A few more city pictures

 Hand in hand with the politics, right down the street as the tram turned west and trails the western edge of the CBD is the Old Melbourne Gaol - the old jail.  Who says all politicians are crooks and thieves…well, in Melbourne, they at least have them residing close to each other.  The Old Melbourne Gaol is where the infamous (he isn’t just famous…he’s IN famous) Ned Kelly was hung in the latter half of the 1800’s./

The tram continues down past Swanston Street, the State Library, and the massive shopping district and train station called, Melbourne Central.  It continues west a block or two away from Queen Victoria Market and it climbs the hill to pass the Flagstaff Garden - the old signal post for the port, perched on the highest point in the city - so the tram rattles and shakes its way past the Flagstaff Hill and climbs the bridge over the Southern Cross Rail yards before cresting and heading down past Docklands Stadium (Originally named “The Telstra Dome” thanks to the state phone company…and hence the large public art projects that look like big strands of wire that curve up and out of the ground…now named Etihad Stadium thanks to the United Arab Emirates Airlines of the same name…money talks, but the Docklands Stadium still stands…with its strands of wire still sticking out - the name changes, the modern art doesn’t…).

At the old Victorian waterfront of the Docklands, the tram turns north again for a brief while, taking the one detour (as much as a tram can detour) off the circular route, it veers up through the Harbour Town Development along the north side of Victoria Harbour.  Up past the apartment buildings, shops, open air mall, and almost all the way to the Ice Center - the home of the Australian Winter Olympic Team, two sheets of ice, and two Ice Hockey teams.

It also passes by the giant Ferris Wheel…under construction (well, already built once) for the last five or six years.

It switches to the other side of the tracks and reverses back out of the Harbour Town area, and back south to the Docklands waterfront.  It passes along Harbour Esplanade, in the shade of Norfolk Pines and Palm trees, through the old docklands and wharves, now converted to dance clubs and pubs, and right past the Docklands Stadium again and the imposing Victoria Point Building, the apartment complex shaped like a giant sail on the edge of the old Harbour.

It continues south past the “urban wetlands” - unlike any wetlands I’ve seen before - and the mass of urban art in the Docklands Park, before turning east again, parallel with the Yarra River.  The bridges - the Web Bridge, Seafarer’s Bridge, Spencer Street Bridge, King Street, Queens Bridge, and the two pedestrian bridges before the mighty Prince’s Bridge - all links the tram lines with South side of the river.

The tram runs past the “Mission to Seamen” - the old Christ centered facility helping the men that come in from the ocean.  Once well placed between the Yarra and the Docklands, it now stands in the center of civilization.

The tram also looks over Bunjoy, the Aboriginal’s spirit creator in the shape of a giant white eagle as it continues to rattle east past the elevated rail lines linking Southern Cross and Flinders Street Stations.  Through the brick construction holding the lines up, you can see Batman Park…not the crime fighter, but the city founder - which marks where the old turning basin (where the river and tide met) which used to turn ships around - this was the original waterfront where John Batman first disembarked from the little sloop to found the city of Melbourne.

The tram rumbles north past my favorite pub (The Waterside Hotel) and up past the old Customs House (and now Immigration Musuem) an back to the almost quarter mile long Flinders Street Station Building where the trip started.

A little over an hour ago - an hour of cramped, smelly conditions, but a great ride nonetheless.

 Normal and regular readers are going to be surprised to see this message.  It’s not a normal one for me.

You see, some of these postings have been written in advance.  A couple of weeks in advance, for a couple of reasons.  First of all, I went on vacation.  It was good.

Second of all, my computer died.  Actually, it kept on dying.  Every fifteen to twenty minutes, it would just die on me.

It was overheating.

So, the computer is in the shop.  They tell me it is a two week turn around time.  But just in case….

I’m writing this post.

There are a few more days left on the abroad category, but times up on this one, with any luck, you never see this message…

If you do, bear with me, it’ll be back soon enough.

 The City Circle Tram is also known as the “Tourist Tram” - it is called this first of all because that is what it is designed for.  It circles the heart of Melbourne and passes some of the best and brightest of Melbourne’s gems.  It is called the “Tourist Tram” secondly because it is free, so the city sees it as a service to those traveling to the city that want to take in the sights and get around for nothing.

As a two year citizen of Melbourne, I can tell you it could also be called the cheapskate tram, the tightwad tram, or simply, “The Mark” for the same reason.

Hey, I’m not cheap, I’m just not wanting for waste.

But it is also true that you get what you pay for, and though I take pride in my penny pinching ways, other people are just as cheap and just won’t admit it.  There is a reason that the trams look like they are some sort of cattle car.  Though there are seats aplenty, the chance of actually getting one is slim to none, especially if you are a gentleman willing to let a lady sit down first.  There is a constant flux of people getting on and off as well.  The City Circle makes a good twenty stops around the city - perfect for tourists, not so good if you are caught in the cross current of people that try to push and pry their way onto the tram.

The trams on the City Circle Line are old - most of them at a minimum have crossed the half century mark plus ten, some of them perhaps made back in the 1930’s and 40’s.  They have the classic look of wood and metal on the inside, with the doors and trim still classic oak.

But their ventilation remains small windows at the very top of the big windows, allowing a good three inches of air exchange.  If these things seem quaint and rustic, they are…but a quaint and rustic that hauls fifty passengers at a time, ten hours a day, 365 days out of the year.

That is a lot of tourists and cheapskates.

Let’s also talk about the suspension on these things.  Or should I say the complete lack of suspension on these things.  Comfort was a new concept in 1940.  Any suspension that the old ‘W’ class trams were made with have long been rattled out of them.  Turning corners or any bump on the track gets translated into a jolt and rattle of the entire carriage and each passenger.

And being half full of tourists - most don’t see the need of hanging onto handrails until they a planted in someone’s lap.  Which for me, as a single man, it might sounds appealing, but it never works out to be a good thing.

The tram itself has a good route.  If you hop on at the iconic Flinders Street Station, it will take you straight up past Federation Square and past the majestic St. Paul’s Cathedral and the classic looking “The Forum” up to the top of the town - Spring Street, where it turns north to go past the Treasury and its immaculately trimmed gardens and their JFK memorial.  At the very top of the town is the imposing Victorian Parliament building, the big imposing structure looks down over the town…though in the shadow of the equally massive St. Patrick’s Cathedral behind it.  The old Victorian Hotel sits behind it, with its ornate lobby and classic pub “The Cricketer’s Arms” - where I can confess to having a pint or two.

At China town, it veers a bit to go straight north about a quarter of a mile, direct towards the Carlton Gardens and majestic Royal Exhibition Building, where the first Australian Parliament met back in 1901.

 You can’t.  It won’t work.  It hasn’t been done before.  It is impossible.  Don’t talk foolishness.  Are you crazy.  What are you thinking. 

Our nature, our humanity, taught us to be cautious.  Like sheep, we follow the herd.  We have high ideals of independence and freedom, then we all get jobs, buy our houses in the suburb, and live the conventional life.

Anyone or anything that seems out of the ordinary, we doubt.

So we must forgive Thomas, he, like us - like all of us - are natural doubters.  We are hone by experience and years of conditioning.

And Thomas didn’t see.

Imagine, your dear friend had thousands of people cheering for him as he entered the great city of Jerusalem, throwing their cloaks and palm branches on the ground.  In the back of your head, you see yourself as next to the future king - and the Messiah.  A couple of days later, you sit down to a traditional holiday feast, you laugh, you drink some wine, you go for a walk in the gardens.

Everything seems fine.

Then, a mob of soldiers descends, takes you friend in front of a kangaroo court, turns him over to the hated government who sentences him to death - and you see him executed.

Let’s face it, you don’t expect to hear about him waltzing around town three days later.  Who wouldn’t doubt!

In the end, we like Thomas are doubters.  We won’t believe unless we see.  Pray and ask for guidance, but turn away when it isn’t what we expect - or worse, is going to force us go outside of the normal expectations.  It is seemingly easier to tread the normal.  The perception is, that the ‘normal’ way, is best.

We, like Thomas, let our common sense in the way.  We refrain from suspending our sensibilities.  I can’t change the world.  I can’t stand up to my friends.  I can’t change.

The lesson we must learn for Thomas is first, don’t always go with conventional wisdom.  Don’t always follow the heard.  Listen, and pray and discern.

Second, what might seem improbably, or even impossible for ourselves and humanity, is not impossible for God.

And that my friend, makes all the difference.

 Each of the famous Melbourne Trams is equipped with three devises to take your money.  The first is the classic old school ticket punch.  You buy a card ($31 Australian Dollars for ten two hour punches) and punch it every time you get on a tram.  Good for two hours, it usually gives ample time to do what you need to do.

The second way is a new fangled scanner that allows you to pass an electronic card in a wallet or billfold and it will allow you to pay your tram fees once a month in a pay as you go method.  Quick, easy, and pretty high tech (if and when it works).

The third is a giant coin operated machine that allows you to punch buttons (2 hr?  day pass?  Zone 1?  Zone 2?  Normal fare?  Student?) and put your money into the machines to get a ticket out.

This method sounds easy…but try doing it as the tram rumbles down the street.

So why do they have three methods of payment?  Because the other option is to have conductors on all 487 trams.  People walking around taking money and ensuring compliance.  This archaic method of enforcement went out last century…but just barely.

In 1990, the government tried to get rid of the tram conductors which resulted in a crippling strike that paralysed the city.  It wasn’t until 1999 that the conductors went the way of the dodo bird and became extinct.

But don’t worry, enforcement continues.

Though I’m not normally a miscreant, I must admit, there were days in my younger and more foolish days in Melbourne where I might have…ahem…failed to validate my ticket…

Now this seems like a harmless affair.  But those 155 miles of tram lines aren’t cheap to maintain.  And the fine is a cool $180.

That’s right folks, $180…or about 26 beers at my favorite Melbourne pub (and I’m talking the cheap beer).

But what are the chances that I’d get caught?  Some numbers say that as many as 20% of tram riders ride without a valid tram ticket.

But the enforcers are out there.

My first brush with the law was literally that…a brush.  I was deep into my new cell phone, reading emails and adjusting the setting as I boarded the almost empty tram.  I hardly noticed as the three big men sat down in the seats surrounding me.

As I looked up at the next stop, my face went white…they were Melbourne ticket inspectors.  As I made my way to the door, they made their way to the far end of the train to begin their inspection.

Safe.

About two months later, sicker than a dog, my body ruled against the normal thirty minute walk to work along the river and decided that a quick, warm ride in a tram would be just the ticket.

But do you think I validated.

As I sat there in misery, with my nose running, my throating scratchy, my body aching, very medicated, with my eyes closed a stern voice said to me, “Ticket please.”

I panicked.  Fumbling for my billfold, I pulled out an old tram ticket that I had in my billfold, with 10 stamps all ready, it was all used up.  The Willy Nelson song “Seven Spanish Angels” came to mind, especially the line, “He knew the gun was empty, he knew he couldn’t win…”

And with a stern look, the inspector called his manager over.  He inspected my ticket.

“Where did you punch this at?”  He asked me.

“Southern Cross.”  I replied.  Which wasn’t a lie…that is where I normally got on a tram.

“Printer must be broken.”  He replied, handing me my ticket.

Looking at my ticket…the month wasn’t printed, but the time almost matched perfectly…and the date was the exact same, just a different month.

Good luck or fate, I’m not sure, but I’ve always paid my fare since.

 Moving to Melbourne, the trams were a bit of a wonder and mystery.  Seemingly the perfect form of transportation, but also like nothing I’d seen before, I was wary of them.  Plus, being a man on a budget, I wasn’t too keen to find out what the cost of these rattling contraptions.

Living in the beach suburb of St. Kilda, those first couple of weeks I walked the five miles to the Central Business District (CBD) and the surrounds. The second Saturday in town, I hiked it all the way to the Queen Victoria Markets, then got turned around and managed to find my way on foot in the western suburbs.

With sore feet and a tired body, I managed to make my way to big Stadium - the Docklands, and finally, back onto Spencer Street by Southern Cross Station.

I think it was my first time in the suburb called the Docklands.  The suburb that I’d call home for the next two years.

But at this point, I was only hoping to make it home in one piece.  With a storm bearing down and three miles in front of me, I hoofed it.  I followed the tram line for the balance of the trip and watched one pass me by about every ten minutes.

I was about a mile and a half from town when the wind and rain hit, throwing rain at me like little pellets out of an air gun.

Occasionally, I took shelter in one of the pedestrian underpasses that crossed under the tram tracks. 

I could hear the trams rumble above me.

But darn it, with no change and no money in my pocket, how was I suppose to know how they worked?  In the back of my head, I envisioned some big tattooed goon that guarded the tram.  Once those doors closed, he would be in your face barking for money and if you didn’t pay up, would start working on the deportation paperwork in front of me.

In truth, the consequences at worst would have been $180 fine.  But there was a 99% chance, on that day specifically (the people that run trams seem to have a heart afterall) that I could have ridden that last mile and a half in comfort and warmth.

But I trudged on.  Making it home with my legs aching, my body wet and sore, and resolute that the next day, on Sunday, I’d learn how to ride the tram network and confront that imaginary tram goon and his make believe deportation files.

Walking into the 7-11 (which are everywhere in Australia - I swear when Captain Cook ripped a hole in the hull of his famous ship off Cape Tribulation, he and his men rowed ashore to get water and supplies from the local 7-11) - asked for a tram ticket.  “Where are you heading?” the man behind the counter asked.

“Just to the center of town.”  I replied, wondering if there was a specific ticket for a certain section.

“Ah, Zone 1.”  He replied, handing me a ticket. “Good for all day on the weekends.”

I boarded the next tram that came along…and wondered what I was ever in fear of in the first place. Not a tattooed guard anywhere to be seen.

This was easy!

 It was one of the big spiritual events of our lives growing up in our small town on the northern prairie.  It was also one of the many family celebrations that marked our lives - a milestone in our religious upbringing, our first communion.

In our community, as well as our family, it was a right of passage, one of the first movements from childhood to adulthood.  It meant that on Sunday mornings, we were no longer left behind in the pew when the rest of the family went up for communion.  Spiritually, it was much more significant - but there was a social aspect to it as well - a sense of belonging.

For our family, it meant that our family, brothers, sister, grandparents, and great uncles and aunts had to come together to celebrate.  My first communion back on May 1^st, 1982 was no exception.

The first communion traditionally took place at the 10:30 Mass at St. Micheal’s.  Father Wesley was the priest at that point in time in our parish.  As a first grader, this was a big deal to me.  It would mean the first time I’d be up front in front of our church.  It was a bit nerve wracking.  Just me and about thirty other eight year olds would be standing up there with father at one point.

For Mom especially it was a busy time.  She not only had to worry about our own family celebration, as the president of the Ladies Aid, she was in charge of the celebration at church.  You see, it was a community celebration too.  After Mass, there would be coffee, kool-aide, and goodies downstairs in the church basement.  We would be congratulated by friends and neighbors.   So she was on double duty - making sure that all was squared away at the church basement, but also making sure that the full formal meal at the house was prepared and ready too.

Grandma and Grandpa Mason came to the farm to help get ready.  I got out of chores early to get up the house to shower and change into my new suit - one of the first pieces of dress cloths that I ever got new - most of my clothes being hand me down from the older brothers.  This was a classy one for 1982 - a tan jacket with brown trousers. 

Grandma Mason, being a retired hair dresser, was in charge of making sure that I looked my best.

In hindsight, not the best decision, as she was at the top of her game thirty years earlier.  With a little help from Dad’s tube of Groom and Clean, I looked like I could do a stand in on the set of the hit music classic Grease.  Perfect for the 1950’s, not so fancy for the 1980’s.

Thought horrified, the show must go on.

In truth, it went off well, with both the religious reverence that was needed, but also with all of the family and community fanfare that is necessary for the event too.  Mom did a great job - both at the church celebration, but also at home, where the family, extended family, and Father Wesley (who knew the best cooks in the community… was quick to take up Mom’s invitation for lunch) enjoyed a good home cooked meal.

The pictures paint a picture of a reverent farm kid, intent on the seriousness of the occasion. In truth, it was a right of passage, and an important social gathering - one of many that marks the life of times of growing up on the farm.

 Melbourne wouldn’t be Melbourne without its iconic tram network.  Trams, or trolley’s as we might call them in the United States, evokes images of the trolley network that rumbles through San Francisco, one of the last tram networks in the United States.

But folks, San Francisco is child’s play next to Melbourne.

Over 155 miles of tracks, 487 trams, 30 routes, and 1763 individual tram stops managed to haul an amazing 183 million passengers last year.

That is one complex transportation network.

And if you don’t believe the numbers (average of 500,000 riders per day), speaking on behalf of tram riders throughout the city, the system gets used.  The lines crisscross the city.  Hundreds of people jam onto the trams during the height of rush hour each morning and each night.  Thousands of people crowd the special trams that wait outside of special events (Aussie Rule Football games, Rugby matches, Australian Open Tennis, Concerts, The Melbourne Grand Prix) to take spectators from the center of action to either Southern Cross Station or Flinders Street Station - the transportation hubs for the city.  They are fast, efficient and well maintained.

And they have to be…

The most iconic of the trams are the old “W” Class trams.  They are the trams that comprise the free fleet of twelve trams that circle the city, the ‘tourist’ trams.

These trams…some dating from the 1920’s…are still in use every day.  The city still owns a whooping 230 of these hard working antiques.  12 of them work every day in the tourist trade (like the greeters at Walmart), 200 of them are in retirement (but like the people of that generation, still willing to pitch in and get the job done should they be needed) and thirty of them…well, thirty of them are still earning their keep day in and day out on regular service hauling people through the city.

These trams run on parallel tracks that pass through and across hundreds of Melbourne city streets.  Above them, a grid of electric wires pulse power through the streets and keep the trams running come rain or shine.

All those tracks do cause some consternation for international drivers, well, even for Australian drivers from outside of Melbourne. The infamous Melbourne Hook Turn.

Because the trams run down the center of the street, there is no center turn lane to make a right hand turn (remembering that you drive on the left side of the road in Australia).  To cure this driving malady, the Melbournians devised the either ingenious or psychotic hook turn.  Which means you get into the left hand lane to make a right hand turn…

You read that right folks.

Get as far into the right hand lane as possible, wait for the light to turn red, then make your turn across four lanes of traffic.

It sounds chaotic at best, disastrous at worst, but in truth works like some well-oiled choreographed synchronized automobile waltz in the middle of downtown.

You don’t become a true Melburnian until you can master the infamous hook turn.

 Our farm was in the heart of dairy country in Northwestern Minnesota.  Years ago, there were about five dairies within a one mile radius of our farm.  It was a way to diversify.  There were a fair number of beef cattle as well, and a few small feedlots.  There were even a few guys that had pigs - and you could smell those places for miles.

Only one neighbor had sheep.  I’m not sure if it was bravery, courage, a love for things small and fluffy, or just because what they had it worked well with.

Vern and Lois were some of the best neighbors.  Their farm is just east of our place, and while Vern past on a couple of years ago, Lois still lives on the little farmstead.  Vern was always willing to come over and give a helping hand.  If it was baling hay, chopping corn, or just someone to come over and check up on us boys when Mom and Dad were out of town, Vern was the man for the job.  Lois is still a good friend - she and Mom used to have great conversations, and now, she makes sure that Dad is well fed, supplying treats and candy, and also well thought of - bring back gifts from her trips.

Their place a piece of pasture just to the west, with a ditch that drained part of the section, to the east was a small hay field.  In the middle, was the house and a barn - the headquarters for their burgeoning sheep operation.

In truth, I don’t think that the extent of their sheep outfit was on purpose.  They just took darn good care of their animals.  I’ve been told that the number of twins and triplets that you get is now scientifically proven to come from the level of care that ewes get through the year.

Vern and Lois must of have been great shepherds.  It seemed like every one of their ewes was giving them twins and triplets.

They would feed them grain and hay, and usually, we’d reciprocate the help that Vern provided by helping him get his little field of hay off (though it was a pittance compared to the help he gave us at harvest).

I must admit, it was good having good neighbors around, and the sheep added to the landscape.  There was nothing like driving down the road and seeing waving fields of wheat, barley and oats, the green hay field, our pasture and feedlot with the white and black Holsteins, and the small field with the grazing sheep.

It also gave us a great excuse to go over and visit, especially in the spring with the little lambs.  Seeing the twins and triplets was a thrill for us kids - so similar to the calves that we dealt with everyday, and yet so very different.

Vern and Lois always made sure we were welcome, letting us into the pen to pet the lambs.  Laughing as the mothers shoved us around, and always seeming to have milk and cookies for us to tide us over until after chores.

In the end, they were pretty good to their own flock, as well as the little flock of kids, just down the road.