What people in Melbourne don’t talk about enough is that waiting for the 11 tram is the greatest. I mean, waiting for any tram is really good – mostly because we still have trams, unlike Sydney – but the 11 is particularly fantastic. Waiting for the 11 tram is like waiting in line for a ride at Disneyland; there’s so much suspense in the air that you can virtually count the sweat droplets on the back of people’s necks. Everyone is feeling it. Why wouldn’t they? Riding the 11 is a Tour De Force, a cymbal swept safari past Melbourne’s greatest hits. To your right, the glorious State Parliament, with its huge sandstone columns like something straight out of the Parthenon. Not too far to your left, Carlton Gardens with its serpentine pathways surrounded by those massive English Oaks and white poplars, and evergreen Moreton Bay Figs. Ahead, a plethora of bars and band rooms and restaurants, as you rattle up Brunswick street, passing the glittering window displays of Brunswick Bound Bookstore and the hustle and bustle of alfresco dining at the institution that is Mario’s. How about hopping off for a dip at Fitzroy Baths, the effervescent muse where some of Australia’s best artists go for a splash? Or keep riding until you reach Edi Gardens (with its boom-boxing skatepark, mesmerising view of the skyline, and sun-drenched knoll in which to watch the local AFL, what’s not to love?) and then the perennially European Piedimonte’s, with its soft cheeses, sundried tomatoes and freshly baked treats (if you can afford them!).

The only time that a person should not be on a tram or waiting for a tram is when they are riding a bicycle down St. Georges Road on a hot Sunday afternoon after seeing some friends at Monty’s or the Royal Oak. Or if they’re in-line, waiting for a gig at the Black Cat or Lady Hawk, just about to see a new post-punk band that everyone is raving about. There are no other excuses – except maybe childbirth.

I am waiting for the 11 when my friend Susie calls me. She is going into labour or has just come out of labour and wants to talk to me about who the father is because she is not sure who the father is except that, maybe, he is the lead singer of a two-piece band that sounds like a beachy version of The Shins. Or maybe he died after they had a one-night stand and now she doesn’t have anyone to talk to about buying furniture or how easy it is to kill houseplants or what to eat for dinner. Or, maybe Susie says they are in a very committed non-monogamous relationship and he has just gone to Japan to photograph gravestones. Or maybe he is back on the junk again and she’s lost word of him around Berlin.

It is really hard to tell with Susie sometimes.

She is breathing really heavily so I ask her when was the last time that she was out in nature or had sex or done something to take her mind off, well, the breathing. Susie tells me to shut the fuck up, and I think it is in that playful way that she is always telling me to shut the fuck up, but then she tells me that her water has broken. Susie’s water never breaks, so that is a bit concerning. I talk her through calling an ambulance but because she is on the phone to me she does not call an ambulance and I get pretty annoyed with her. What are you doing, Susie? I tell her to hang up and google it, but I hear the dial tone before I even finish my sentence and I wonder if Susie still likes me. Why did Susie sound so exhausted? I wonder if she was at a rave last night, or if she saw Blink 182 at The Forum. Susie never takes me anywhere, especially since the baby. I know I should call her more often, especially as she is pregnant, but with work as a copy-editor/arts administrator/photographer/social media activist and study at Uni/short courses/life-drawing classes/Auslan classes/cocktail classes and going to gigs/galleries/conventions/conferences/weekends away and between men/women/everybody, it is all just so impossible, ya know?   

When I board the tram, I make sure to tap on because tapping on is a civic duty and trams need high-fives too. The tram is pretty crowded, which is really unusual – trams are always so freeing – so I guess there must have been an accident somewhere (also unusual). The only other time I’ve seen the tram this busy is on a day when someone threw themselves in front of a tram. I remember that day because I was just coming back from my psychologist in the city, and I started to wonder why everyone doesn’t have a psychologist, and I was feeling so so light, and then bam, it happened. It was a half hour wait before they let us off. And you know what? I couldn’t shake this feeling that if only the person had my psychologist or if only they were feeling the way I felt that day, that things might have been different. That made me feel really icky and bad, and even worse because I felt like I was centring myself in their narrative which is really not okay. But because they did what they did I was late home that day and my housemate of 3 years told me they were moving out, and that was a big wow because I knew I’d have to live by myself after that, and honestly, I really did wish we had more time to talk about it, but we didn’t because well…

When Susie calls me back, I am on the corner of Gertrude and Brunswick Street, and on my way to a house party in Collingwood. The house is known for its amazing mezzanine that hangs over the loungeroom and its huge back yard, unusual for the suburb. It’s not the first party I’ve been to this house and won’t be the last. Not even two weeks back I saw some poets and performance artists perform there, and it was so so great. The best act by far was this sort of poet, sort of provocateur who told this story about encountering homeless people in the city. At first, the story seemed harmless, and she seemed considerate but as the story went on it became apparent that the story was not so harmless and that she was not so considerate. By that point, people in the audience were twitching. No one was sure what to make of the story. She was using all these ableist slurs to describe homeless people, and centring her own guilt in the narrative, but it was really poetic and woven, and well… good… After the performance I went to talk to her about her craft and to see whether she’d done what she’d done on purpose. I found her in the back garden smoking cigarettes by herself and looking really sketchy and sad, so I decided not to talk to her. I still don’t know. Art is complex sometimes.

By the time I realise that Susie is talking to me I have already crossed over Smith Street – voted best street in the world, two years running – and am making my way through Collingwood. Susie’s baby is at least a week old now, and she tells me that having a baby is tiring but not as tiring as say capitalism. Capitalism, we agree, is the worst. Capitalism is so bad that when I think about capitalism the only thing that calms me down is looking at Etsy or Facebook marketplace, or thinking about something even worse, like Imperialism. Not everyone agrees that imperialism is worse than capitalism but if you think about it like a lot, like I have, I reckon it’s actually way way worse. Imperialism is just not very good. Like sometimes when I walk around, I’m just so acutely aware that I’m walking around on stolen land and that every step I’m taking is a stolen step and that just makes me want to scream. Scream! Like stop the violence, ya know? But also, I’m walking here, so I just don’t know… We’re all so complicit, aren’t we? It’s just so impossibly complicated! Like land back sure, but also, I really like my apartment, ya know? And also, I’ve only just started living by myself, so that makes it even more complicated. Like I’d like to live with someone else but living with other people is really really tiring sometimes.

I think my ex will be at the house party tonight. I am not sure if I should get back with my ex because I’m not sure if he is technically my ex or not. I know, I know. We just never really spoke about it. He did tell me one time, though, that he really likes the way I walk, like I had a really elegant jaunt or something, and also that he felt like he could see my future. He was reading tarot cards when he said that, but I got the sense he was talking about us. Our future. I wonder whether his band – Bad Clincher Destruction – will be playing tonight and whether my boss from the non-for-profit that I used to work at before it turned out my boss was a pyscho will be there. I don’t really like parties because at parties everyone is always talking to each other, but they are not really talking about the important things, like climate change or the cost of living crisis or how we’re all shills to big pharma. The only thing I like about parties is getting to feel the music because feeling anything in this day and age is just really nice.

Before I round the corner to the party, I start to think about how I used to DJ and how DJing is the purest of artforms because all art is a form of cultural appropriation, ya know, but at least DJing is honest about it. When I think about DJing, I always think about my ex’s body because he would always put on a record before we had sex. My ex really loves The Smiths but his favourite band by far is Radiohead, at least up until they released In Rainbows. His favourite Melbourne band at the moment is Ocean Party, but I don’t really like ghostly grunge stuff with a late 90s aesthetic because when I hear it I’m reminded that he was always thinking about other things while we were fucking. Like, I’m pretty sure my ex has a drug problem.

When I enter the party, I do not see anyone I know, not that I know that many people. I have maximum 3 to 4 friends, and I try to name them in almost every conversation I have because I want to see if people know the people that I know. Everyone knows everyone in Melbourne and it’s good to place people and know where they stand, especially with all the complicated politics in the world right now… Like as soon as I walk into the party, my old boss, who is definitely a psycho, corners me in a conversation about geo-politics and the state of the Middle East and it’s just like, bloody hell, like I get this is really really sad, and that killing babies is wrong and stuff but we’re at a party, how the hell are we gonna fix that here? Like, what does he even know about the Middle East anyway? Religious wars are just so complicated. This has been going on for thousands of years. Like, talk about circular economies and the bubble, ya know?

My ex is in the back kitchen with a new girl, and she is very thin and doesn’t seem to like me. I hate that women are programmed not to like each other simply for being the other woman, though to be honest I don’t really like her because when I think of her and my ex I imagine them having sex and it makes me feel the ick. I head out to the dance floor that the hosts have set up in the garage, and I drink a bit too much, because I’m trying not to think about my ex. On the dance floor there is a guy with a leather horse head on and he’s kind of scary, though my friend, Susie, has in the past reassured me that people like this are often very good people. Maybe, in this case, this guy just really likes horse heads and I’ve just got the wrong idea. It’s not okay to judge people so I try not to judge him, though I start to wonder what he thinks of My Little Pony, which I always thought was strangely punk for a kids’ show. Was My Little Pony a turning point for him?

I see my ex is dancing with the girl now and I want to say something but I don’t say something. Saying something would be so Karen, so white feminist, and besides the girl he is with looks so so dumb anyways, and honestly, my ex isn’t that dumb so he’ll figure it out soon enough. I shouldn’t say dumb because dumb is ableist but what other word is there for her? I keep dancing. Before I know it, an hour has gone by and the stage is so cramped I barely have any space to dance by myself, but that doesn’t matter, does it? The thing with dancing is that you can lose yourself in other peoples’ movements. The pulse. The beat. Etc. In this way, dancing is the most political thing you can do, an extension of your corporeal being, a psychic connection that is at its core humanist. I read a great BuzzFeed article that said the next revolution will be on the dancefloor and I think I agree with that.

While I am dancing, I start to think about Susie’s baby again. When I first met Susie’s baby it occurred to me that babies are just like Baby Borns but just a little less plastic. When I was a kid I had a Baby Born but I was convinced it did not like me much because its pouting lips made it look like it was always on the verge of telling me off. Just thinking about this makes me feel weird about Susie’s baby. Like babies are okay and Susie’s baby is also okay, but sometimes I wonder if there aren’t enough babies, ya know? Like we were all babies once but to be honest I don’t meet a lot of people and think, wow I wish there were more of you but only much much smaller.

My favourite thing about babies, admittedly, is that they are very easy to write. If you write one baby you can write all babies. Babies are not like adults; they do not get angry at you if you write a mean story about them. Most babies cannot read so they have no idea what you have written about them. In this way, babies are very easy to deal with. In my novel there are several babies even though I am indifferent to babies.

It is very cramped on the dance floor, so I decide to go to the table near the entry where there are drinks and nibbles. I am not hungry, so I only eat one grape. While I am chewing on the grape, I find a bottle of sparkling that looks significantly better than what I bought even though my father is not so poor. I do not mention the fact my father is not so poor at parties because people can get weird about money. While I am pouring my drink, I notice a guy is looking at me in the way that guys look at you when they think you’re cute and I don’t mind because he’s sort of cute himself. Sure, he could do with a haircut, but he looks like someone who might write classical music and is very precious about the way he claps his hands, and I like that.

We get to talking because he clearly wants to talk to me. Being single in Melbourne can be very hard so I forgive him for being from the south side. Honestly, it’s not his fault where he was born, which I tell him. He is very apologetic about being from the south side. In fact, he is hung up on being from the south side. I keep listening because he keeps talking. He tells me about his sister who is a schoolteacher and his dad who used to work as a crime statistician for Victoria police, and I’m actually really impressed at how well he communicates things, even complicated things. Like, yuck. Police. ACAB. Am I right? He has one dangly earing, which has a feather in it, and I begin to wonder if this is a real feather or a fake feather and I remember something I read about feather lice. Even in Melbourne it can be hard to find a nice guy because even the nice guys can be soft bois and I don’t need another soft boi even if he does wash his feathers before he hangs them on his ears.

After talking to him for about an hour I ask him if he wants to come home with me. He seems very excited by this prospect and I guess I’m excited too because it is always nice to have someone hold you after sex. I won’t hold my breath for an orgasm, of course. We go to wait outside and when he doesn’t offer to get us an Uber I get out my phone and tap at my screen suggestively but he still doesn’t offer so I end up ordering an Uber. The first Uber cancels and then the second Uber cancels and then the third Uber cancels, and then I think there must be something wrong with my phone because Uber drivers in Melbourne are so lovely and they never cancel. The boy still hasn’t kissed me, so I suggest we walk back to my place, which is really not that far, though really it is quite far.

It is fresh out and the city looks so beautiful in this light. Everything has a certain blue hue and sometimes when I look for too long, I cannot imagine ever living in any other city because yuck. The boy is talking to me but I am thinking about Melbourne.

Someone once said to me that Sydneysiders aren’t even talking about Melbourne, and that makes them superior. Like they’re better because they don’t even know that we exist. But they are only not talking about us because Sydneysiders are bad communicators. Everyone in Melbourne has a therapist.

The real problem with Melbourne – or should I say, Naarm – is that the city is actually too good. Like it does not matter what day of the week it is there is always something fabulous and fun and exciting to do. Melbourne is so great it makes everyone really depressed because people in Melbourne are very empathetic and they know that most places are not even nearly as good as Melbourne, and that is really really sad. Like, how could you live anywhere else? Why bother?

It's almost midnight by the time we cross Carlton Gardens. The trees have malted and all over the footpaths there are leaves and they look like snowflakes only brown. They crunch under our footfalls and the sound for some reason reminds me of my novel. It’s been on my mind a lot lately. I tell the boy about my novel. I am writing a novel about Melbourne, about how amazing Melbourne is and it is called ‘Melbourne Novel’. People have told me that it is not a particularly original name, but the title is much cleverer than people give me credit for. I explain to the boy that Melbourne doesn’t have novelties, per say, but that the novelty is Melbourne itself. Melbourne is a novelty. He doesn’t seem to understand, and I put that down to the fact that he is studying engineering at Uni and not communications, and also that he lives south side. I’m really not sure this will work out. I start to imagine what it would be like to live with this man, this boy, and whether he could build me a spice rack or not, and after a while I start to convince myself that he could. Before I know it, we are kissing, and he has his hands up my shirt and I am undoing his belt. It starts to rain lightly, and it is very romantic because all rain in Melbourne is romantic. I stay close to him to share his warmth, and I feel the pressure of him against the tree, and I don’t cum and neither does he, but also, neither of us pretend to. It is one of those moments that could only happen in Melbourne. Our lack of an orgasm is a spiritual experience more akin to an orgasm than actually cuming.

Afterwards I ask him if he still wants to come home with me, and I think he is saying yes but I’m not really sure because my mind is already elsewhere, like it so often is. I am thinking about tomorrow, about the coffee I will grab from my favourite place, the one where they slightly burn the beans and the coffee is that much richer as a consequence. I am thinking about the swim I will have at Fitzroy Baths and how I will probably do laps, but if not, I will just wade in the shallow end and let the day disappear. I hope that the boy doesn’t want to hang around at my house for too long. Susie’s baby is 5 now, so maybe Susie will let me baby-sit her. Maybe tomorrow I will be eating an ice cream with a toddler on my hip and the 11 tram will come rattling by, and it will be so quick and so powerful and so chic that the chances are that we will miss it, so I will think, not to worry, there will be another one any minute.