is light and bright and just a little crisp I persisted on wearing it out and about this week. It was like I'd wriggled into the middle of a rolled up sleeing bag before I left the house. 10 steps and I had a sheen of sweat on my forehead, another 10 and I was awkwardly slinging 10 pounds of quilting over my arm, struggling to maintain basic motor functions. Too difficult.
It was also one of those coats that command attention from the public, like wearing a t-shirt with 'JESUS IS A CUNT' written on it. At least that what it felt like. 'Look at me, Im wearing faux fur! In Autumn!' But then again I live off Smith Street, I saw a lady on the corner the other day with strawberry jam in her hair wearing a crochet bin liner and she barely caused a ripple.
Whats the go with buyers remorse? Is there a cooling off period for warm puffy jackets? I really wanted to return the coat, but In the meantime I'd lost the receipt and was frankly a little scared of what the humorlessly hip Buddy staff would make of my half-assed fashion persistance. But I took a deep breath and took myself back there, forming a fanciful tale in my head that I had been unexpectadly summoned to work in Arnham Land as a crisis Aid worker and would no longer have use for TopShop does Sir Edmund Hillary outerwear.
Turns out, I needant have worried. They swapped it over for a hoodie that cost 260 dollars. A 260 dollar jumper. I never said I wasnt a victim. So here's my new look, from forgotten monies, hard won:
Like it? It's nice, like. Got little cross hatches on it. And buttons and zips and funtime sundries.
Thing is, after all that, now I kinda miss the Arctic Circle one.
I've finished up at 1 vs 100 and I've had some going away drinks at my local pub and I've started throwing out superfluous clothing I havent fit into since Merril Bainbridge was in the charts. I'm definately moving.
All the Melbournians I've told about moving to Adelaide invariably say one of three things.
1. City of Churches!! (crash bang whallop) 2. Well its not far to fly home... 3. My step-cousin/brother-in-law/ex-best-friend/former-flame lives in Adelaide, you MUST look them up.
I'm all for the cavalier calling of a tentative link... thats part of the relocation package. Launching yourself onto unsuspecting new blood. It's like blind dating. But I do know one or two people in my new home state. Like, literally one or two.
One of them is a girl I met on a travel junket I went on for Womens Day, Amy. We were the two youngest members of the Whitsundays jaunt, and formed a bond over beer beside the horizon pool listening to the Sissor Sisters cover Franz Ferdinand. 2004 in a caplet!!
She's come to Melbourne a few times and we've kept in touch - she actually works at the Adevertiser, so Im hoping she'll provide some insider shorthand about the bubbler politics. Who's slept with who in the loos of the local pub, that sort of thing. Here she is, on the right, after consuming near a bottle of wine and a six pack of Pure Blonde...
Another guy I know in the 'Laide is this bloke Jason, who works for the ABC. Jason and I were the producers of this student news program called Newsline about 5 years ago. I havent seen him since those heady, idealistic, reactionary days. I tried to find a picture of him on Google Images and this was my 'I'm Feeling Lucky' option:
I havent seen him in half a decade, but think it's quite a likeness. Jason was always very ambitous and talented and creative with a healthy journalistic sneer. I gave him a call the other day to see if I could get some dirt on SA style. He's been living there for 18 months and I think I might have caught him on a particularly realistic evening.
'Well I hope you arent coming over to party hard,' he said, deadpan, gearing up for a roll. 'There's about three passible venues in the city. You'll go there every week. And it's colder than Melbourne. And the drivers are terrible, they never let you in. And everyone hangs out with the people they went to high school with. And...'
And shit.
I sat down on the couch after hanging up from speaking to him and swallowed hard. 'Am I making the right decision?' I thought. 'How important is going out to me? Not THAT important. (ahem) But I dont mind the cold weather. (I must get a new coat) And let's be honest, Im no Jeremy Clarkson behind the wheel either.'
No sir, I'm not afraid. Im a hanging out for all the cliche's: to challenge myself, try something new, meet some fresh people, move my arse out of my mothers place before I turn into Principle Skinner. This IS the right decision. In my gut, I know it.
