Hi audience,
(Sorry for [you] being bored + thanks for reading such [shredded] bullshit.)
The project I'll present 2U is a shortened version of my story about the country I once (half a year ago) intended to make my new home. I stood in Australia for three months as a tourist. During this time I remained unaccompanied and therefore developed thousands of seemingly useless thoughts in order to entertain myself. Weigh out for yourself whether there's something in it for you. This first post is about Melbourne, the city where I sojourned for one month. Having read the article, don't forget to put something in the frame below, otherwise the whole construction would be useless.
Michael
Arrival at the airport
My story starts at the airport.
I jumped off the plane and went into the hall, already sort of puzzled from the flight with the Emirate jet. The first achievable goal was to walk along the corridor in the hall, get my bags, then try to find the exit and leave for the city center (By the time I arrived I didn't even know if there was a bus that could drive me there; nevertheless everything easy so far). Pretty soon I found my baggage. The handle of my heavy bag was already damaged . What was left under the the demolished handle [of my bag] was a hard and sharp edge. As a result I permanently cut my hands, every time I had to move on to the next venue, carrying my baggage. Only the thought of dragging the bag along a long corridor therefore felt painful). As I tried to repair the broken device, one of the officials from the airport asked for my ID and with a series of surprisingly personal questions made clear in what draconian halls action would take place that night. After he gave me back my passport I didn't expect further questioning or anything comparable and, as before, looked for the exit sign. It was a spacious hall; even so, I had no idea where to go–but “unfortunately” the officials on location knew their halls by heart. They consciously ushered me to a very specific area where the next part of their routine checks (if they hadn't been that polite I would have named it an interrogation) had to be done. The guy who, minutes before, asked for my passport already waited for me in front of a metallic table together with two more of his colleagues. They helloed me and asked me to put all my bags on the table. Next they asked me to open the bags–all of them–and then went through my stuff. While doing that they asked me about the purpose of my visit, wanted to know how much money I had with me, how much money I had on my account, and how much there’d be available in there [I mean Australia]. Of course, they also wanted to see my credit card, the documents that enable my visit, contact addresses in Melbourne, the place where I wanted to stay, and a few other things I didn't know at that time. After a series of questions they had a look at my equipment [my kitchen knife, my pocket knife, my Beta58, my chopping board, and my MacBook]. That's why they also asked what I intend to do with my kitchen knife, what the microphone is good for, what sort of music I usually perform, and what kind of visa I would have (since it wasn't allowed to perform as an underground vocalist for money without the proper visa--those damned rich Black Metal vocalists; I understand the official's concerns.) I (and even the officials) thought my MacBook was no obvious instrument to jeopardize the Australian nation; That's why screwdrivers weren't necessary. The interro.., äh, interview took a few more hour.., äh minutes and I told them everything they wanted to know as good as I could, after the sixteen hours flight and the wait in Abu Dhabi (The whole process already felt amusing).
They compared my story with my visa notification and the other documents I had with me and then informed me about my rights. Looking through my papers, they reminded me that I wouldn't be allowed to work in Australia with a Business and Tourism visa.
As I told them about my intentions to get a job in a kitchen they once more emphasized on the illegitimacy of this and any tantamount goal. It appeared almost generous as they allowed me to use my knife in a private kitchen; I didn't even have to apply for rituals of that sort (or maybe I would have to and they just had their lenient night,.. who knows). Since there was no illegal substance in any of my bags the bag check sooner or later had to end. When they were ready it was fairly tardy and I thought it a good idea to simply take my bags, move on and get out of the airport. Unfortunately, the meticulous bag check was not the end of this incomparable airport experience. As I mentioned, I couldn't answer all their questions (which made me a suspicious person it seems). That's why they called their colleague from the Department of Immigration and Border protection who fairly soon arrived. Like all the officials in the hall this guy was also very polite and friendly and, how could it be different, even he had a couple of questions for me. He asked me to take my bags and follow him. After that we went to his office. There he offered me some water and cookies (By the way, he called them biscuits and they weren't vegan), left the room and asked me to wait. After about 15 minutes we had a nice conversation. We talked about my career, my past life, my family (in particular my family in Australia), my occupation as a creative artist and whatever else I did the last thirty-one years. As far as I remember, we didn't talk about my favorite sex position or the PIN-Code of my credit card, 'though I am not sure about the latter. He made some notes and after a while of polite and serious small-talk the official informed me about the bus that would bring me to the city ([No sarcasm this time] I was thankful for that information). Then he unleashed me. Eventually, the entire process at the airport wasn't necessarily intimidating; it clarified that Australia is a very organized, safe country where nothing happens by chance. My first dialogue with the officials of the airport was not half as embarrassing as expected and finally good exercise for every alternate conversation.
I jumped on the Skybus the Immi-official recommended. While contemplating the last few hours I realized having arrived in the fairyland I wanted to see for years. The vehicle drove about twenty minutes and then released all passengers at the train station in Melbourne from where I would easily reach several hostels. By the way, they don't call them hostels, the Australians call them backpackers. Needless to ink out, it wouldn’t be the last adventurous to and fro of my journey and what the officials at the airport already demonstrated on their metal table turned out to be a fundamental rite not only for airport officials but for invigorated travelers in Australia: Bagpacking [in backpackers].
I should mention that when I arrived it was already night. I had no idea where I was. I left the station and walked along the street. This very night appeared as a tranquil composition of prototypical idyllic, silenced and modest Australian nightlife. I could easily count the people that passed my way; Really nothing strange. It was colder than I had expected but I threw enough upon my bones beforehand, so everything worked pretty well. I left the station hall, walked a few meters and saw a young citizen who closed the metal door at the front of a shop and locked the same with a massive chain. I asked him where to go and he ushered me to the first backpackers in reach. The guy there at the backpackers told me they were the cheapest in town(AUD 22), 'though I would have to give them my credit card number as an insurance, which I didn't (At that time I didn't know that such "insurances" were common means in Australia. The first time I gave someone else my credit card number in a backpackers was about two months later when I was already used to the environment. In terms of money and credit card transactions nothing ever went awry. Therefore I felt totally safe and eventually accepted “the local habits”--but not during the first night in Melbourne). Instead I moved on in order to search for the next backpackers which was a YHA (If you're familiar with hostels in Europe you recognize the logo; it's the one with the orange circle around a green tree and a green house next to it. Don't confuse it with the supermarket chain). I didn't want to go there but it was late and I didn't know much about my actual contingencies. I asked the guy at the reception for the prices. He told me it would cost me twenty-eight dollars per night. Stingy as always I asked him if there was a cheaper place close to his location. The guy, not randy for the profit, handed me a free city map, opened it in front of him, took a pen and circled two other backpackers in the close area. I thanked him, handed him the broken handle of my bag and went to the next venue. After walking on for about three streets and snooping through some walls and elevators, I arrived in front of the reception desk of the next backpackers. The guy behind the desk (the bar) said everything one would have to say to make his backpackers appear unattractive to someone like me. It was pretty much like flat searching in Austria: Once there realizing the fake, I felt like an idiot for a second, turned around and left the venue without further useless inquiry... During my walk I realized that my thoughts were almost clear. Because of the long flight and the whole traveling process I expected to become tired; But no, nothing like that during the late backpackers search in this alien city. Finally I arrived at a very central backpackers in Flinders Street where a friendly, British-sounding guy named Lee welcomed me. I paid my first nights, phoned my uncle to tell him about my safe arrival, went up in the dorm and got some sleep.
Melbourne and the television screen
Staying in hostels (in the following named backpackers) appears to be the same everywhere in the world, although there is a much higher standard of entertainment offered to visitors in Australia: Every evening I was invited to participate in special events such as quizzes, burger evenings, game evenings, or tours through the cities. Even if I hardly cared about these events I considered it a good idea to offer entertainment to those who're unable to fight against boredom independently. Mentioning independence, there's also a much higher range of contingencies in terms of designing the day. For instance, in Austrian hostels I was barely given the opportunity to prepare my own meals in a kitchen and instead had to go to restaurants where I had to pay huge sums for the smallest amounts of warm food. Opposing this, Australian backpackers usually provide large kitchens; They are equipped with lots of stoves, microwaves, a row of fridges, enough kitchen utensils, and sometimes even ovens. That of course meant much to me since I couldn't bake pizzas for ages. The vegan ones I created in Melbourne were not half as delicious as every piece I prepared throughout my omnivore life. Even so, I simply enjoyed using a complete kitchen with all the advantages as it appeared tantamount to leading an own household (Damn, I'm such a girl....). Whatever, Australian backpackers provide more luxury; They make the "burdensome" traveling more bearable and guarantee a safe and comfortable stay; I enjoyed my first days in Melbourne.
What I liked best in the backpackers at Flinders Street was the television room. In order to get used to the English language [so my cheap apology for languishing in a gigantic, primitive, anti-adult toy box] I spent hours, days, and nights in front of the technologically high-advanced television screen in a room that looked from the outside like a combination of Streichelzoo (as I constantly saw other fellows drowsing and cuddling like baby cats between hundreds of over-sized, fancy-colored pillow cases) and movie theater. On Saturdays it was all about Game of Thrones and, well,.. basically Game of Thrones, once even a whole day without anything else. Usually I solely left the box about thrice a day to prepare meals or merely grab myself some tea and ginger cookies before lazing on. In between I sometimes took some time to prepare some graphics for the website I was working on but barely left the room. The television room, other than the kitchen, was open twenty-four hours a day, so I sometimes even stood there all alone while the others found some sleep. I should mention that I had to get rid of something my sister called a jet lag--a feeling of exhaustion combined with shoulder tension, spontaneous erections for no real reason, and a constant state of drowsiness. Eventually it took me three weeks to get totally used to the different clock. [The following months would physically differ from the jet-lag-phase in Melbourne: At least once a month--after a period marked by a noteworthy thirst for knowledge in which I usually read books or worked on vocabulary exercisesendeavors to improve my language skills reached a peak and then abruptly ended with the result of me waking up in the morning, realizing a mental burnout, limb biscuits and a psycho-physically ambivalent feeling of impotence that caged me in a state of sadness and regularly kept me from laughing. This feeling barely left; I later took it with me to México City where I would still have to face the same faith, the same mixture of melancholy, hope, eager to discover the world, gamblelust, and desperation (and another core enveloped in greenish feelings that I didn't understand). What's peculiar about my entire journey–the one I'm going to tell you about–is that I never felt like touching my weaner. The world around me was so interesting, new, and fertilizing that I didn't have to prospect for substitutes in order to artificially create feelings of happiness. I'm still sure about the fact that sex is the best and most important thing in the world but it is almost unnecessary and secondary in countries like Australia as there are plenty of other disciplines worth to spend time on.]
Shortly after things seemed to turn into something normal the moon brought out the worst of me. Having spend about three weeks in the backpackers in Flinders Street I realized that most of the guys in my environment were other Austrians (or German speaking Germans) who decided to spend their time in Australia. Of course, that was nothing weird but to me it felt as if I couldn't escape from the world I definitely wanted to leave,.. as if my past would constantly haunt me, as if there was no chance to escape. In fact, there was not a single day in which I didn't have to think about Austria, Vienna, arts school and several other horrendous places that used to make me sick. Recognizing that a whole crowd of guys from this "Austrian past" worth being denied stood there in this backpackers, my despair brought about something I simply couldn't manage. Metaphorically speaking, accepting this truth was the drop that made the juices overflow the barrel; I literally went nuts..........
The walks
In a night sufficiently lightened by the moon I frantically ran out of the backpackers, aimlessly crossed a few streets (without actually thinking about the undeniable perils of crossing cars or busses) until I stood at the other side of the river, next to the shore, where I'd find no one else but me and some stupid seagulls. I started hyperventilating and in the same moment released some ill-natured, high-pitched sounds that later turned into sick, foolish laughter combined with some other strange dunnowhats I produced as a side-effect of successfully trying to gasp for air. I had to walk, couldn't calm down and therefore moved on a few meters, away from those horrific seagulls that looked at me. Walking on without thinking much I slowly reobtained my composure. In front of the Hilton Hotel my thoughts became clear again. I didn't feel that loco anymore and tried to walk more slowly. I passed a mate next to a garbage truck who worked that night, helloed him in a (–taking into account the present situation–) reserved gesture and reluctantly turned into something human again. Already willing to accept the traffic lights as devices mounted for my own safety I ambled back to the backpackers. During that little walk I felt like yelling out the frustration I became aware of–but eventually didn't.
After this dirty sort of experience (eventually evoked by a mini-flashback sent from Austria) I knew that if I stood in Melbourne things wouldn't change for the better. It was then that I decided to no longer linger in Melbourne and instead leave for Sydney--where I may find a more appropriate place to continue my studies, maybe even a place to live....
The following days I sometimes glanced out of the window to the advertising board of the StudentFlights office–the one where (two weeks later) I'd buy the ticket for the flight to Sydney. Other than during my last months in Austria the desire to move on didn't feel like the will to escape. It was not the city of Melbourne I wanted to leave; It was the reminiscence of my unreal past I always ran away from that eventually triggered my thoughts. In fact, I loved Melbourne but hated (and still hate) my life...
But not every step outside felt like hell. Always enjoying the environment and the "aura" of a city that can appear very cozy and British (in an uncruel way) I regularly went out for walks.
One day I went to the botanic garden near the city hill where an old governmental building was located. There I marvelled at the thousands of tropical plants and curiously observed some ugly, small, red-headed, black birds that perched around the ponds. Another day I hopped on the tram in order to reach the beach near the haven of St. Phillips where I would walk along, watch some seagulls beg for grains, plant myself in the cold sand in order to swallow a vegan-burger, and later calm down to watch the low tide slightly pour moistured foam upon the arid sandy area,.. all this while actually pondering about my mislead past and my uncertain future... Well, and one night--it was the night when they showed the newest Batman movie on Mate7--I felt the urgent need to not sit in front of the telly. I led my feet towards the botanic garden again, just did as I felt and eventually found my self strolling along a river. Walking straight ahead along an illuminated bicycle drive beside a grassy river bank (on the left) and an embroidered flowergarden-like spacious line (on the right), I kind of mentally opened and as a result could no longer divert my thoughts from my private problems that I tried to deny throughout my stay in Melbourne. It all felt hopeless and I wanted to blame the people, the city, anything or anyone around for my frustration and helplessness; I wanted to curse my environment as I always used to do, but I couldn't. I loved this place but simply hated my lonesome life. I couldn't escape this thought... Finally I let a crocodile pass my cheek, walked on for about half an hour, made a Ui and walked back to my television screen in naïve hopes I might be able to make myself think about something else.
What makes not only Melbourne but whole Australia special is its peculiar, vivid, and colorful biodiversity which is skillfully integrated in tremendous, modern civilized areas. One pretty soon realizes that throughout history the gardeners and architects in Australia made it their business to subtly connect slices of almost tropical wildlife with human civilization, which finally brought about a regular streaming-in of interested, fascinated "outsiders" and in that way surely augured constant financial prosperity in terms of tourism for Australia. Wherever you go--Melbourne, Sydney, Byron Bay, Gold Coast, Brisbane, I don't know where else--you'll find masses of spacious parks embroidered with thousands of fancy flowers, several other multi-colored plants, small ponds or surprisingly huge artificial lakes, and shady walking areas embedded under rootlike trees tourists usually only know from documentaries about rain forests,.. and all this next to modern skyscrapers, futuristically-illuminated metal frames and conventional shopping miles!
In Melbourne everything was new to me. Everything was a surprise, no direction could be wrong. Because everything was that fascinating I didn't feel uncomfortable when I ran around without a map. What now appears ridiculous to me, I thought my sense of overview was highly developed and I'd always know where to go. One afternoon when I wanted to walk towards the beach I reinvented the same ridiculous thought again and therefore walked through the Melbournian streets for about five hours–completely careless, eventually completely thoughtless–without ever reaching the beach. After about three hours, happy not having been driven down by a car when spontaneously crossing a red light [They'd hit you from the right, so always look there first!], I came out in front of a big lake named Prince Albert (ouch, I could never do that) Lake or something like that. I thought that if I'd walk along the lake I'd sooner or later stand in front of the ocean. Unfortunately it became only a very long power walk. At least I saw lots of black swans in this lake. As mentioned, it took me five hours to find back to Flinders Street. As not mentioned, during my walk I constantly felt an unpleasant pressure on my right, large toe. When I arrived in the dorm room I took off my shoes and observed the nail of the toe under which flourished a bluish-purple bruise of bottled-up haemoglobin. It became my very personal Melbourne souvenir. Three months later, in Mexico City, the bruise still decorating the area beneath the nail, I demounted eighty percent of the nail so that I could scratch off the coagulated blood.
My Spanish learning in Melbourne
From the very beginning of my journey I intended to continue my language studies; It was not about raising the same child from zero or learning something new from scratch; I did this many times before and thought I'd do best finishing most of what I had already started, which was (and still is) enough work for a decade. What I had in mind rather appeared like harvesting and improving thousand matters I already ascertained. For my progress in English I thought it sufficient to solely talk to the mates in my environment. For my Spanish on the other hand I'd need help from skilled professionals who'd provide me with the right exercises and put me in a class together with other Spanish students. That's why I went after schools or comparable institutions who'd offer Spanish classes.
I googled a little and found a list of companies with facilities in Melbourne, one of them only one block from the Flinders Street backpackers. Another one would be at Queen Street, also only a three minute walk from Flinders. I visited both so that I'd get proper information about affordable classes. Instead, what I encountered where two vaguely interested cockheads who pretended to be secretaries. Both appeared to me like unambitious brothel supporters hidden behind desks of language schools; I wouldn't offer them a seat if it was my language school where they'd apply for. The first one was only open for "real" students and native Australians, the other one made me an offer for expensive single classes and–as an alternative–showed me a list of contents that didn't really fit to what I urgently had to improve. It was stuff of another scarcely manageable, definitely inappropriate, not less expensive course. By the way, I found a third language school in the same lane--three levels, three different language schools in one compact facility, none of them offering Spanish classes...
Pretty soon I gave up and decided to continue my search in the next city. Instead of seeking on I stayed in the combined lounge- and eating room of the backpackers where I'd finish two of the three Spanish vocabulary-and-grammar-practizing books I took with me from Austria. In that way, at least I learned a couple of words and kept my nerves steady for other disappointments to follow. I didn't study in Melbourne.
Continuing graphical artwork
[Geek content]
My Spanish books were not the only work I intentionally took with me. Throughout the last two years I conjured some funny two-dimensional sketches, logos, single letters and several other illustrations. A couple of days before my flight to Melbourne, I scanned my faves just to make sure I would have sufficient raw materials for spontaneous creative business abroad. About five of those simple hand sketches formally beseeched me to get a proper dress. That's why I wanted to tweak and refurbish some of these scans for matters such as online documentation, possible website content, even a book cover.
In order to accomplish my plans I had to find a free graphics software online that would serve the purpose, which I pretty soon found–in Inkscape: As it was about eight or nine years ago since I last regularly worked with comparable image processing software[2005, Adobe Photoshop CS 2] I enjoyed playing with it. For someone else this old-fashioned application may appear a little backwards but for me it felt like cotton candy and caramelized popcorn in Disneyland; I wouldn't stop consuming it. What is best, it turned out it can be an image editing software as well as a vector-based graphics editor. It can store files in useful formats like PNG, TIFF, PDF, EPS, as well as WMF, which also means Inkscape-files can be prepared for works with a considerable list of other customary applications, if necessary. Inkscape was exactly what I was looking for.
There may be different applications that would enable far better outcomes but I wouldn't be able to keep up with today's professional graphic designers (that wasn't my goal) as it would need months of practice to create better, modern, up-to-the-present results. What I polished pretty much reminds me of graphic art work made in the late nineties, surprisingly retro and very simple, only lines and areas.
The next two weeks I sat in front of the screen in order to turn my sketches into something worth putting online.
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ITAT – It's a finished logo concept for a sort of, i dunno, story teller club. Once I complete my crime-novel-like vagrant-pilgrim-killer-drama, I'll print this logo on the back cover of the manuscript and add an e-mail address for other writers interested in participation.
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Changing plans I
The moment I wrote the following few paragraphs I sat in the lobby in a hostel in México City. I was already totally demotivated and disappointed. Since there were only a few euros left for further traveling I prepared for my comeback to Graz. During my whole journey I had to change directions, cancel events, or even change plans completely. Most of my speculations turned out to be not feasible. I wouldn't find the support I need or an environment where I could stay for a long time without paying too much (Indeed, in México City it could have been different but I stayed too long in Australia unwilling to accept losing that much money. After about two weeks in México I constantly had to flip through my notes of my bank account and finally deemed the entire situation uncertain and breakable... See also Mi Latinoamérica).
The law in Australia sort of puts you in a frame of rules that doesn't necessarily stretch your contingencies in terms of designing your own life; it's very much about trust in authorities (They'll tell you where to go.). In less developed countries such trust would bring about the outcome that the only save work I'd find would be in a brothel, where I'd surely have to face intern struggles....
That doesn't urgently mean that Australia's immigration policies wouldn't make sense. It's just that not every man would like to make the triangle bound his balls. I see a great deal of opportunities for independent lonely singer-songwriters who want to earn their wages with basking on the street. Others may get the feeling of having their horizons extended when they progressively obtain prosperity as well-paid farm hands.
Opposing this, someone like me who's dreaming of an own pack, whose intentions are directed at founding an own, fairly self-defining company of creative workers,.., such a person would not find the vital connections in Australia. Admitted, I had the same problem in Austria: If people don't want you to get your own, well-balanced pack, you won't get it. If people don't want you to have private space or a real home you won't have it; so easy is that. You'll have to walk on, all alone, whether you like it or not. I always get my private hell designed from a thousand sadistic, cowardice, political artists and frustrated swine. It's already that ordinary to me, I learned to say "Thanks" instead of "Fuck you, you brainless, creepy, little whore of an hypocrite. Go get your brain". Life is not good as long as you're not making your very own decisions. They keep you helpless, they keep you dependent, they simply don't make life available and instead sell what they have. You'll miss your target if people don't want your success. You won't be able to socialize if someone else is picking connections, friends or partners for you. You're best not complying with their rules. Just run away whenever you can, do absolutely nothing they want you to do unless they take you out of their frame.
In sum, all I did in Melbourne was reading books, watching television, working on Spanish exercises, and cooking. I enjoyed my time but I could do such ordinary things almost everywhere in the world. Since I wasn't interested in visiting arts museums or throwing away money in several night clubs, pubs or other bars,.. there was no fundamental reason to stay in Melbourne any longer (this and the fact that I didn't fall in love with anyone). What is more, snooping through the streets I couldn't find the slightest traces of an Australian Metal underground. There was a Rockbar that was closed the night I wanted to visit it and a Fashion shop named Dangerfield (that reminded me of German Gothic shops) where I bought a pair of whool mits for fifteen Australian Dollars. Other than that I could count youngsters wearing Maiden shirts on one hand. I asked some guys whether there'd be Metal bars or something tantamount to it; No one "knew" anything. I decided that if there was a Metal underground that doesn't want to be found it is not worth searching for it, and damn I'm right.
The Metal thing was still very important to me. As I left Austria I took one of my Beta 58 Mics with me, in case I'd find some bands I could shout, bark or sing for. Step by step I drowned the last grains of optimism as it turned out that I may have to face other diverting matters that would constantly keep me from thinking about my own goals. Instead of searching for work, my flat, or a garage for creative work and Metal music, I'd become what I was supposed to be on paper--a tourist spending money and time in solely driving around....
I gave my relatives in Sydney a ring and told them that I would like to see them. Fortunately, they welcomed me with open arms, even offered me a bed in their house for free. The next months they would help me wherever they could and in that way helped me save money as well as my mental abilities.
By the way, architecture and city design
I should mention that in order to enjoy a beautiful city you shouldn't be me. Sights and city life are easier to enjoy if you do not permanently try to review everything you have in front of your eyes. Taking this into account I could imagine that you'd love Melbourne.
My uncle, who has been living in Australia for over fifty years and whose official center of life is in Melbourne, told me that when he came to Australia for the first time, Melbourne counted about one million inhabitants; Today there live almost four million people in the same city.
We met each other two or three times. He took me with him on some tours with his car and showed me all the different sights of Melbourne, which means not only my cherished hundred square meters around Flinders but every noteworthy spot that would partly characterize real life in Melbourne: Typical residential areas, typical bays, shopping centers, the outskirts, farm land near the freeway, farms with airports, the coast, the most important haven, and–every single time we jumped into his car–where to open the door (It's on the left side. The right one is always for the driver; I never got used to it).
Those tours definitely gave me a clear idea of what life in Melbourne might be like; It's surprising how talkative architecture can be. For instance, driving through the streets where people actually have their homes shows the origin of Australian lifestyle. It shows that Australians take care of a balanced sharing of private properties. The word commonwealth gets a different but understandable meaning taking into account that family houses next to one another hardly differ in size or structure. It looks like everyone gets the same to live. There are no outstanding VIP housings, but also no modest, cottage-like pseudo living spaces. Everything appears to be planned for masses of people. You can literally see how the squares on the Australian city map work out in reality. That's probably something very Australian. I cannot think of any European place where life can be put in frames without arousing disharmony or discomfort. Everything is very orderly, and so are the Aussies.
Back to architecture. Basically there are two different sorts of typical housings: The fancy, highly-ornamented British style houses in the center and the city-near region, and the bungalows–most of them naked red brick work [Melbourne Canterbury]–in the residential areas and the outskirts [Click here. Unlike me, she was clever enough to take pictures].
It looks as if people don't want to live in apartments (In residential areas you don't see buildings with more than two levels overground. There are no skyscrapers, no huge apartment blocks.). Instead, there are hundred thousands of cosy bungalows, each of them with some square meters of private green next to it,.. and maybe a tree.
So much about living. The buildings in the city center and all its many towers you may see in front of you (for example when you jump off the train at the main station) can give you a wrong picture of life in Melbourne.
When I searched for a proper visa for my Australia stay I found out that the government prefers people who are skilled in everything that deals with medicine and architecture. People like me don't get points for what they've learned and can only spend their money as souvenir-buying tourists. What I saw in Melbourne showed me that the endeavor to simply build buildings doesn't necessarily improve the image of a city. There are many modern buildings, lots of lights, some higher office blocks, arts museums, a casino, a Hilton tower, but nothing spectacular or outstanding (except seagulls who behave like ravens). I saw that many architectures where given the opportunity to put their own creations in the middle of this town, and now they're standing next to one another. I do not know why, but they do. Admitted, I liked the idea that there was one skyscraper looking like a snail which stood close to another one looking like a snake (in between a third one with KFC advertising). But that was only one single idea. In sum, I didn't like the modern architecture in Melbourne.
My uncle told me that most of the buildings weren't built before the late 70s–exactly as I thought; once again it was not only my flourish imagination that forged my view. Maybe one can design an impressive picture of Melbourne for a tourist brochure but once you take a closer look from inside you can't deny the lack of patience in the city's general appearance. Those new buildings are not interwoven in the old town. They are put in between like needles in a pin wall. It doesn't look ugly or too tight if they keep it as it presently is (because of the fact that Australians city designers obviously got a perfect feeling for Raumaufteilung; One can see that in absolutely every city in Australia, especially Brisbane). Even so, if I were to decide what to create in the city of Melbourne, I would no longer emphasize on building new skyscrapers and artistic bullshit but instead focus on the maintenance of what already exists in Melbourne.
Two months later I would see one of the world's largest cities in the world, where I'd find a lot of dirt, undrinkable water, careless people who only show interest in selling stuff and making profit (Everyone's a seller and everything's allowed, or at least nobody cares). The certainly once most beautiful city of the world is now famous for its high crime rate and over-population. I haven't found out why people in Mexico City were always friendly to me. I only saw what a place can look like if you create too much without contemplating possible consequences. You can't clean that place with advertising, cheap Hollywood movies, friendliness, or desalination plants. There, you cannot beautify a wall with thirteen layers of color by simply brushing the fourteenth layer over it. (That's what you can do in Melbourne, where they have only bricks.) There are thousands of taxi drivers and the same amount of taxis (that no one necessarily needs). People cleaned the streets in front of my eyes. Workers from the garbage company sorted out the different sorts of garbage probably trying to show their concern about the environment. Still, they couldn't deny in what dirt they were and still are living. I don't know to what degree earthquakes are responsible for the low quality of life in Mexico City. I'm just saying that what you create must be maintained and always can be ruined easily. Once you've been to places like Mexico City, you may realize that vulturing [coinage for dt.: geiern] for profit and thinking big is no longer modern. That thought should lead me back to my actual topic, namely Melbourne being a modern city with modern architecture.
The next city I would visit after Melbourne showed that there is a quality only patience and time can shape.
