Travel and Holiday Tips to Self

Insights gained on my recent trip to Melbourne (in winter) – some of which insights have been gained in the past too, and then forgotten! So I thought it was high time to record them.

Do take your laptop! The combination of your iPad and borrowing your host's computer when it's not in use will get you by, but will lack ease and grace.

Don't take any clothes that are just a little tight. You WILL put on weight on holiday. Even if you don't – if you are somewhere cold, the extra layers of clothing will have the same effect.

You only need one set of jewellery, which you will wear all the time (just as you do at home). At most, take one extra set of posher pieces for grand occasions in case any of those should happen – not a diverse range for all manner of other possibilities, most of which will never eventuate. Remember, you'll be seeing different people. Only your nearest and dearest, if you are staying with them, or the hotel staff as the case may be, will see you wear the same earrings every day, and they won't care.

If you are going somewhere cold enough that you'll need to wear gloves whenever you go out, it is absolutely useless to pack your hugest knuckle-duster rings.

Do leave some room in your suitcase. You will acquire more stuff to bring home than you left with, even if you are sure you won't. If you do manage to resist buying anything at all, there are still the items kind people will unexpectedly give you, which it would be rude to refuse. (Besides, you might want them.)

You don't need more than two pairs of shoes, one serviceable and one fancy, and one pair of slippers.

You do need as many undies and socks as you can cram in, if the washing is likely to take days to dry.

If you forget to pack something you'll need, remember that other places also have shops.

Have spaces in your itinerary for quiet chill-out days to recharge your batteries. Have things to do on such days (of course you will travel with your e-reader).

Everyone should have a hand-held shower nozzle, even if they are not elderly or infirm – however, few people do. (I don't know how they can bear to forego such comfort and convenience! It must be that they just don't know any better.)

You will manage to leave something behind when you go back home. You will also manage to permanently lose one or two items. Shrug it off! C'est la vie.

Indulging My Vice: Books I Got In Melbourne

I'm on holiday. That's when you get yourself little treats, right? 

I was in town. I went with Jennie Fraine to say hello to Kris Hemensley at Collected Works bookshop. And, as you do, I cast my eye over his wondrous collection of poetry. This is a shop that exists for poetry! I found four little treasures, things of magical beauty, small and light enough to take home easily on the plane. The total price shocked me a bit. I have been spoilt by the price of ebooks. But I didn't flinch. I haven't had to spend much on myself this trip, thanks to my generous family, and these books are undoubtedly worth it. 

I asked Kris if by any chance he might have a copy of The Book of Bellerive. I inherited my Dad's cherished copy, which I foolishly lent years later to someone who lost it! Bellerive was the pen-name of a now long-dead Australian poet who was our version of the famed Scotsman McGonaghal -- so bad he was good. He used to get published in The Bulletin, even. The lines I still recall came from a poem about weevils: 'those jumpers, white jumpers / whom live in old cheese.' Of course Bellerive was a very serious poet; it was everyone else who found him funny. I love whimsy, shaggy dog stories, satire, absurdity  ... of course I love him too!

If I were to find a copy nowadays it would probably cost a heap. But Kris had not heard of him, and I suppose few have by now. However he suggested I try City Basement Books, a really good second-hand bookshop. So next time I was in town, I dragged my son David in there and went straight to the poetry shelves (in this shop as small a section as in most book shops; *sigh*.) I didn't really expect to find it, and I didn't. Nor did the  woman at the counter when she did a computer search. I did, however, find other treasures I couldn't pass up -- and David kindly bought them for me. This time I got seven, and being second-hand the total cost was little more than half the ones from Collected Works. I still went for small, light volumes, but most not quite so slim as the first lot. I MUST NOT add anything else to my luggage! It was only just under maximum weight when I left home.

And these are the treasures I found --

From Collected Works:

haiku waterfront city, by marina scott and patsy m. bush

I hadn't heard of this poet. Exquisite, perfect, contemporary urban haiku. The prints illustrating them are just right too. And the format of this tiny black-and-white book is also just right: one haiku per page with accompanying print on facing page. It's a gem, a joy. We are told the haiku were 'written at - sushi, ramsays, geelong hospital cafeteria, cafe go, the chocolate room, dish, cafe on the common, and wesley church, johnstone park, and at home'. The women describe their book as 'a text and image celebration of their waterfront city, geelong, australia'. It makes me want to revisit and rediscover Geelong. Above all, it gives me pleasure in itself.

A Child's Christmas in Wales by Dylan Thomas. 

One Dylan Thomas work I didn't know before. I bought it thinking I would read it and then pass it on to a grand-daughter. I read it fast and decided to keep it. I like to treat myself to beautiful language. I'll be re-reading. It's childhood tales but they are poetry too. Dylan's Thomas couldn't write without making poetry. The little woodcuts add an extra touch of magic.

Still Life and other poems by Suzanne Edgar

Intriguing, well crafted poems by an Australian poet I'd vaguely heard of long ago, whose work I had not encountered. She is accomplished in both free and formal verse; sometimes tragic, sometimes funny. The language is simple and clear, yet she uses it in ways that create striking effects and can seem lush and rare. This I may give away, to someone I know will appreciate it too, but I'm glad to have read it. On the other hand, it has a haunting quality and I've already re-read it several times, so perhaps I'll keep it.

eMailing flowers to Mondrian, by Alan Loney and Max Gimblett

A fascinating book! It is poems made from parts of emails between Loney (poet) and Gimblett (artist) when they were working on a volume called Mondrian's flowers, a long poem with pictures published by a New York publisher in 2002. I dare say that would be an expensive book and I'm sure it would be a very beautiful one, but I can't find any record of it still being in print, let alone for sale. Meanwhile, the Melbourne-published book I have is beautiful too. There are two wonderful roses by way of illustration, and the words are delectable. I am not always certain which man wrote which words, and in the end it doesn't matter; it all comes together as one whole poem. But it is in sections, each given its own page. Any of them would be good to quote, so, opening at random, I give you this (you might need to zoom in):

And from City Basement Books -- look for my next post.

Travel Tales and Observations: Under Difficulties

I am waiting to fly to Melbourne from the Gold Coast. The plane I'll take has just landed, its incoming passengers beginning to disembark, trickling through the Arrivals door.

Things you recognise because you've been there -- an elderly couple holds hands, conversing naturally; I see that realły she is leading him by the hand. Either mentally or physically, he cannot manage by himself. Also, they are used to this and have adapted.

The next elderly couple I see, he's pushing her in a wheelchair. She looks alert but frail. He looks handsome, fit and assured despite the grey hairs. They both have an air of elegance. 

A  middle-aged couple emerges now. Again, the woman holds the man's hand, leading him; but also he taps with his white-tipped stick. He is blind.

Others are using walking sticks. (Mine is folded in my bag, only for emergencies.) Two different women have those great big knee-length padded boots, 'moon boots', strapped on one leg, denoting injury or operation.

Wonderful how we all get around despite these hindrances. They haven't stopped us from getting into aeroplanes and flying from one city to another, traversing the country.

On board, I find myself seated next to the wheelchair lady and her husband. I have to squeeze past them to get to my window seat (because of course they were ushered on board first; wheelchairs go to the head of the queue). He steps out into the aisle to let me through. She stands and pushes herself back as far as she can against her seat. 'She's hurt her leg,' he explains, and I realise the wheelchair isn't a permanent fixture. I see that one thin leg is twisted even further back out of my way. I manage not to bump it.

Her hair is improbably curled and golden, just the right degree of artfully tousled. From a distance it had looked beige; up close it shines with rich, deep glints. I decide it has to be a wig. Sitting next to her so closely, I see no obvious place of joining, yet her thin neck looks as if it must have wisps of grey hair concealed beneath the perfectly coiffed gold.     

I note the details of that 'air of elegance' I'd observed earlier. The gold circlets in her ears are not the usual fine hoops; they are small in diameter but thick and chunky, as if someone had taken actual bars of gold and curved them. There are several bright gold rings on her fingers too, some with diamonds, in conservative, traditional designs. Her grey pant-suit and leopard-print scarf have an understated chic. 

During the flight, apart from some polite murmurs, we barely converse. We both read. The man, on the other side of her, rests in his own thoughts. 

As we begin the descent into Melbourne, she takes a lipstick out of her handbag, in one of those exquisitely decorated metal lipstick cases with mirror. She paints her mouth the perfect shade of mulberry to complement her scarf and hair. I can't help myself. 'What an elegant lady you are!' I tell her. 'I hope you don't mind me saying.' 

She gives a slight smile. 'One does one's best.' Then, the smile widening, 'I'm 81.' 

'No!' I say, meaning it, and suddenly we are in conversation about the fact that she and he have just come back from a trip overseas, and are now travelling to Melbourne for a funeral after the sudden death of a dear friend.

I murmur condolences, pause, then ask where they went overseas. Ireland and Spain, I learn; in Ireland they were visiting family. 'Two countries I haven't been to ... yet,' I say, then tell her why I am going to Melbourne: a big family reunion with my foster-son and his wife, who live in Switzerland and have not been back to Australia for nine years.  

Only later it occurs to me to wonder if the man is her son rather than her husband. He is slightly plump, his white hair receding, but seems vigorous. I wouldn't have put him anywhere near 80 – but I wouldn't have picked her for that age either, despite the slimness which makes her look frail. 

I lose sight of them when we disembark, but then as I'm about to take the down escalator to the baggage claim area, I see them awaiting the lift, she in her wheelchair again and he pushing. We wave goodbye merrily, like old friends.