In Pursuit of Oz: Temporary Melburnians

Time, we are often told, is precious. Every millisecond is worth its weight in gold. Sometimes though, you cannot redeem a day hijacked by an airline with all the world’s bullion. Ask Cinderella.

Readers of The Hong Kong Surprise, the opening chapter of this voyage, will readily understand the source of this philosophical rant. Fate had served Melbourne to us in alarmingly rationed portions. We were expected to wander about, see and relish sizeable chunks of the world’s most liveable city in a ridiculously brief time-slot.

It was hardly surprising, therefore, that when Cathay Pacific finally deposited us in Melbourne on the maturing afternoon of 7 May 2026, we regarded the leftover hours with something approaching reverence. These were not hours to be spent lightly. Each moment was to be pursued, captured and wrung for maximum value before it slid into history.

On the drive from the airport to our apart’hotel, our first impression of Melbourne was not that of a city eager to impress. The glass towers, busy streets and commercial urgency were all there, yet what struck us first was the city’s calm.

Melbourne seemed reluctant to discard its memories. Red-brick warehouses stood beside gleaming apartment towers. Victorian façades remained woven into a skyline of modern apartments and office towers. Nothing was frozen in time, yet little appeared erased. Trees were as much a feature of the streetscape as people. These were not ornamental afterthoughts but mature presences that seemed to have earned their place.

The wall-sized window of our apart’hotel confirmed our first impression of Melbourne’s architectural character. Across the street stood an old brick building, sturdy and self-assured amid ranks of glass and steel. Its arched windows and ornamental cornices belonged to a bygone age, yet it held its ground with effortless assurance. In the foreground, the canopy of a tree intruded inevitably upon the scene, its leaves breaking up the hard geometry of the surrounding buildings.

The in-house restaurant was dismissed without much deliberation. Melbourne had a reputation to uphold, and it seemed unreasonable to travel halfway across the world only to dine within walking distance of the lift.

We met the Melbourne breeze the moment we stepped out of the entrance. The credit for the group being covered in proper woollens would go squarely to R, against my instincts of reducing luggage space. A laneway immediately to the right of the hotel offered the first clue that the city intended to take its culinary obligations seriously. The twins had already discovered a restaurant called Operator 25, tucked into what appeared at first glance to be the grey wall of an old warehouse. A discreet sign announced its presence. The lettering seemed almost reluctant to advertise itself, and the windows leaked few secrets unless one paused and peered inside.

Only later did I learn that the building dated back to the nineteenth century and had once housed Melbourne’s first telephone exchange. The name was a small historical joke shared between the city and those who cared to notice.

Inside, the narrow entrance unfolded unexpectedly into a broad, light-filled space. Original brickwork remained proudly exposed, while carefully chosen furnishings and decorative touches softened the building’s industrial character. The past was present, but not advertised. The same could be said of the service, which arrived with warmth, competence and a refreshing absence of fuss.

The task of selecting lunch had already been appropriated by the twins, leaving me in an advisory role, a function seldom requested. The menu offered a mixture of Asian-inspired creations and familiar favourites. After a period of consultation that would not have disgraced a diplomatic summit, selections were made and orders placed.

The dishes arrived looking every bit as promising as the menu had suggested. As usual, the cameras were served first. The food justified the ceremony. The Thai grilled chicken in particular was outstanding—tender, flavourful and cooked with remarkable precision. Memory is an unreliable witness in culinary matters, but I still rank it among the finest chicken dishes I had encountered in many years. If Melbourne intended to introduce itself through food, it had chosen an effective opening statement.

With the culinary virtues of Operator 25 now firmly on our side, we turned our attention to Melbourne. V had already pulled the expedition free from the gravitational forces of the homeland. Responsibility now passed to T, whose task was to keep the experience alive through improvisation and sudden manoeuvres.

She swiftly set aside the original plan of commencing our sightseeing aboard the heritage City Circle Tram 35. The scheme had much to recommend it: a free ride, a rolling introduction to some of Melbourne’s best-known landmarks, and, somewhere near Parliament, the possibility of satisfying my long-standing desire to pay respects to the Melbourne Cricket Ground. T, however, was suspicious of itineraries that knew too precisely where they were going. She believed that cities were best encountered with a degree of openness to chance and interruption. I was not entirely persuaded by the theory, but neither was I immune to the enthusiasm with which it was advanced. Before long, spontaneity had gained the upper hand.

Pressed into service, Google Map promptly located the State Library Victoria ten minutes away on foot from Wills Street. We were happy to mark the iconic institution as our first destination. We set off along streets lined with polished residential towers, modern high-rises clad in reflective glass, and older buildings that wore their years with effortless confidence. The streets were lined with trees, their canopy stretching beyond footpaths and filtering the soft autumn light. Fallen leaves gathered along kerbs, scattering shades of brown and gold across the grey pavement. A small Gothic church stood quietly among taller neighbours. From time to time, laneways branched off into the distance, beckoning us to lose ourselves within them.

As we closed in on Melbourne Central, the rhythms of the city grew more pronounced. Shops, signs and traffic grew denser, yet the city somehow remained graceful and restrained. Even the commercial signage seemed governed by an unwritten code of civility. Shop signs projected modestly from façades, often circular or mounted perpendicular to the buildings, their dimensions carefully controlled and their placement so harmonious that entire streets appeared composed rather than assembled.

Gleaming trams glided alongside the ordinary traffic with effortless assurance, as though participating in a choreography rehearsed over generations. Even in the heart of the central business district, trees stood watch, moderating the ambitions of glass and concrete.

Slowly but surely, State Library Victoria came into view, its broad lawns and classical columns offering a welcome release from the city’s tightening geometry.

A brief shower came and went, sweeping across the steps and darkening the stone. The rain vanished almost as soon as we raised our umbrellas in defence. Small groups stood chatting on the forecourt. Commuters waited patiently for trams, indifferent to the persistent wind.

We lingered there for several minutes, as if under a mild enchantment, taking in a rinsed, wind-brushed Melbourne glistening quietly beneath a pale autumn sky.

For more than a century and a half, State Library Victoria has watched Melbourne grow around it and remains one of the city’s enduring landmarks. Entering the La Trobe Reading Room took our breath away. Above us rose a magnificent skylighted dome, its radiating framework drawing the eye towards a luminous central lantern. Soft daylight streamed through the panes, bathing the hall in a calm, silvery glow. Around the room, galleries lined with ranks of books climbed through multiple levels, forming continuous ribbons of knowledge around the circumference. Below, long timber reading desks stretched across the floor beneath green-shaded lamps that cast pools of warm light, faithful to a tradition that long predates the digital age.

Beyond the Reading Room, the library became quieter and more contemplative. Polished timber floors, spacious galleries and carefully displayed artworks encouraged lingering rather than movement. The arrangement felt elegant without becoming imposing.

What lingers in memory is not any single painting, sculpture, or shelf of books, but the atmosphere itself. The State Library reminded us that a city can make room for reflection without withdrawing from modernity. It is a place where the city slows its pace and lowers its voice. Outside, trams rattle through streets lined with trees and towers; inside, beneath the great dome, minutes lose their usual importance.

But at that point of time in the beautiful city in the southern hemisphere, minutes were the scarcest commodity available to a group of travellers that were us.

One by one, I retrieved the twin bibliophiles—one from the gallery and the other from the La Trobe Reading Room. A consensus soon emerged that Flinders Street Station should be our next destination.

AI was promptly pressed into service for advice on tram routes and ticketing arrangements. Its guidance was precise and reassuring. As it happened, R subscribed to the view that information, however convincing, should occasionally be confirmed by a human being.
V accordingly intercepted a gentleman waiting for a tram on Swanston Street. His response was immediate: take Route 67. Unfortunately, he attached a rider.

“I too am a tourist.”

This revelation somewhat diminished the evidentiary value of his testimony. We thanked him nevertheless and withdrew for consultation. The family court assembled briefly on Swanston Street. AI remained confident. The tourist remained confident. We, however, remained unconvinced.

R argued that transport decisions ought not to rely exclusively upon either Artificial Intelligence or Accidental Intelligence. A second opinion was therefore deemed essential.

R had to rule that the matter remained unresolved.

How difficult is it to identify someone as a local in Melbourne?

Apparently, not very. A Melburnian obliged almost immediately.

How helpful is a Melburnian once identified?

Exceptionally helpful, as it turned out. The young woman selected for a second opinion not only confirmed the route but also volunteered the delightful information that public transport throughout Victoria was free until the end of May.

The verdict was now unanimous. The tourist received partial credit, the Melburnian full. R  conceded that civilisation had not yet collapsed.

We advanced towards the tram stop with the confidence of explorers who had successfully solved a major navigational challenge, despite having travelled no more than a few hundred metres from where they had started.

This latest intelligence filled T with such enthusiasm, she developed a desire to board the first tram that appeared. Providence, always eager to encourage impulsive decisions, obliged with a Route 67 tram glistening in several shades of green. A casual onlooker could easily have mistaken T for a Melburnian. She boarded the tram with admirable indifference, casually rearranging her designer purse and the now customary tote bag, which by then had accompanied us through so many adventures that it seemed to possess its own travel itinerary. The rest of us followed and dispersed ourselves across the carriage. The tram was modern, comfortable and remarkably civil. As it glided away from Queensberry Street, I found myself admiring Australia’s determination not merely to preserve the tram, but to perfect it.

A short while later, Lincoln Square appeared as the next stop. Perhaps it had been announced as well. Either way, a disturbing realisation arrived at roughly the same time. Melbourne Central was not appearing. Bourke Street was not appearing. Flinders Street was certainly not appearing.

We were travelling confidently, comfortably, and entirely in the wrong direction.

There was no point delaying the inevitable. We disembarked at Lincoln Square, a pleasant green space populated largely by students and winter jackets. The breeze carried a chill edge, together with the occasional fleck of moisture. While we assessed our navigational achievements, the drizzle gathered confidence and began to mature into actual rain. Our collective gaze turned towards the girl with umbrellas. The girl was there but her tote bag was not.

The loss of the tote bag was lamented by all of us. It had accompanied the family for eight years, ever since its adoption from the souvenir shop at Jurong Bird Park in Singapore. Few objects survive long enough to become travelling companions. This one had achieved the distinction. Regrettable though its fate was, Melbourne offered little time for prolonged mourning. More urgent matters demanded our attention, including the exploration of a celebrated railway junction.

Flinders Street Station is not among the world’s largest railway stations, but few carry themselves with greater confidence. The famous row of clocks above the entrance, the ochre dome and the long Edwardian façade lent the station the reassuring permanence of a place that had watched generations come and go. Across the road, Federation Square responded in an entirely different architectural language, its restless geometry providing a counterpoint to the station’s old-world composure.

The station felt less like a centre of transport infrastructure and more like Melbourne’s unofficial town square. Beneath the clocks, people arrived, departed, reunited, lingered and arranged their lives in miniature. Trams rattled past, pedestrians converged from every direction, and the city seemed to flow continuously through the intersection. The trains may have been its formal purpose, but human theatre appeared to be its principal occupation.

Public transport being free, we exercised our newly acquired rights with commendable enthusiasm. We wandered onto a platform of the Flinders Street Station without the slightest intention of boarding a train. Around us, the station wore its history lightly. The dark-green iron trusses and warm ochre brickwork had long witnessed the daily rituals of commuters, as well as stray travellers like us. Left to my own devices, I might well have boarded the next suburban train, travelled a few stations into Melbourne’s outer reaches, alighted for a suitably reflective interval, and then returned on the first service heading back to the city. Such diversions, however, belonged to a parallel universe in which time was abundant.

Federation Square and Australian Centre for the Moving Image still awaited inspection. More importantly, an Ultimate Experience at Melbourne Skydeck had already been booked and paid for, a circumstance that significantly reduced my freedom to disappear into the suburban rail network.

Crossing the road from Flinders Street, we stepped into Federation Square. It is arguably Melbourne’s principal public space and, quite possibly, a declaration of war against the straight line. If Flinders Street Station belongs to the age of clocks, domes, and punctual railway ambitions, Federation Square appears to have been designed by a committee of highly gifted triangles.

Everywhere we looked, walls folded into other walls, surfaces tilted at unexpected angles, and geometric shapes clustered across the façades like an enormous beehive whose architects had disagreed on almost every design principle. The broad stone steps, still damp from a passing shower, were dotted with visitors resting their legs and pretending to understand modern architecture. Above, strings of lights hung across the square like decorations awaiting an event. The sky, meanwhile, remained characteristically Melbourne—dark enough to justify an umbrella, bright enough to discourage opening it.

Within the Square, our finer destination was Australian Centre for the Moving Image. Unfortunately, the centre had already decided that enough images had moved for one day and had closed before we arrived. Undeterred, we turned our attention to the building itself.

And what a building it was.

ACMI looked as though an architect had challenged a mathematician to design a building and then left him unsupervised. Triangles of glass, zinc and sandstone-coloured cladding marched across the façade in patterns that appeared different from every angle.

Dusk had descended and deepened. Somewhere beyond Federation Square and the gathering lights of the city, the Yarra was waiting.

(Continued in Spirits of Melbourne)