I really shouldn’t have been in the office.  Fresh off a long weekend.  Fresh off a little rest and relaxation.  I shouldn’t have been in the office working through emails, voice mails, and overall issues.

But it is part of the job…implied or not.

But something seemed strange walking away from the desk.  The lights that were normally on during the weekends were off…and others not normally seen were decidedly on.

In the evening twilight, it was a bit surreal.

Writing it off as an issue of the heat outside (the temperatures were in the 90’s F), I made my way to the elevator…which was exceptionally slow…again, the lighting gave a pale luster to the darkened news screens on the wall.

Something just seemed amiss.

Our office building is at the heart of the Southbank area of Melbourne, right along the banks of the mighty Yarra River.  Melbourne is Melbourne due to the waterway.  It was the source of freshwater - an old reef kept saltwater from flowing upstream.  While also a major source of transportation - that same river created a natural turning basin where the sea and the river combined to spin ships around and turn them back out to sea. The eastern side of the Yarra was the traditional sight of the factories that made Melbourne an industrial center for Australia.

Now, with it’s mighty high rises and headquarters, including our neighbor down the street the highest building in the Southern Hemisphere, the Eureka Tower, it is one of the commercial capitals of the world…with bars, offices, and high rise apartments.

And the building that I was in was part of the heart of that complex, part of the mighty Price Waterhouse Cooper Complex.

Which is why the lighting issues seemed so strange.

It made it even more strange as I walked through the open air corridor that lead to the river and the waterfront.  The normally bustling places of business - the Subway, the McDonalds, the fancy restaurants…were all struggling to say the least.

The heart of the modern city…was experiencing a power failure.

Subway and the 7-11 had signs written in big bold letters…”Cash Only.”

McDonalds Closed.

The big steak house was also just flat out closed, but the manager and staff were outside arguing with customers as to why they couldn’t just not serve them, but not even seat them.  They just didn’t know if they would have power.

As I walked through the open air Chinese New Year market only a block away, where you wouldn’t know if you had power or not, it stuck me the ridiculous of it all.

While the mighty buildings would be shuttered and the standard places of business closed, the Mom and Pop shops serving Dim Sim and Spring Rolls to celebrate Chinese New Year would go on, not only unaffected…but oblivious to the problems.

Technology be damned.  We’re celebrating Chinese New Year.

 Happy New Year!  For those that haven’t been paying attention, about 25% of the world’s population has been out celebrating for the last week or so - the Chinese New Year.  And not just any New Year, this is the year of the Dragon. 

The Dragon - in western mythology, the symbol of terror and destruction, in eastern lore - it is the ultimate symbol of good fortune and power.  While last year was the year of the Rabbit (which happens to be my year thank you very much), the Dragon is the fifth in the twelve year Chinese calendar cycle.

So this is certainly not an everyday occurrence.

And Melbourne love’s its Chinese New Year.  Little Bourke Street, the heart of Melbourne’s China town is alive with gusto.  They close off blocks of the city.  And the river walk along Crown Casino becomes a hive of activity.

Why would Melbourne have such a boisterous Chinese New Year celebration?  Well, there is a lot of Chinese immigrants for starters, and that isn’t a new phenomenon.  The Chinese were some of the first immigrants to the new colony of Victoria once gold was discovered.  They were some of the most well organized and hardworking people on the diggings…and some of the most hated.  The reputation for that first wave was they weren’t here to set down roots…just to mine and leave.  Though some, as with most immigrant groups, decided to stay, and they were met a hundred years later by more waves, so Melbourne has a long history as a hub of Chinese settlement.

And it shows during Chinese New Year.

The event is multicultural - the entire river is lined with tents and booths where people can buy their lanterns and Chinese umbrella’s - their incense burners and Buddist alters - their hello kitty back packs and angry birds balloons. 

There were two big stages set up, where martial arts displays, Chinese acrobats, and musicians tried their best to appease the crowd in a multigenerational talent show…and as the very Scottish looking gentlemen in the bowler hat riding unicycle to jazz music showed, multicultural as well.

Oh sure there were the usual logistical issues - things like the Chinese father-daughter dancing act that decided to perform on the sidewalk at the very narrowest part of the proceedings…guaranteeing a very captive audience as the traffic jam of people stopped up for a half block on either side, or the small stage with Chinese musicians that were set up directly downwind from the from the very smoky food stalls.

And oh, the food.

It was a veritable cornucopia of the best of Asian street food.  Dim sims by the dozen. Spring rolls by the score. Chilli prawns by the…well…century!  It was an absolute hodge podge of the best of the Melbourne food scene. 

I think I saw the shingle for Yummy Palace and the Vegie Hut.  There was my old friendTom Phat  and Tao’s Restaurant.  I think Wild Ginger was there by Chillipadi and Golden Orchids.  Right on the end were the Korean Palace and Spiral Potatoes, being watched over by Colonel Tan’s Asian Cuisine.  Cafe Tien Tien was there, right next to Gary’s Dutch Poffertjes…

Hey, I did say it was multicultural….

Happy Year of the Dragon!

 I didn’t understand them at first, little comments on Facebook, some emails, a few text messages, a few dropped hints on phone calls with family and friends….

So yes, I’ve got a confession to make…I’ve fallen behind…a two week vacation has now stretched into over a month of limited posting.

But, like a child, I’ve got some excuses…and some good stories.

Camping near Ninety Mile Beach, watching the mighty Snowy River head out to sea, losing two tires on one trip, going through the ancient Iron Bark forest, a day at the races, a trip to Singapore, Chinese New Year….and a whole host of other stories and observations, as well as stories of growing up on the wind swept plains of North Minnesota…

By the way, did I mention that I was beginning preparations to move back to Minnesota?

Yup, for those who haven’t heard, I’ll be heading back to Minnesota in about four months time…just in time for summer.

So I’ve got a little work to do, hopefully you’ll be coming back to check in now and then.

 Race #4, and I studied the bloody racing guide.  As is the problem, the best horses have the narrowest payout - so you might say that a horse looks good, but you might put $10 down and win $12, and that isn’t a sure thing.

And to make matters worse, there was nary an Irish horse OR an Irish themed horse to bet on.  Looking over the race form, I thought I made an intelligent decision - the long shot, Saint Belle, was a 21-1 long shot in a tight field…and the trainer was a known quantity.  How could I go wrong?  I put my $10 down at the book makers.

The race was hotly contested, with Saint Belle making a go of it out of the gate, but quickly being out paced by the next long shot in the race, Emmalene - a 15-1 long shot.  But I wasn’t worried.  Not at first.  Then it Saint Belle made its way from the front…to the middle…to the back…to the very rear of the pack….and Emmalene made her way from the front half…to the front, and kept off a very hard charging Miss Stellabelle and Anise.  While I was glad that the other horse that I was considering (Zippa the Rippa!) came in a lowly 9^th, there was really only one thing that I could say….

Shucks.

After one close race and one last place showing, I had to retreat to the bar and think about my strategy.  And it took more than one beverage to rethink my strategy.  It was a bit of a long drawn out commiseration with other punters whose fingers were burned early in the betting session.

We were all just a little gun shy.

Finally, it was approaching the big race of the day, the Crown Oaks.  We had to put a bet down.  Everyone was advocating their own favorite.

“Gioe, #6, is the horse for this race and this track.  Bank on it.”

“Vittoria.  A New Zealand horse, a good record.  That is where to put your money.”

“Gliding 10, you can’t bet against a Bart Cummings horse.”

 Luckily, I asked friend Tom what his thoughts were - he was vocally praising Gioe, did he really think that would get the job done?

“Ah mate, #1 is a machine.”  Tom said quietly, “Reckon he can take it all.”  Now Tom will tell you that he isn’t much of a punter on the ponies, but he is a part owner of one, so has more than a passing interest.  How could I pass up that tip (as advice on the races are called).

There is only one thing that I got wrong….#1 was Mosheen…not a machine…but my money was placed.  $10 on a 5-1 odds horse.

We all downed our beverages and headed for the grandstands, to catch a glimpse of history.

Much like the experience at the Melbourne Cup, the announcers came alive…or we just weren’t paying attention during the other races.  Somehow, people seem to pay more attention when $1 million dollars are at risk.

With a flourish, the announcer, called out…”AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAANNNNNDDDD THERE OFF!  Gioe! Gioe on the outside!  Vittoria! Vittoria!  Now The Fallen One!  Watch The Fallen One!  And Gliding!  Gliding on the inside!  Watch Mosheen!  The Mosheen!  And Roma Giaconda on the stretch!  Mosheen!  Gliding!  WAIT!  WAIT!  WAIT! DOWAGER QUEEN!  DOWAGER QUEEN!  AAAAANNNDDDD ROMA GIACONDA!  MOSHEEN!  MOSHEEN!  MOSHEEN WINS THE CROWN OAKS!

Part in shock I looked to the ticket in my hand….I had won a whopping $50!      

View of Melbourne and the Track from the Grandstand

The crowd and the starting gates

The race is on!

 We boarded the flat bottom riverboat right next to the Melbourne Convention and Visitors Center (better known as ‘Jeff’s Shed’ after the premier who built it…it was considered a folly at the time, but rejuvenated the old wharf and warehouse area along the river).  There were about fifty of us getting on board the boat, with beer and wine and a good thirty minute ride down the Yarra River, down into the harbor, then back up the Maribyrnong River, past the old Victoria Harbor, past the big container yards, the industrial sites, and the newly developed parks, walking, and biking trails.

It was a good ride, especially surrounded by good people and with a good beer in hand.  All of us dressed up in our spring finest, making sure that we were our fashionable best for the crowds on Oaks Day…or Ladies Day as we gents liked to remind ourselves…or Blokes Day as the ladies like to roll their eyes and remind us.

Either way, we were headed for the grounds and our tables in our marquee.

The boat landed at a wharf, special for Flemington, and deposited in a massive crowd of people trying to make their way into the grounds.  We threaded our way through the mass of humanity and made our way to the marquee…

What is a marquee you might ask…well, some folks might describe it as a tent, however, that description does not do it justice.  It is a massive venue, with chandeliers, wall sconces, multiple bars, carpeted floors, tables with white tablecloths, napkins, napkin rings…

In short, this wasn’t your ordinary tent.

Did I mention the big screen televisions and the betting booths?

While the venues were placed high on corner hill, next to the grandstand, so the view wasn’t that good, we did have designated grandstand seating, so that we could, if we wanted to leave our lavish venue behind, go up and sit in the grandstand.

With the cool, overcast weather…that wouldn’t be likely…especially with very thorough beverage service.  And I mean thorough.  The gentleman overseeing our table - and they had an army of servers, all wearing their uniform, very dressed up in shirt and tie - never let a beer go completely empty…

It made for a very long day.

Then there was the betting.

A good punter would tell you the signs to look for.  You needed to pay attention to the breeding - who the sire and dam were.  You needed to pay attention to the track conditions - was it wet? Dry?  Hard?  Fast?  You needed to pay attention to the jockey - what was the record?  Could he hold his own?  You had to pay attention to the trainer.  You had to have some idea on when the last race was run.  You had to know what the horses rating was.  You had to know what the horses recent performance had been….

In short, there was a huge complex process that the professional punters used to place the bets and put their money down, as a result, the better the horse, the lower the payout.

Which is why I always resort to my good friend Scotty’s advice:  Bet on the Irish horse.  Even better if it is an Irish name.  If it is a longshot, double your bet.

Sure enough, the first race I bet on was race #3 (the prior race spent betting on the ‘sure thing’…ice cold Boags).

There it was, ‘Celts,’ an Irish born 9-1 long shot.

How could I resist.  It was like being back in Shakopee on a warm summer night with a $1 Leinies in my hand.

I put $10 bucks on Celts to win.

And did you guess that Celts came through in the end?!

If you did, you’d be wrong.  Sadly, sadly, tragically wrong.  I don’t think Celts came last, but it wasn’t even sniffing the tail end of the #3 horse…it was a way back in the field.

“Bloody horse.” I mumbled, but no worries, plenty of more races for the day.

Crowd at the gates

View from the tent

View in the ‘Tent’

One of the places that took my money….

 Harry and I made the rounds of the Grandstands again…both of us having a bit of taste for rum and coke…and discussed the intricasies of the track, the Australian economic situation, the political situation, the best pies in Victoria, and the pro’s and con’s of many of the very attractive women that were in the crowd.

But like all good things, this too had to come to an end.

So we made our way back to the trains, where, like cattle in some old John Wayne western…only in suits, ties, dresses, and fascinators, we waited for the trains that would take us into the city.

We didn’t have to wait long.  They were running about every 5 minutes and had two tracks dedicated to hauling us back and forth.

Proving they were not only proficient at taking your money, but also about getting you in and out of the race track.

And what an interesting ride back it was too.  We ended up standing next to two very attractive Scottish doctors, both relatively new to Melbourne, both on the verge of falling down in the train.  I was game to learn more about them, Harry…who has a very steady girlfriend…was friendly, but keen to get me off the train at Southern Cross.

Yet another punt lost.

Instead of the smart thing and heading home, instead, we made our way to the George Hotel in South Melbourne.  A fine establishment, right across from the South Melbourne Market.  I went to ‘see a man about a horse’ and when I came out, found Harry visiting in the VIP section far in the back.

Turns out, he was friends with the owners and their cadre of friends.

A spirited discussion ensued.  About an extremely wide range of subjects - US and Australian politics, US cities, US history, the pub, beer, women…

A good discussion.

This was followed by a fantastic chicken parmesan, and few more pots.

Then, bed was calling.  After a half day at work and a full day of punting and horse races, I needed a sleep.

Partly to prepare for Thursday, Oaks Day, when I would be attending the corporate venue.

And what a difference the two days turned out to be.

Weatherwise, they were pretty similar. Not cool, not warm, but overcast and threatening rain.  Each involved going into work for a while in the morning…that is where the similarities stopped.

Instead of catching the train at Flinders Street Station, we would be catching a boat down along the Melbourne Convention Center.  Instead of fighting the crowds at the entrance, we would take the river entrance.  Instead of buying beer, it would be given to us.

I love Oaks Day.

 Our next stop…or at least pass by, was the bird cage.  The birdcage is where the celebrities and notables hang their hat for the races.  Large marquees, big white tents on raised platforms with good views of the long straight-away on the big pear shaped horse track, is where the rich and famous congregate.  Looking out at the horses, over the heads of the rabble and commoners out front.  We made our way through…because while membership has its privileges, even that isn’t good enough to make it to the exclusive events where models, actors, and personalities mix and mingle.

I swear I saw radio personality Hamish Blake hanging out on one of the overlooks, talking on his cell phone between races.

From the Birdcage, we made our way from the fashionable trackside, to the very fashionable and schik Birdcage and made our way back to the Nursery.

Now, I’m sure there is a reason that the big parking lot is called ‘The Nursery.’  Firstly, it was probably a tree or plant nursery at some point in time.  But perhaps, it is because most of the people hanging out back there were extremely young - 18-22 year olds - and most were not nursing their beers.

Compared to trackside, there were few people trying too look fine and proper back here - at least in their serving style.  True, suits and dresses were all top notch (I still looked and felt shabby…did I mention that I sewed the buttons on my sport coat on myself…that morning…with the wrong color thread), but let me tell you, there were utes with blow up swimming pools in their back, filled with ice and beer.  Their were coolers everywhere, and everyone seemed to be either very excited, or very glazed over…

It had clearly already been a long day.

While I enjoyed the environment - being around the young makes one sometimes feel young…though sometimes makes your feel very, very old… - the Nursery is a long way from the track, so while there were machines and bookies around, it was darn hard to see the horses and the races, so we made our way back to the Grandstands.

It was amazing that I’d run into familiar faces in the crowd.  But it happened, more then once through the three times I was at the races.  Each was marked by a look of surprise on each of our faces.  On the first day, the first one happened in the garden, yet another set aside area - higher class, but far from the action - as we made our way through the grounds.

Finally, we made the trek through the big bookie stands behind the Grandstands and back inside, the main event was about to get underway - the 2011 Melbourne Cup.

The Melbourne Cup is an event, and we made our way to the wide concourse on level three to watch the race, and place our bets.

It was a big field of sixteen horses, the favorite was last years winner, Americain.  Though I rarely go for the favorites, as an American…how could I not bet on Americain.  I put a whooping $20 on the table and got my ticket - no place for me (second place) - it was win or nothing. 

With a cold Boags in hand (always a winner) we waited for the start of the race.

There was a nervous excitement in the crowd.  People were serious in their betting and studying their race books.  Though most of them were too far gone to read much or so it seemed.  The bookie booths had long lines, right up to race time, and for one of the few times during the day, the post was clearly broadcast through the race course - the universal song (Bop-bop-bop-BOP-BADALOP-BADALOP-Bup-Bup-Bup-BAAAAHHH…Bop-Bop-Bop-badalop-badalop-bup-bup-bup-baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa).

It was amazing to witness the reaction of the crowd, and the skill of the announcer - who I swear was just reading off names of horses….”AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAND THEIR OFF!  Americain!  Americain! Wait!  Wait!  Dunaden!  Dunden!  And Shamrocker!  Look at Shamrocker on the inside!  Shamrocker! And now Americain!  Lost in the Moment!  And the Unusual Suspect coming up from behind!  Shamrocker!  Lost in the Moment!  Americain!  And Dunaden!  Yes!  Yes!  Yes! (Crowd Roars), Shamrocker!  Is that?  IS THAT!?  YES!  OLDER THEN TIME!  SHAMROCKER!  AMERICAIN!  BUT WAIT!  DUNADEN!  YES!  YES!  SHAMROCKER!  SHAMROCKER!  AND IT’S A DRUNKEN SAILER!  A DRUNKEN SAILER!  SHAMROCKER!  Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaitttttt - YYYYYEEESSSS  AMERICAIN!  AND A PHOTO FINISH!  UN-BEEEEEEEEE-LEIVABLE!  DUNADEN AND RED CEDEAUX! (Note - where did he come from?)  PHOTO FINISH!  AND DUNADEN WINS IT!  DUNADEN!”

The crowd held their breath for the minute before then race started - then went absolutely mad.

I know now why this race stops a nation!

 We made our way through the massive Flemington Grandstand, stopping at one bar, then another.  There was the bar looking out over the field, with a slanted view, as it was on the third of four levels.  There was the champagne bar - where you could get a glass of bubbly, of a good pint of beer.  There were old fashioned looking faux bars with the fake wood and bronze work, there were the portable plastic bars set up in the corners.

They were everywhere.

The grandstand itself was an odd hodgepodge too.  On the one hand, you could see and smell the opulence.  The carpet on the floors, the finished wood on the doors and arches, the big walls of glass facing the race track and back onto the suburbs behind.  It had a new, modern, fresh finish on it.  But at the same time, down some of the hallways and darker corners of the grandstands, you could look up and see the old barn style single pane windows, that reminded me of something that was found in our old hip roofed barn at home - something from a 1930’s remodel perhaps that still fit the time and purpose.

With all the bars and people in their finery, how many people are busy looking at the windows high up on an obscure wall (besides me).

I didn’t lose much in my betting that first day….mainly because it was rare that I put on a punt.  I was here as a guest of my friend Harry, we were here to take in the sites, sounds, feel, smells…and ladies…of the Melbourne Cup.  Ah yes, and the drink.

From the Grandstand, we made our way down onto the grounds, stepping out into cool cloudy day that was Melbourne Cup.  It was about 20 degrees Celcius (about 72 degrees Fahrenheit for those of you back in the US) and overcast.  The skies were threatening rain.

But the crowd didn’t care.  Harry told me he had heard there were between 100,000 and 110,000 people in attendance, down slightly from Derby Day on the prior Saturday, but a good turnout none-the-less.  The lawn area between the Grandstand and the track was covered with spectators, many of whom had started drinking long before we did.  Not that it mattered, they were dressed up in their finest, with their suits, ties, dresses, fascinators, and sunglasses.

We made our way along the lawn, watching the crowd as we passed by.  On the left side of the track, the wide open green lawn ended with a big statue of a horse, and the general admission area began…which is where I began to feel very old.  The young people (drinking age is 18) swarmed over the place…and if I felt like my jacket and duds were out dated in the club area…well folks, I hadn’t felt anything yet.  These young folks knew about style.  Not something that I was taught milking cows at their age.

On the other side of General Admission was the start of the trackside car park.  What the US does for its football games, the Melbourians due for their horse races.  A large parking lot, right up next to the rails, is dedicated to those people that want to bring in a car - or just set up a tent and socialize.

And they know how to do it.

There was a range of tailgating (it takes on a whole new meaning when talking about horse racing).  There were those that went all out with fully catered affairs - with white table cloths, covered chairs, top quality wine and champagne served by proper waiters and waitresses.  Then there were the spots that were a simple ute (ie read an ‘El Camino’ class vehicle…brand new, but very popular in Australia), backed into a space with folding chairs, a small grill, and an eskie (a a cooler is called) or two filled with VB, Boags, or another of Australia’s finest on ice.

And the crowd was mixed too - some very formal, probably business functions, some not so formal, young and old alike. 

It was a great environment…almost exactly like something you would see outside of any college football stadium on a normal Saturday (only, like the dress, just a little higher class).

 The train, while packed, did the job and moved us from Flinders Street Station (the main rail station in town) right out to the dead end at Flemington Race Course, where we become one with a sea of people.

Sorry, one in a sea of highly dressed people.

Everyone, and I mean everyone was decked out in their finest.  They weren’t kidding when they call this the style event of the year.  Top of the line suits, ties, and shoes were worn by 99.9% of the men in attendance - and I mean top of the line.  There were all of the latest fashions (and some that weren’t quite so latest fashions).

The ladies, the ladies…ah, the ladies…they were decked out in their finest too.  Many a strapless dress, short skirt, and colourful arrangement did I get to peer at through my sunglasses.  It was odd to see the women walking the horse track in their finery and high heels.

Then there were the fascinators….

What is a fascinator?  A hat, a tiny poof of a hat that sits on their heads.  Occassionally, you would see the big arching hats that were all the range in the 1980’s and 1990’s, but by and large the majority of women were wearing the little sprig of flowers, lace, cloth, and occasional feathers in their hair, held on by some magical force known only to the fairer sex.  The same force that they can reduce men into dithering idiots if they wish - they use to attach the fascinator.

Which, if worn with the right dress on the right woman does in fact reduce a man to a dithering idiot as well, so I guess it is right up their alley.

And they spared no expense in getting stars and celebrities out in force.  They were all there in there special tent, sipping champagne, betting on horses, and walking the catwalk when needed.  One girl told me with great excitment that she couldn’t wait to see a gal named Sarah Jessica Parker…and a few other folks.  Men and women both.  I guess they are famous for something.

We joined the see of the smartly dressed (me hoping not to be found out to be a fraud with my aging jacket and stained shirt) and headed into the grandstands.

The members area is as near as opulent as a horse racing venue can be, suited up people directed traffic, big areas filled with betting machines, rows of people ready to take your punt, bars everywhere - facing towards the track were big windows, overlooking the pear shaped race course where the stallions, filly’s, and geldings would race up a lather for big prize money.  On the back were the smoking balconies that overlooked the huddled masses below and the sprawling suburbs of Melbourne.

And there was booze, everywhere.  James Boag, one of my favorite beers, was the mainstay of the Spring Racing Carnival.  Thank the stars.

We put on a punt, arriving in time for the third race, and continued the exploration of the grandstands and grounds.

Each nook and cranny revelled another bar and place to put on a punt.

 There were signs of the spring carnivals approach long before the horse race was in progress.  First the stores up and down Bourke and Collins street - the main shopping district for the country of Australia - showed all of their spring fashions, the sundresses and facinators for the ladies, the sharp suits and lightly colored ties for the men. 

Along the Yarra Riverside, outside of the Crown Casino, a big marquee was set up - taking up a good section of the riverfront, complete with stage, bars on each end, a coffee shop, sausage stand, and a portable betting parlor so that folks could make their punts.  The marquee (a large tent - a massive tent - along the river was strung with greenery, large arches of flowers marked the entrance and the windows, flowers were painted on the concrete like someone had thrown them as a mat for the entrance, burly but sharply dressed security guards in their black suits, black ties, sunglasses, and ear pieces patrolled the area.

Throughout the city, prominently displayed in buildings, were multi-colored horses and foals, set up as temporary artwork and most dedicated to some cause or custom, sponsored by some business, standing as a colourful reminder of the city and the mighty Melbourne Cup Spring Carnival.

Let me tell you, no one holds back.

Walking along the Crowns riverside marquee one night from work, a preparty was going on - there were giants (perhaps people on stilts), ladies dressed up as wood sprites and pixies, a band was performing, people young ladies were helping people make bets at the betting trailer, two beautiful blonds were selling sausages from the sausage trailer….

It was like a little piece of heaven right here in Melbourne.

Though I missed the first day of the races, the infamous Derby Day, usually one of the top drawing days, I would get my fair share of time to spend out at the races.

A co-worker, Harry, invited me out to the races using his guest pass into the members area.  As a guest, I wasn’t welcome into all places at the racetrack, but enough places to keep it interesting.  Though the city was shut down - some offices, especially those in agriculture where harvest was just getting underway, couldn’t keep away.  So about noon, we left our work behind and headed to the railway station in all of our spring finest.

I must explain that the Spring Carnival Races aren’t just a horse race, they are an event - a major event - if be it 100F or raining cats and dogs, the decorum and dignity of the races must be adhered to at all times.

In short, you must honor the dress code.

The dress code for men is easy, a coat and tie is required.  While some people might push their luck (I saw at least two people wearing shorts with their grungy looking coats and their skinny black ties), for most people - this is dressed to the nails type of activities.  This is top notch, high quality dress up.  This is a reason to go out and buy a new suit type of dress up.

I’m not one of those guys.

So in a nice pair of dress pants, my standby blue navy blazer, and one of my finest ties, Harry and I jumped the train. The Flemington Express (not something that you cough up) runs about every five minutes - as Flemington has their very own dedicated railway station just for race days.

It takes a lot of time and effort to move 100,000 people.