I sometimes wonder if city folk understand the torture we country folk often endure just to visit their metropolitan wonderlands?
Firstly, if we are not ‘city drivers’ (and this is me) we must negotiate the arduous journey by catching a train, bus, paper truck or camel caravan.
For train travel, we must rouse ourselves before the crack of dawn, dress for everything from a heatwave to a blizzard (just in case), get to the station in time, fight our way to our designated seat, wrench our shoulder muscles trying to hoik our bag into the overhead luggage rack, then spend the entire journey holding off from going to the toilet or the dining car for fear of falling over.
If we are particularly unlucky we will be seated next to someone who’s been travelling overnight and needs a shower. If we are even unluckier, they will be slightly crazy and insist on chattering to us all the way to town about why abattoirs are the work of evil mutton-hating politicians.
Fortunately, the Travelling Gods must have been smiling on me for my last few train trips as I have managed to be seated next to people who not only provided me with great company but who have also left me with the promise to purchase my book on-line. Cool! But then the train pulls into Southern Cross and the agony starts again.
Firstly you have to walk eighteen kilometres (or thereabouts) to get to anywhere you might want to go. Ticket booth. Metropolitan platform. Coffee shop. Toilet. Walk. Walk. Walk.
Funnily enough, we country folk seem to think we are generally healthier and more energetic than our pasty-faced city counterparts. But it seems we may be somewhat mistaken. Any city person who relies on public transport needs the zip of the Energiser Bunny, the tenacity of a Jack Russell and the leg muscles of an Olympian. Boy, can they go!
They’re everywhere; dashing furiously to their train platforms or tram stops or striding purposefully along those busy city footpaths. We country folk, on the other hand, tend to get the car out to go a few blocks and we secretly snigger as city folk spill into the parks on a sunny day to play with frizbees.
"How pathetic", we think smugly. "We can throw frizbees WHENEVER we want! (But not right now, kids. I just need to email ‘hello’ to the next door neighbour)."
Well, okay, perhaps we’re not all THAT lazy, but you must agree that living in the city does seem to require a certain amount of vigour. Not to mention mental agility. In fact, just being able to decipher public transport route signs seems to require a degree in cartography.
Disturbingly there seems to be a presumption that the person frantically scanning the signage might be someone who already knows where they are and where they need to go! Obviously, if you were thus informed, you probably wouldn’t be frantically scanning anything, but I don’t think the signage designers have quite grasped that point.
Perhaps they're not so much trying to direct confused visitors, but rather positively reinforce Melburnians that they really are quite clever. I guess a little positive reinforcement for your own citizens is nice, even if it does leave your visitors more confused than ever.
Well, anyway, after a visit to the city, I am always glad to get back home.
Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I just need to pop out to the letterbox to collect my mail.
“Honey, can you get the car out for me?”
Firstly, if we are not ‘city drivers’ (and this is me) we must negotiate the arduous journey by catching a train, bus, paper truck or camel caravan.
For train travel, we must rouse ourselves before the crack of dawn, dress for everything from a heatwave to a blizzard (just in case), get to the station in time, fight our way to our designated seat, wrench our shoulder muscles trying to hoik our bag into the overhead luggage rack, then spend the entire journey holding off from going to the toilet or the dining car for fear of falling over.
If we are particularly unlucky we will be seated next to someone who’s been travelling overnight and needs a shower. If we are even unluckier, they will be slightly crazy and insist on chattering to us all the way to town about why abattoirs are the work of evil mutton-hating politicians.
Fortunately, the Travelling Gods must have been smiling on me for my last few train trips as I have managed to be seated next to people who not only provided me with great company but who have also left me with the promise to purchase my book on-line. Cool! But then the train pulls into Southern Cross and the agony starts again.
Firstly you have to walk eighteen kilometres (or thereabouts) to get to anywhere you might want to go. Ticket booth. Metropolitan platform. Coffee shop. Toilet. Walk. Walk. Walk.
Funnily enough, we country folk seem to think we are generally healthier and more energetic than our pasty-faced city counterparts. But it seems we may be somewhat mistaken. Any city person who relies on public transport needs the zip of the Energiser Bunny, the tenacity of a Jack Russell and the leg muscles of an Olympian. Boy, can they go!
They’re everywhere; dashing furiously to their train platforms or tram stops or striding purposefully along those busy city footpaths. We country folk, on the other hand, tend to get the car out to go a few blocks and we secretly snigger as city folk spill into the parks on a sunny day to play with frizbees.
"How pathetic", we think smugly. "We can throw frizbees WHENEVER we want! (But not right now, kids. I just need to email ‘hello’ to the next door neighbour)."
Well, okay, perhaps we’re not all THAT lazy, but you must agree that living in the city does seem to require a certain amount of vigour. Not to mention mental agility. In fact, just being able to decipher public transport route signs seems to require a degree in cartography.
Disturbingly there seems to be a presumption that the person frantically scanning the signage might be someone who already knows where they are and where they need to go! Obviously, if you were thus informed, you probably wouldn’t be frantically scanning anything, but I don’t think the signage designers have quite grasped that point.
Perhaps they're not so much trying to direct confused visitors, but rather positively reinforce Melburnians that they really are quite clever. I guess a little positive reinforcement for your own citizens is nice, even if it does leave your visitors more confused than ever.
Well, anyway, after a visit to the city, I am always glad to get back home.
Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I just need to pop out to the letterbox to collect my mail.
“Honey, can you get the car out for me?”
