Melbourne doesn’t tiptoe, it makes an entrance (we have that in common). Cold wind, rain slick streets, neon bouncing off puddles on Toorak Road in South Yarra. I barely dropped my bag before slipping into France Soir, the French bistro that has anchored the neighborhood for decades. Thursday night, 9:30pm, and the place was in full throttle, the hum of regulars filling the room. I ordered oysters, briny and icy, and let the energy swallow me whole.
Friday opened loud at South Melbourne Market, a place that thrives on abundance. Duck from Baba, rich and gamey. Prawns eaten standing, salt dripping down my hands. Cheeses that cut sharp and melt slow, fragrant and unapologetic. At Moses & Co., a tucked-away shop that feels like an apothecary, I stocked up on tinctures and teas and supplements - and my favorite toothpaste.
From there I shifted gears, walking to the National Gallery of Victoria. An exhibit of Japanese kimonos floated in quiet light, soft as whispers, impossible to ignore. The hush of the gallery dissolved into the frenzy at Mecca’s new flagship, a glittering palace of beauty where every counter shimmered with possibility (and I’ll admit, it touched my insecurity). Dinner was a debate: Supernormal or Cookie. Supernormal whispered polish; Cookie shouted fire. I went with the shout. Inside, the room buzzed, betel leaf bombs bursting, kingfish crudo bright and shiny. Cookie didn’t just feed me, it sparked me right up.
On Saturday, I stretched south to the Mornington Peninsula. At Polperro Winery, rows of vines rolled toward a horizon painted in blue, brown, and grey, the tasting room urging slow motion. After a lunch that lingered into the afternoon, I hiked the Quarantine Station trail at Point Nepean National Park. Ten kilometers of cliffs and wind, the ocean roaring below, fort ruins clinging to the edge. Salt tangled in my hair, and freedom hung in the air.
For my last day, I softened the tempo in Red Hill. Yoga mat rolled out beside a fireplace at The Hut, coffee at Nordie, and quiet before the long trip ahead.
Rain returned for the drive to Tullamarine, Melbourne’s final dramatic flourish. The plane clawed through heavy cloud, engines straining against a headwind so fierce it dragged us backward, stretching the return to Bali into six long hours and ten restless minutes. I finished Careless People and dove into Atmosphere by Taylor Jenkins Reid.
Melbourne had the last word: indulgent, unpredictable, unforgettable, good thing that’s what I like.
