In Pursuit of Oz: The Spirits of Melbourne

The Temporary Melburnians were on the move again. Four sets of footsteps resumed their march down the rain-washed streets in the general direction charted by He-Who-Must-Know-Every-Street. Otherwise known as Google Maps, he is a navigator of immense self-confidence and only occasional lapses of judgement.

Our original intention had been to cross Princes Bridge and approach Southbank Promenade, strolling beside the Yarra river past inviting eateries, public art and the inevitable street musicians. Maps, however, had other ideas. We were shepherded along the river beside Southgate and across the Evan Walker Bridge, perhaps in the belief that tourists should occasionally be surprised by their own itinerary.

The Yarra revealed itself quietly, like an immense scroll unfurling in dark mode. It gathered the city’s incandescent colours into its waters and returned them as trembling reflections. Towers, cafés, office windows and bridges dissolved into shimmering streaks of light. The river seemed less a body of water than a canvas upon which Melbourne was sketching its evening self-portrait.

We lingered on the riverbank, strolling without urgency and pausing whenever family protocol demanded another photograph. Eventually we turned towards Southbank, our destination. The Melbourne Skydeck occupies the eighty-eighth floor of Eureka Tower, nearly three hundred metres above the ground, and is the highest public observation deck in the Southern Hemisphere. Its views are legendary at any hour, though sunset is said to be its most enchanting performance—an appointment we were destined to miss.

The ‘Ultimate Skydeck’ experience began before the ascent itself. Though Voyager Theatre was part of our package, I had little idea at the time that I was about to encounter a technological marvel of such sophistication that it felt less like an amusement and more like sorcery.

Over the years, I had often read accounts of people who, in moments of extreme physical distress, claimed to have drifted free of their bodies, risen into the sky, witnessed astonishing vistas, and then somehow returned. Voyager Theatre managed to provide a remarkable approximation of that experience without requiring any life-altering ordeal.

I was guided into one of the VR pods, and a a VR headset covering my eyes and ears was carefully adjusted into place. Within seconds, the Voyager Theatre dissolved around me, and I found myself skimming the Yarra, soaring above forests, plunging and swooping along the Scenic Railway at Luna Park, gliding through Melbourne’s picturesque laneways and arcades, and hovering in the middle of the Melbourne Cricket Ground. Locations that would ordinarily have demanded days of travel collapsed into minutes. Somewhere along the way, the machinery fell away and only the flight remained.

The senses surrendered with alarming ease. Sight, sound and motion conspired to convince the senses that the impossible was taking place. The roller-coaster sequence at Luna Park was so uncannily realistic that I clutched the sides of the pod and felt my stomach lurch as we plunged down the track. Then came the MCG. The swelling roar of the crowd rose from every direction with such force and authenticity that it brought an unexpected lump to my throat.

The Voyager Theatre is a clever, perhaps even ingenious, device. Positioned at the very beginning of the Skydeck experience, it quietly prepares visitors for what awaits them above. Having first introduced us Melbourne as a dream, it now left us ready to encounter the real thing.

The elevator’s ascent to the eighty-eighth floor was swift and effortless. Moments later, the doors slid open and we stepped into a spectacle that stopped us in our tracks. Beyond the glass walls that encircled the floor sprawled a city stitched together with lights. Endless structures, tall and small, lay exposed beneath us. As far as the eye could travel, neon signs flickered, illuminated facades glowed, and the high-rises watched with a thousand waking eyes.

The Yarra marked its presence not through size but through grace, carving elegant curves through the metropolis and drawing bridges across its path like strokes of a pen. From this height, Melbourne transcended its livery of modern towers, heritage buildings, leaping bridges, gliding streets and tramways, and became a single vast presence of astonishing beauty. It was as much a singular being as the clouds in the sky or the night.

The sky had the rains, the night had the breeze, and Melbourne had its melody.

Even as we were adjusting to the breathtaking panorama, a pretty young attendant summoned us to one side and asked us to slip protective covers over our shoes. Embarrassed that we had apparently violated some Skydeck protocol, I immediately began apologising. V stopped me.

“No, it’s for the Edge.”

“Edge?”

My antennae instantly sprang to life. The word conjured visions of an outdoor skywalk on the rim of Eureka Tower. Instead, we were ushered into a compact glass chamber. Apart from ourselves, there was only one other couple. The doors closed behind us. Somewhere beneath our feet came the faint hum of machinery. Was the chamber moving? Was it sliding beyond the side of the building? Whatever was happening, it was too late to retreat with dignity.

Then it happened.

The floor beneath us suddenly turned transparent.

Melbourne appeared beneath our feet.

Physics ceased to feel entirely theoretical.

Three hundred metres below, the city stretched away in every direction. To my surprise, I did not panic. I found myself peering downward in utter fascination. I had never seen anything remotely like it. Roads, rooftops and office towers lay exposed beneath us, reduced in scale but sharpened by light and perspective. Tiny vehicles drifted along illuminated streets. Shapes emerged and dissolved in pools of shadow. To the left, right and behind us, the clear glass walls continued the illusion of suspension. We seemed to be hanging in the night air above Melbourne.

I had watched Spider-Man swing between skyscrapers often enough. I had simply never expected to audition for the role myself.

Earlier, Voyager had dangled us over dizzying heights through the wizardry of technology. This was something altogether different. There was no headset, no virtual landscape, no willing suspension of disbelief. We were suspended above a living city with nothing between ourselves and the streets below except invisible glass. For a few moments, exhilaration and disbelief became inseparable. Deep urban canyons opened beneath us, their depths threaded with light and movement. Melbourne ceased to be a collection of buildings and became a living presence, breathing and stirring quietly beneath us.

The most eloquent response came not in words but in silence. Around us, people simply stared. Now and then a gasp escaped someone. Everyone seemed touched by the experience in a deeply personal way.

None of us wished our meeting with the Edge to end. Yet all meetings, however royal, eventually conclude. The doors reopened and we reluctantly stepped back into the Skydeck. We were granted a second visit for a commemorative photograph though. The flash, unfortunately, overwhelmed the transparency of the glass and concealed the very thing that made the experience extraordinary. Nevertheless, it remains a cherished souvenir.

We lingered on the Skydeck for over an hour afterwards, moving from window to window, identifying landmarks and rediscovering Melbourne from different angles. The clock tower of Flinders Street Station was the easiest to recognize. With a little assistance, I also located the MCG, dark and brooding in the distance, apparently unimpressed that our first meeting had taken place through a virtual reality headset. I have duly noted its grievance and intend to offer suitable reparations someday, preferably when the men in blue and yellow renew their clash. In the meantime, Bar 88 supplied the necessary refreshments for the family and a chalice of spirit for me.

Soon a collective decision was taken to browse Melbourne’s markets in person. We returned to the CBD and its surrounding streets, peering into shop windows, wandering through malls and their deeper extensions, and absorbing the city at closer quarters. The stores were either closing for the day or displaying prices that appeared to have been benchmarked against minor organs of the human body. Yet they possessed enough charm to keep both tourists and natives lingering. The exercise allowed us to roam Melbourne in a delightfully unstructured manner.

Laneway after laneway, the city unfolded further, but time, unfortunately, grew shorter. A brief but successful operation was conducted at a Zara store precisely at the stroke of nine o’clock, immediately after which the establishment lowered its shutters.

When T’s proposal to explore the murals and music-haunted corners of Hosier Lane and AC/DC Lane was vetoed on account of the advancing hour, she produced an alternative of equal strategic importance: a pilgrimage to Good Measure for a Mont Blanc coffee.

“What happens when you go to the MCG but don’t get to watch Virat Kohli play?”

There are questions that invite discussion, and there are questions that function as precision-guided munitions. This belonged firmly to the latter category. It would have been unwise to ignore such counsel and regret it for years afterwards.

The café was located in Carlton, not far from our apart’hotel. The route had already been studied by the concerned Captain, who now assumed command with the confidence of someone who had spent a lifetime strolling Melbourne’s streets. A patch of cloud appeared to have adopted us for the evening and followed faithfully overhead, occasionally expressing its affection through a light drizzle. Unwilling to trust the delicate umbrella acquired earlier from a 7-Eleven, I borrowed V’s Formula One cap and marched on.

We moved briskly and with admirable unity of purpose. The twins led the advance, consulting neither map nor phone. Several streets were traversed, numerous turns negotiated. Before long, we entered Flagstaff Gardens. The gently curving asphalt path wound beneath stately elm trees and broad canopies that seemed to hold conversations with the night sky. Evenly spaced lamps cast pools of soft light across the path. Small groups lingered on the lawns, chatting quietly beneath the trees.

A few more streets later, we found ourselves in Little Italy.

Lygon Street struck us as one long open-air dining room. Pizzerias, gelaterias and trattorias spilled onto the pavements beneath awnings. Warm light glowed beneath façades, while aromas of coffee, garlic and freshly baked pizza drifted through the evening air. The mood was lively yet unhurried. Students from the nearby academic precinct formed a visible contingent, debating life’s pressing questions over espresso —or, better still, a Mont Blanc.

A group of young revellers spotted my red Ferrari Leclerc cap and greeted me with considerable enthusiasm. Regrettably, I was busy looking elsewhere and remained blissfully unaware that I was apparently enjoying a brief spell of celebrity. The twins witnessed the entire episode and could scarcely believe that I had ignored such an important public endorsement. By the time they brought the matter to my attention, my fan club had dispersed and my racing career had returned to obscurity.

Good Measure eventually emerged beside a gelateria. Its celebrated Mont Blanc, a carefully thought combination of Code Black coffee, aerated cream, orange zest and grated nutmeg, had achieved near-mythical status among coffee enthusiasts. There was, naturally, a waiting period before service, which only enhanced its aura.

I rose from my chair on the pavement and wandered across the street. A cluster of restaurants with Asian influences greeted me. One bore the name Kahaani—the Hindi word for “story”. For a moment I was tempted to step inside and discover its particular story, but restrained myself. Nearby stood Middle Eastern restaurants and other establishments whose names I have forgotten but whose aromas remain vivid. Each possessed its own story. The Italian eateries had theirs. Good Measure had another. Even the people strolling past were carrying stories of their own.

And somehow, all those stories seemed to be chapters of a much larger one.

The story of Melbourne.

(Continued….)