We’ve come across the Ditch to the West Island for the holidays. It’s been two weeks now, with one to go, yet I’ve still not wrapped my head around a summer Xmas. This is my fourth one and I’m still getting used to it. While on Adelaide’s Rundle St. Mall, I was reminded of the lack of fit through the atonal skronks of somone bleating out “Jingle Bells” on a sax. The out-of-tune sound fit the out-of-season mood just right. Ersatz snow didn’t help either.

Adelaide is a fine town, prim and proper in many respects, and easy to navigate as it’s laid out on a grid (the same planner did Christchurch, NZ, but thankfully left out the space in the former for the neo-Nazis found in the latter). As it’s so flat, I was pining for a bike, but as the temperature edged near 40, I was thinking only of shade and sleep. I don’t think I’ve felt heat like that in over two years now, so my internal thermostat didn’t weather it so well. This was not helped by the whiplash brought on by a dramatic temperature change on Xmas day. Down to 15 it went (they call that “cold” here). And in Victoria, they had snow and hail. All the while friends Up Over are telling me it’s nearing double digits above zero. Hmmm….

The smell of bushfire, however, was a true reminder of where I was for the season. This was certainly more pronounced in Melbourne, where the state has been plagued by drought and fire for the last couple of months. For the past few days a smoky haze and accompanying aroma have been part of the atmosphere infusing the place. From North Fitzroy, where we’re staying now, you can barely see the city, the sun striving to get through the sweet, acrid layer of what were once forests of gum trees.

Even with the threat of drought and heat and heat and more heat, I’m glad to be back in Melbourne. Every return visit here just confirms for me why it remains one of my favourite cities. It’s definitely struck me as a young person’s paradise, and the spread of street art is just one affirmation of this. (Note that you can always tell a town that’s reverberating with the “creative city” buzz when there’s a publishing boom of not only “Guides to…” but also a litany of indie-published books on funky boutiques, restos, local artist hangouts, art galleries, comix culture, and, of course, street art). I’m a bit over it at the moment as there’s just so much of it, and to my eye it’s become overly repetitive and cluttered. The feverishness of the scene has been tempered somewhat (there’s only so much wall space after all), settling down into a tourist attraction where people can have guides show them around the city’s alleyways.

Café culture is clearly in the ascendant as well, and while I prefer the sketchier parts of town, such as those found on stretches of Smith St., which seems to be enjoying a temporary reprieve from the city’s “culturalization,” I can’t say that I don’t mind it, though I definitely waver. Since I lived here in the early 90s, Brunswick St. has been particularly affected (although it was clearly on its way even then). Once boho central, it has continued to trace out the gentrification narrative arc to a T. There’s a boutique for every artist it seems, with many ateliers open for public perusal, and any evidence of going against the grain has been burnished out, leaving only a trademarked funky decrepitude, perfect for cultivating a consumerist paradise (dotted, thankfully, by some good new and used bookstores, woefully absent back in Wellington).

In my own way, I’m a sucker for it, at least when it comes to good summer flavours. Thankfully, Charmaine’s Ice Cream still stands out (though the hipsters have crossed the road to join the gelati revolution at the highly overrated Trampoline), reassuring by virtue of its sweet, sweet, tenacity (but also by the addition of a knockout gingerbread ice cream).

If I’m a bit torn on the hot Xmas, I will take sun and warmth for New Year’s Eve. Nothing wrong with either of those as far as I’m concerned.

Completely irrelevant to the season, two songs to see you into the new year, one by Jack Ary (Les Tomates), the other by Robert Charlebois (Engagement), rocking out in a funky vein.

Have a good one folks.

Le G.

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