Thanksgiving in Melbourne

For the first time in my life, I think I burned more calories on Thanksgiving than I ate. In keeping with my goal of seeing as much of Australia as I can afford before I leave, I booked a trip to Melbourne over the Thanksgiving weekend. Thursday promised to offer the best weather of trip, so I rented a bike from my hostel and spent the morning cycling along the banks of the Yarra River.

I got lost almost immediately upon leaving. But I wasn’t discouraged. I was still in the city centre. The streets are laid out on a fairly simple grid pattern, so I was confident I’d be able to correct my navigational error on my own. I wasn’t. I was thankful that one of the YHA front desk staff had outfitted me with a cycling map. If he hadn’t, I’m not sure I would have found my way back before dark.

After studying the map, I righted my path and found myself on a long, stop-start journey through the city centre. I was feeling great when I found the trailhead. It was warm but not absurdly hot, and the fairly stiff breeze felt good. The scenery was not spectacular. The river was like a smaller, tamer and more placid version of the Mississippi. But it was nice to be outside and doing some form of physical activity besides walking. My initial enjoyment made me a little overconfident. I bypassed the first point where I could turn off to go back into the city. The trail was pretty flat, the bike was mine for the whole day, and I had seemingly boundless energy.

When the fatigue hit, it hit hard. The stiff breeze that had felt pleasant before now felt like an evil headwind. And for flanking the river, the trail was surprisingly confusing. I didn’t want to miss the next fork into the city, so I found myself consulting the map rather frequently. This was difficult in itself, since the map was large and the gale-force wind attempted to refold every crease I’d just undone. And each time I got back into the saddle seat I realised just how sore my arse was. My mountain bike at home must have pretty superior shock technology. My bum was quite comfortable on it all summer. But this was a pummelling it hadn’t felt the likes of since Dublin.

Eventually I lost the trail completely. I’m still not quite sure how it happened, but I wound up on a residential road running through a small neighbourhood. I managed to instinctually travel over to a busier area near one of Melbourne’s multiple tram lines, where I stopped to look at the map. After searching for 10 minutes, I finally figured out where I was. By this point the ride wasn’t very fun anymore. And I still had a long way to go. Everything on the map looked closer than it seemed to be once I was actually pedalling. I consulted the map at least three times in trying to find the road that would bring me back to the Yarra trail, convinced that I’d missed it. But I hadn’t. It was just really far away.

By this time I’d been cycling about two hours. The alternative route I’d mapped took me through a delightfully dodgy suburb, filled with cafes. Had I been smart, I would have stopped at one of them to rest. I had a lock and money. But I’m stubborn about cycling. Once I start, I want to keep going until I’m done. I pedalled past all the restaurants and finally rejoined the path. I eventually reached the Melbourne Zoo, from which I should have been able to take a fairly direct and short route back to my hostel. Unfortunately this landmark and the surrounding park proved to be the black hole of the ride.

No matter how many times I consulted the map, I could not figure out where I was or which way I needed to go. I was close to tears when I reached another intersection that wasn’t what I thought it should be. I had my map open yet again and was studying it intensely when a passing rider took pity on me and stopped.
“Do you know where you’re going?” he asked.
“I have no idea,” I confessed, which was probably rather obvious to him already. He asked where I was trying to go, pointed me in the right direction and gave me a set of flawless verbal directions—all without a map.

I could barely walk when I finally arrived back at the hostel 3.5 hours after setting out. The shower I took after returning the bike was the best I’ve experienced since coming out of the Boundary Waters. Drinking some water and cleaning off the grit and sweat renewed my energy a bit, and I took to the Melbourne streets. The hot, sticky weather and roads crowded with rush-hour traffic certainly didn’t evoke images of sitting down to a turkey dinner. Instead, I celebrated Thanksgiving with a meal at a Korean restaurant.

I walked in to find wooden tables and benches, each adorned with a woven mat to mark the seat. A large wooden mask, grinning theatrically, occupied the wall nearby, and very good jazz was playing on the sound system. After taking in the décor, I couldn’t help noticing that I was the only white, non-Korean-speaking person in the restaurant. I was perfectly content with that, taking it as a sign that the food was authentic and delicious.

I ordered a spicy BBQ beef soup and a beer. After drinking that, the complimentary tea and an entire jug of water, I finally replenished all the fluids I’d lost from my extensive bike ride and walk. I was pleasantly surprised when the server brought over some small plates of side dishes. One was rice. One tasted like crab meat. One looked like un-breaded onion rings and may or may not have been kimchee. One looked like a cross-section of a pickled devilled egg. It wasn’t an egg, but it was deliciously pickled.

The soup, when it arrived after I’d sampled the other foods, was incredibly spicy. There was a profusion of red pepper flakes floating in the broth. I think both my manner of eating it and the fact that I was eating it proved amusing to everyone in close proximity. One man sitting at a table behind me said something in Korean to a server who was standing in front of me. She nodded and immediately brought a stack of napkins over to me and laid them next to my plate.

I was a little concerned at this. Granted, I couldn’t always manage to pile the unbelievably long, clear noodles onto my spoon in their entirety. I was forced to discreetly slurp the ends. I splattered a tiny bit. But were my manners really so bad that someone else felt it necessary to ask for extra napkins on my behalf? When I paid, I began to think that the request had more to do with the fact that the food was hot. The server who’d brought the supply of napkins asked, “You like spicy food?” I’d like to think there was a hint of admiration in her voice.
“Yes, I really do,” I confirmed. I react very visibly to spicy foods, with my face assuming quite vivid shades. The observer probably guessed I was sweating as well. I realised how red my face must have been when I walked outside and noted the rush of cool air against my cheeks.

It was quite a delicious, if slightly non-traditional, Thanksgiving meal. It was the first I’d had that didn’t feature turkey and all the usual sides. Despite being in Ireland for Thanksgiving last year, I’d kept fairly close to the typical Thanksgiving meal. Mimi and I cooked turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing and lemon and asparagus pasta for ourselves and shared with our Australian friend Janice. I would have been really upset last year if I hadn’t stuck to that food tradition.

This year I didn’t mind doing something different. Maybe it was the summer weather here. Maybe it was the 17-hour time difference, which meant that it actually wasn’t yet Thanksgiving on my Thursday. Maybe I’ve grown used to celebrating major American holidays in other countries. But I was happy enough to celebrate in my own way. I did miss my family and friends and the holiday spirit. But I’ll be reunited with everyone soon enough. I’m thankful that this Thanksgiving proved to be a unique experience I’ll never forget.