by Anita Heiss
I picked up a packet of ten clip-on koalas to see where they were made.
'Three packs for ten dollars.' The seller was excited as he worked two sets of tourists at the same time. I turned the packet over and looked at the label: China. I put them down without saying anything. What was the point getting upset about the quality and inauthenticity of the merchandise? There were dozens of stalls like his selling the same crap. My favourite was the one advertising boomerangs: 'guaranteed to return, machine-made, authentically Australian'. Obviously the marketing people hadn't seen the contradiction in promoting a 'machine-made' boomerang as authentic.
At the end of another aisle I stumbled upon the pièce de résistance. An Aboriginal statue in full chocolate brown, red loincloth, holding a spear and, just in case I didn't know what I was looking at, a bronze plaque reading: 'Australian Aborigine'.
'Fifteen dollars for you, Miss.' The seller didn't see how ridiculous it was to try to sell it to me. For him, I was clearly alive and there as a customer, but not as an Aboriginal person. It was so kitsch I was tempted to buy it – it would be useful in discussing stereotypes and identity in cross-cultural training in the department – but I couldn't bring myself to even pick it up, so I moved on.
'You tell me your best price, Miss, we can do a deal.' He winked as I walked away. He was cute, but I didn't want to engage in a cross-cultural awareness training workshop there and then – no time, and not for free, and not even for his very cheeky smile.
I was authentic-Australianed out, but kept walking and looked at ugg boots in pink and purple and wondered if anyone would buy them. The suited of Melbourne would probably never be seen dead in ugg boots, but they probably didn't shop at the Vic Markets anyway.
I kept wandering and was seduced by a stall with interesting ironing board covers. I bought the one with the Statue of David on it, believing it would make ironing less of a chore. I wasn't sure how Shelley would react, and we'd have to make sure it was gone before her parents came back. She hadn't said how long they'd be away, just that it was indefinite.
At nine I made my way to the coffee shop on the corner to meet Sylvia, who hadn't arrived yet. I ordered a soy latte, sat in the window and took in the surrounds, trying not to think about the cold. I sent a text message to the girls:
Hi – at Vic Markets, freezin, but coffee + barista hot! Miss ya, Px
The barista was handsome, European handsome, dressed in blue jeans and a black shirt and apron. When he turned around his arse was tiny and taut. I'd definitely become a bit of a perve since being in Melbourne – but checking out men when you were celibate was like staring into a cake shop window when you were on a diet.
Sylvia arrived puffed and apologetic for being ten minutes late, but I didn't really care. We'd both put in a lot of overtime over the past months so a ten am start was fine occasionally. We finished our coffees and headed in to buy the goodies.
'I don't go into the meat area,' Sylvia said, stopping still in her tracks.
'Oh, for God's sake, Sylvia, why didn't you tell me? I could've done it all already.'
'Sorry. I didn't think to mention it before.'
'And do I have to carry it all as well?'
'Not if it's all in double plastic bags and then in your environmental bag.'
'You're an idiot!' I laughed. 'You get the breads and I'll get the cold meats and some prawns.'
'Get ready for a carb explosion, then – there's about fifty different types of bread here . . . I might be a while.'
As I roamed the seafood area I couldn't believe the wonderful choices: raw prawns, tiger prawns, banana prawns, green prawns, peeled prawns.
'Good morning, beautiful lady, what can I get you today?' a chirpy fella greeted me.
'Two kilos of cooked prawns, please?' He handed them over with the flirtatious smile that all butchers and fishmongers seem to have when serving women. It's an art form. Butchers do it the best, guaranteeing that female customers come back time and time again.
I looked at my list: olives, prawns, pâté, cold meats. At one stall there were fifteen different types of olives; the next had hot cabana, mild cabana and a whole range of other sausages. I could've spent the entire day trying to decide, but I didn't have time.
Sylvia came back with a bag of continental and Middle Eastern breads and a mix of soft and hard cheeses. I put her in a cab with the food – including the cold meats – and sent her to the Rialto building while I raced down to the Koorie Heritage Trust and rummaged through the shelves for a gift for Jeremy. The shop had its fair share of dots and kitschy pieces as well, but I ended up getting a selection of bush chutneys and oils because Jeremy was a man who loved food. I also got him a tie because he always dressed well at work.
I bought James a book on Aboriginal Melbourne while I was there. I was going to Sydney the following week and then on to the Gold Coast for Alice's hens' night. It was probably a good thing. I kept wondering if Mike was going to call me about having dinner, even though it was probably a bad idea.
thirty-three
Virgin to Vegas
I couldn't believe August had come around so quickly, and so too Alice's hens' weekend and birthday celebrations on the Gold Coast. I was excited about going away for a few days not only to see Alice, Liza and Dannie, but also to escape the miserable Melbourne weather. Alice had Skyped me every day the week before, and counted down on her Facebook page the days to arriving at Conrad Jupiters. I knew that she was also bursting about her hens' night – the one she'd once vowed she would never have.
I was in Sydney for a meeting with the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Arts Board at the Australia Council the day before we left, so it meant we could all fly together up the coast. I stayed overnight in a hotel in the city and James came and stayed with me.
We only had twelve hours together and most of it was spent sleeping – we were both exhausted from work. We made love, but it was sex you have when you're still half asleep, or mostly asleep, with no energy at all, just rhythm and grinding until the job's done. Neither of us said anything, but as James drove me to the airport I wondered if that was what married life was like for busy working couples. It wasn't how I wanted it to be for me.
'I'm glad you're having this weekend with the girls. Just behave yourself, all right,' he said as he patted my thigh, half jokingly, half seriously.
'Oh, I thought I might find myself a retired fella in a Hawaiian shirt and a really bad tan and move to the Gold Coast.'
Perhaps sleepy sex with someone you loved was better than no sex at all.
♥
Dannie, Liza and Alice were all full of life and happiness, but I boarded the flight pissed off that we weren't flying QANTAS. I wasn't a frequent flyer for nothing. I wanted to sit in the QC and have my free coffee and raisin toast. But Liza was on shitty money at the Aboriginal Legal Service; Alice was on a teacher's wage; and Dannie had school fees, uniforms and excursions to pay for so it was a miracle she could even afford to come at all. I had to hold my sensibly single Black bourgeois tongue and get the cheaper ticket on Virgin as well so that we could all fly together to Coolangatta.
From the moment my foot stepped onto the Virgin aircraft and the yet-to-reach-puberty flight attendant welcomed me aboard by my first name, I knew it was going to be an inordinately long flight.
'Hi Peta! I just love that name – my best friend at school was Peta.'
Don't call me Peta, I thought. Call me Ms Tully or madam or whatever. But don't be so bloody familiar. And I'm not the least bit interested in who your friends were at school. I'm not your friend – I don't even want to be your customer, okay?
I didn't say it of course, but it sounded good in my head.
'Eight aisles down on the left, Peta.'
And I don't need you to point me in the direction of my seat. Obviously it's ahead of me somewhere, on either the left or the right of me, as there's only one aisle to walk down. I was already looking for the exit, remembering the nearest one might
just be behind me.
'Good morning, groovers, welcome to flight 537 to the Gold Coast. If you're not going to the Gold Coast, then you're probably on the wrong plane.'
'Wow, he's a genius,' I said sarcastically to Alice.
'My name's Ryan. I tried out for Popstars, but didn't make it, so instead I'm going to be your singing flight attendant. I might sing you a song later, but first up let me introduce you to your crew today.
'Sandy likes dark chocolate, Georgia has just broken up with her long-time boyfriend so can you all be kind to her today, Alex still lives at home and his mother does his washing, blah blah blah . . .' Was I the only one getting the shits listening to nonstop commentary?
'We're very lucky to be led by our Captain James Cook.'
'James Cook? Hilarious!' Alice said.
'Yeah, and I'd like to know why we're so lucky. Are the other captains dodgy? Or are we lucky because he can't hear Ryan rambling and won't be pissed off or distracted from doing his job?' Alice had been joking, but I was deadly serious.
'Maybe we're lucky cos he's sober.'
'What's luck got to do with flying a plane anyway? I thought it was about skill and experience.'
Ryan still hadn't shut up: 'And in the middle of the plane is Abbey. It's Abbey's birthday, so let's sing Abbey happy birthday.'
'Let's not,' I mumbled to Alice, but to my surprise a good proportion of the plane, including Dannie, started singing.
Then the safety demonstration began.
'Seriously, who needs to be shown how to do a seat belt up?' I mumbled.
'What's wrong with you?' Alice asked. 'You're such a grump today. Melbourne's turned you into a real whiner. I hope you're not going to be miserable all weekend and spoil it.'
'You're such a grump.' I whined some more, but under my breath, watching the cloned Virgins check and double-check that tray tables were up, seat backs were upright and hand luggage was stowed correctly; all of them identical in their camel pants and skirts, crisp white shirts and red jackets. Alice was right about me being grumpy, but no-one was going to accuse me of spoiling the fun of the girls' weekend on the Gold Coast.
I closed my eyes and started to count down to our eventual arrival at Coolangatta airport. I tried to sleep but couldn't, because even after we started along the tarmac to take off Ryan was still talking.
'Again, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, pimps and pros, you're on flight 537 to the Gold Coast . . .'
'Yes, we know that you knob, just shut up,' I said out loud and even Alice laughed.
♥
'Ladies and gentleman, it's Ryan here and we've just begun our descent, so please take your seats. The cabin crew will be coming through shortly to collect your rubbish, so to make turnaround time quicker at the other end can you please look under your seat and in the seat pockets, and help us with the cleaning?'
'What? It's not bad enough that we have to buy a bottle of water but we now have to provide the cleaning as well?'
Ryan just kept going. 'Please don't leave your ex-husbands or children behind as they are both hard to sell, and don't go well on the baggage carousel.'
Let me off the bloody plane, I was screaming to myself.
♥
If Sydney had a coastal feel about its fashion, then the Gold Coast had a tropical island feel about it. It seemed like there were no dress regulations at all. The foyer of our hotel had everything from board shorts and miniskirts to canary-yellow slacks, hot-pink strapless frocks and no shortage of gold glitter T-shirts. The four of us in our tailored dresses and darker colours looked classy and high-end – and distinctly overdressed. I couldn't exactly say it felt great to be home, even though it was good to be back with my friends.
I'd decided not to see Mum or Gis or the boys while I was up. I didn't want to spoil my weekend with the girls trying to squeeze in a visit with the family as well. We needed more than a couple of hours to catch up, and I didn't have the time or the inclination right then.
We spent the day lying by the pool at the hotel. It was low season so there were hardly any tourists and, to my great joy, no schoolies. Hanging out with Will and Maya was one thing; teenagers were quite another. I delved into the novel Sylvia had lent me for the trip, The Accomplice. It was by a local writer, Kathryn Heyman, and told the story of a seventeenth-century shipwreck off the coast of Australia.
'You'll love it,' Sylvia had assured me as she put it in my attaché. 'Heyman's been shortlisted for the Nita Kibble Award and sells well abroad. A literary writer, does better than we mere poets.'
What she'd failed to tell me was that it was a meditation on evil. According to the jacket reviews it was a cross between Robinson Crusoe and Lord of the Flies. It was a brutal read for what was meant to be a relaxing holiday, but I really didn't care. It was so wonderful to feel the sun on my skin and build some of my tan back up.
On our first night we strolled along Broadbeach Mall and ate in an Italian restaurant, nothing like the standard of Lygon Street but I wasn't going to say a thing. I was hoping to get through the weekend without any cross-border debates happening.
None of us really wanted to go clubbing that night, because we were all too old compared to the bronzed, blonde girls out and about. We went back to the Prince Albert Pub at Conrads and listened to a covers band instead.
The food we'd had at dinner wasn't really authentically Italian, so I didn't think there was any risk of having an astral dream while sharing a room with Alice – and I didn't.
The next day we spent hours walking around Pacific Fair, checking out the shops, stopping for coffee and just taking it easy. I took some pics on the camera phone and sent them to James. He texted back:
I'm glad you're there with the girls. It must be like old times, hey babe? Love you. James
On our second and final night we decided to get frocked up properly, which made us really stick out. We had our hens' celebration dinner at the hotel's Charters Towers Restaurant.
'So, Missy, what plans do you have for the wedding? I do recall you said I could be "producer" and God knows you'll need me to coordinate the music. Remember your mum said you could have Archie Roach play? I could probably help with arranging that if you like.'
'Gary said we can only afford to play Archie's CDs in the background.'
'Right. Well, we can talk more about the music later.'
'I still want you to help me do all the planning, of course. It's just a bit harder with you down there, but you'll be home in January and the wedding's not till March. Dannie's still matron of honour and I'd love you to be bridesmaid.' She looked directly at me, but not Liza, and I felt uncomfortable.
'Well?' Alice asked, when I didn't respond immediately.
I looked towards Liza, embarrassed. 'But what about—'
'Liza's already agreed. I asked her last week.' Alice beamed at Liza, who returned the same broad glow. Alice was my best friend, but I was the last to be asked, and the last to know. Our fabulous foursome seemed to have become the terrific threesome since I'd moved to Melbourne.
'I've offered to do a pre-nup for them, too,' Liza added.
'Of course Gary's got nothing to "nup",' Dannie threw in.
Alice grinned. 'Truly, without making you want to spew, I know Gary and I will be together forever. We don't really need a pre-nup.'
'What about dresses?' I asked.
'Well, we've already had a look at a few,' Alice motioned to Dannie and Liza. 'And we kind of decided that you girls should just wear whatever you want, but I thought maybe cocktail, to the knee, and then you should get some more wear out of it later.'
