Sven's life in Oz

I love Melbourne. The only reason James and I chose Sydney over Melbourne when we moved here was the climate. Melbourne has seasons like Britain and, since we were moving around the world, we thought we deserved to live in a city where it was warm all year round, even when it was ‘cold’. However, as much as I love living in Sydney, getting out of the city is great, and when it’s Melbourne and it’s free it’s even better.

Last Tuesday I enjoyed an all-expenses paid trip to the Living City to attend a workshop on harnessing social media for business. I stayed in an extremely plush hotel (five stars, no less) and had a thoroughly pleasant dinner in the hotel restaurant (scallops to start, steak for main and an orange tart for dessert). I had never eaten alone in a restaurant where you didn’t have to order at the counter, so it was quite an experience, though of course you’re never alone with Twitter, are you? It was like I had fifteen guests for dinner and someone else was cooking. I had a whale of a time: good food, great company, and a hot waiter. Tall, dark, handsome, and plenty of eye contact – what’s not to enjoy?

I swear I only do things sometimes so I’ll have stuff to blog about, and so it was that night. “Is there any non-trashy way to give the waiter my room number?” I asked the twitterverse. “No, but you should do it anyway,” came the response. Of course, this isn’t Dirty Dancing and I’m not an old woman thrusting my room key into Patrick Swayze’s hand in between canasta games, so I turned again to that magic 8-ball of questionable advice: “Its just better if you ask him if there’s anywhere good to go on a Tue night”. Clearly Adam has done this kind of thing before. Sadly, this gem came too late: the waiter never returned to my table.

But wait! The story isn’t over yet!

I settled my bill (and by ’settled’ I mean charged to my room and let my boss pay it on the company account) and left the restaurant to head back to my palatial suite alone, when who should I spy out of the corner of my eye, cleaning a cappucino machine in the hotel lobby? I cruised calmly by but was spotted and wished a good night. Well, that was my in. I cooly turned on my heel and, as though the idea had just occurred to me (I am a drama graduate, after all) posed my question: where is good to go on a Tuesday night in Melbourne? Turns out, nowhere.

But wait! The story still isn’t over!

Just as I turned to leave he called out after me. “Where are you from?”. I always hate answering that question because, although in this case I am from Sydney, I’m quite obviously not from Sydney. I open my mouth and plums fall out. I never know whether people are asking me about my origins, or just where I live. I decided that he didn’t need my life story, so “I’m just down from Sydney” satisfied his curiosity and my need for distinction. “And how long are you staying?” he asked.
“Just one night,” I said. He looked disappointed. Perhaps I’m making that up. In any case, he did seem to rack his brains for somewhere I could go on a Tuesday night. Did he seem to want to suggest somewhere and then decide against? Might he have not been sure I was, in fact, asking him what he was doing after work? Who can say?
“There’s really nothing on a Tuesday,” he said. “Maybe go to the spa, or have an early night.” Did that mean “I’m going to the spa; see you there”? Could an early night be a team activity? Is that a canasta game in the next room? I thanked him anyway and he wished me a good night before slipping through a panel in the wall that turned out to be a hidden door. On my way to the lift I decided that life couldn’t really work that way, and as the doors slid open, I pulled out my room key. I had my own private spa in my suite, and I planned to use it.

But wait!

Just kidding. The story really does end here.