Brunswick Library, Melbourne, 11.45am, 7 August 2014

As my niece slides around the children’s library on two books she has fashioned to her feet like ice-skates and I laugh but probably shouldn’t, my attention is drawn to an interaction between two three-year-olds nearby. The bigger boy has just ripped a toy bear belonging to the library away from a boy named Jake and is yelling “Mine! My turn!” Jake reaches out longingly towards the bear but finally gives up saying, “Ok, but my turn next?” The big boy agrees reluctantly, then whisks the bear away and starts ramming its head into a bookshelf. Jake sits quietly pretending to read a book but really watching the bear, clearly concerned for its safety.

It doesn’t take long for the boy to get bored and drop the bear and then Jake is on his feet, running towards it. He picks it up, cradles it and smiles. The big boy, now frisbeeing DVDs across the room, notices and isn’t happy. He grabs the bear back and yells, “No, my turn!” Jake takes a firm hold of the bear’s legs and starts screaming “No. My turn! My turn!” until the whole library is ringing with it.

Enter Jake’s mum with her cropped blonde hair and all day exercise gear. She’s always either just been at the gym or just about to go to the gym. Or has/is she? We’ll never know. That’s why they wear it.

Jake’s mum grips his arm and says “Jake stop it! Give that bear back”.

“Not fairsies”, I say mutter my breath but, as per the Eaves Droppers’ Code of Ethics, don’t intervene.

“Say you’re sorry” she says. “But mummy listen, it’s my turn”, says Jake starting to cry. “Give it back”, she yells viciously. Jake returns the bear and says “I’m sorry”.

Fast forward 25 years and Jake is sitting in the living room waiting for his girlfriend, Danielle, to come home. As she stumbles down the hallway he stands to meet her, “Where have you been Danielle?”

“With the girls”

“Don’t lie. I know what you’re doing”.

“What? What am I doing?”

“Cheating on me”.

“Yeah, that’s right. I am”, she slurs. “You know why?”

“No”.

“Because you’re fat. You’re a fat boy”.

Jake looks down.

“Now you say it”, she says. Danielle morphs into Jakes mother, standing before him in a matching Lorna Jane running ensemble.   

“I’m a fat boy’, says Jake.

“Now say you’re sorry”.

“I’m sorry you cheated on me”.

Climbing into bed in the spare room that night, Jake takes Bear firming in his arms and whispers ‘My turn’. Danielle’s body is never found.

Or he could be fine and live out a happy, fulfilling life. We’ll never know.

Splendour in the Grass Music Festival, Byron Bay, Australia, 11.55am, 27 July 2014

A security guard behind an inadequate barrier yells “Stay back!” at eight 19-year-old girls holding hands and wearing matching high-fanny denim shorts and tucked in singlet tops, as is the fashion. The ring leader, the tallest girl whose shorts that are so high I fear for the safety of her anus, yells back “We’re going to run! We’re firsties!” and then to everyone behind her, “Sorry guys, fan girls right here”. Meanwhile a man with dreadlocks has simply walked around the barrier and is heading off towards the stage. The security guard yells “Go back” but he just says “Oh fuck off mate, I’m going to the dunny” and doesn't even look back.

One of the eight girls catches my eye. While the others squeal, she looks around, unsure. Every now and again she lets out a 'wooooooo' but it's completely manufactured. She’s been listening to this band for weeks, like a chore, but she just doesn’t get it. It's electronic, or something, and the lyrics don’t make sense. “I think it might be bad”, she says to herself but quickly suppresses the idea. It can’t be if everyone else loves it and in any case she’s not letting on to tall Jenny who screams out “Oh my god, I’m so excited. Think I’m going to cry”. She calls back “Me toooooooo”.

Such is my commitment to the eaves drop that I know when they run, I must run also. So I hitch my jeans up at the front until I feel a burn followed by a worrying numbing, as is the fashion, and then conduct a number of leg stretches. At 11.59 the security guard moves the barrier aside and then we are all running. I’m screaming. I don’t know why. I’m thirty five. I look over at my uncertain friend, frowning and being dragged along by the girl next to her. I want to grab her hand and say “Run with me. Keep running and don’t stop. We will run away from here, beyond the stage and over the hills, for I am you and you are me and there is other music. There is country music. You will learn about it in five years time from your boyfriend who’ll leave you in the end to move to Berlin but don’t think about that now, just run. I AM THE FUTURE”. But that’s the sort of thing that can get you trouble with the authorities. So instead we slam into the stage and an 18 year old boy with pimples holding a guitar yells into the microphone “Splendour! You are my people!” and then starts playing some dreadful song about his feelings while we all comfort Jenny as she sobs.   

Keswick, Lake District, UK, 8:15am, Monday 3 September 2012.

Keswick, Lake District, UK, 8:15am, Monday 3 September 2012.

The breakfast table next to me at this B&B in the Lake District in England is made up of four women; two quite elderly and two middle-aged. Once hearing their Australian accents my eaves are immediately lowered. Straight away I pin them as two elderly sisters traveling with their daughters. I didn't know any of their names at this point in the story but one of them is now etched in my memory for all time. Dale. Poor silly Dale. Dale who spoiled breakfast. Dale who ruined the holiday. Dale.

The conversation between the women started out so pleasantly, too pleasantly, if you ask me. I'm always suspicious of families that are pleasant to one another around the dinner table. Have they only just met or what?

As is my habit (see previous blog) I decided that this family of women was from rural Australia. Wealthy rural Australia, that is. I pictured one of those rich farming areas of South Australia where the same family has been on the land for generations. All of the children in the family would have gone down to boarding school in Adelaide. When they returned to town on school holidays they would get all the good jobs, like in the video shop, and commit sexual assaults on their days off.

One of the children in the family was up for discussion that morning in the B&B. Martin was not the son of either of the middle aged women but was definitely a grandson of one of the elderly women. Having just finished at boarding school he had decided to return to town and (take a deep breath) TAKE UP A TRADE. An anxious discussion followed about how, of course, a trade was a wonderful thing and how we all needed tradesmen, such wonderful money these day and opportunities, yes, more young men needed a trade.

It was at this point in the conversation that things took a nasty turn. Breakfast arrived and was placed in front of each of the women. Dale received hers last. She looked down at hers and then quickly looked around at everyone else’s. Then, just as everyone picked up a knife and fork to begin eating, she said, “I ordered two sausages and I don’t have any on my plate”. The other women looked around at one another. Dale’s cousin (let’s call her Carol) had two sausages on her plate. So did Dale’s mother. Carol said, “Well, I definitely ordered sausages”. Dale’s mother said, “So did I. I’m not sure what’s happened Dale”.

Thinking that was the end of the matter, the three women at the table began cutting up their food and applying salt and pepper, but Dale was not finished. She raised her voice, “No stop! Everyone please put down your knives and forks. Who has my sausages?” The women froze. Carol sighed deeply. This obviously wasn’t the first outburst from Dale on the holiday. How long had these poor women been travelling together? Crammed into a rented Hyundai two-door hatchback driving around rural England. It all seems so cheap when you book online (only £22 a day!) until you’re jet-lagged and jammed in the back next to a loathed family member, unable to feel your legs. All holidays sound so good in theory. “Who has my sausages?” repeated Dale, getting more and more worked up.

I liked Carol. She held her own. I think she’d had a shit load of Dale in her life. Not just this holiday but years of Christmas’ handing over brand new kites and books to a screaming Dale so everyone could finally enjoy their lunch. Not anymore. “No”, said Carol, “These are my sausages. I ordered them”. Dale’s mother joined in, “Yes, and these are mine”.

Silence. A stalemate. No one ate or moved. The fourth woman said nothing and looked down at her plate. I could barely dip my soldier into my egg I was shaking so much.

“Well then”, said Dale, “I guess we’ll have to get the man”.

Oh no. Not ‘The Man’.   

‘The Man’ in this instance was the poor bloke trying to look after the eight breakfast tables in the room. He was run off his feet trying to get everyone’s breakfast all at once. Dale summonsed him to the table, “Is everything ok?” he asked, still cheerful. “No, not really”, said Dale, “I ordered two sausages and I don’t seem to have any on my plate”. “Right”, he said looking at the sausages on the other women’s plates. Carol said quickly, “I definitely ordered two sausages”. Dale’s mother said, “So did I”.

“I’m pretty sure there were only two breakfasts ordered with sausages”, said The Man. “Would you like to see the docket I wrote it down on?”

“Yes I would”, said Dale. Carol rolled her eyes.

The docket was produced. It was true. Only two breakfasts had been ordered with sausages. Dale started in on The Man, “Do you remember me ordering one of the breakfasts with sausages?

“I’m very busy”, said The Man. “I can’t remember every order I take”.

Dale started whining, “This isn’t fair. I ordered sausages and now I have to sit here and …”

Dale was suddenly cut off. Her mother threw her head into her hands, let out a cry of frustration and almost collapsed onto the table. “Stop Dale”, she yelled, “Just please stop. We can’t stand it anymore”.

Everyone in the room stopped.

“Pass me your plate”, said Dale’s mum. Dale did nothing. “PASS ME THE PLATE”, she repeated.

Me, The Man, Carol, Carol’s mother and several other guests all watched as a woman in her fifties passed her eighty year old mother her breakfast plate and had two sausages scraped onto it.

“See”, said Dale, “That wasn’t so hard”.

Breakfast at the women’s table was eaten in silence. Dale was the first to finish and head back to her room. Only moments after she’d left, Carol turned to Dale’s mother and said “I daren’t raise it in front of her but there’s the matter of Dale’s share of the rental car”. “I’ll pay it”, said Dale’s mum, “Just tell me how much it is and I’ll pay it”.  Carol gave her a supportive rub on the back and headed up the stairs. Dale’s mum stayed on in the breakfast room, staring out the window.

The following morning Amy (my awesome travel companion) and I were leaving the B&B at the same time as the women. Dale’s mum and Carol’s mum struggled down two flights of stairs with their suitcases. Carol helped where she could. Once they were at the bottom and the bill had been paid, Dale appeared from her room.

Dale was a bad egg (with a side serve of sausage).

Chance women ever travelling together again: 5%

Bookshop/Cafe, Oxford St, Sydney, 18 May 2012, 1:30pm

At first I thought that Marcus and Kate (not their reals names) were a couple in their early twenties trying to come to terms with a long distance relationship. Kate had made the move to Sydney to go to university while Marcus had stayed in their home town in rural NSW, possibly to work on his father's farm or sell saddles on the main street (for his father). I got this impression because when they arrived in the cafe Kate said to Marcus "See, this is amazing. You can see why I love it here. You can sit here for hours, peruse the books or have a piece of banana bread. It's so Sydney". "Peruse!" thought Marcus, "That's another new one". She'd probably already said "copious" on the way to the cafe. "We sat around and drank copious amounts of red wine last night".

"Cock head", I thought, when I heard it. But my eaves were already lowered and I was involved. There was no turning back. I opened my book and assumed the "I'm not listening" position.

So Marcus had come to visit Kate in the city for the weekend. It was the first time they'd seen each other since the Christmas holidays and Marcus was having his fears that Sydney was changing his girlfriend confirmed. An awkward break up scene at the bus depot on Sunday afternoon loomed. This is what I'd gleaned from one sentence. That's my favorite part of the drop, the jumping to conclusions at the outset. You then have to stick it out and find out the truth which can be more or less interesting depending on the subjects.

The next thing they talked about was a party that Kate had been to a week before at Zoe's house. Ah Zoe. I wish no one had brought her up.
"Yeah, I've met Zoe", said Marcus.
"When?" said Kate.
 "A couple of times around Uni".

 So he's from the University too. He's not from the country. He might want to stop getting around in flannel shirts and R. M. William boots then, it's a bit confusing for bystanders. Just a suggestion.

Then Kate wondered into some very self-destructive territory. "Yeah Zoe" she said, "She's so gorgeous isn't she?" I let out a sigh. I’d seen this kind of thing before. There was silence from Marcus. "She's one of those people who don't know how attractive they are. She's got absolutely no idea. Don't you reckon?" Two questions for Marcus about Zoe. I'm not sure he had given Zoe much thought before today but here was Kate, forcing him into an opinion about her. "Yeah" said Marcus, trapped. "She kind of does that thing where she acts really clueless".
"What do you mean?" said Kate.
"Like she's in some sort of dream world."
"Is that hot?" snapped Kate.
"A bit", said Marcus.

Oh dear. I signaled for the waiter. “You better give me another one of these Chai Lattes, looks like we’re in for the long haul now”, I said and laughed. He smiled awkwardly, looked at me and then at the empty chair on the other side of my table and said “Yes, looks like it”.

Kate and Marcus sat in silence, staring down at the table. Finally Marcus looked at Kate and said “You’re a bit like that too sometimes”.
“Like what?” said Kate.
“In a little dream world”, said Marcus.

Nice save.

“I had a really nice time last night”, said Marcus and took Kate’s hand. She smiled.

So there you have it, they’d spent the night together. It was becoming blatantly obvious that neither of them was from the country. Nor were they in a long-term relationship. I can’t say I was shocked. A little bit hurt maybe? Confused? Betrayed even? But not shocked. They’d probably just met at a party the night before. Or perhaps they’d met at the University once or twice. He’s doing a Science Degree but has decided to take a couple of Arts subjects on the side for good balance. She’s doing a Commerce Degree and doing a couple extra subjects because it will look good on her resume. Bang! They find themselves together in Russian Revolutions.

Marcus and Kate went on looking deep into each other in the eyes. It was a magical moment. Time stood still in the café/bookshop. Then Kate, I think to everyone’s horror, said, “You know Zoe?”

Oh God please, no more Zoe! Who is she anyway? Why do we have to keep going around and around in circles talking about Zoe? It’s enough to make you want to throw your full Chai Latte at the wall and storm out.

“Yeah”, said Marcus.
“I think she’s like that because her parents are divorced and her Dad’s a real asshole”. Marcus let go of her hand.
“Could be”, said Marcus. “Sometimes when people get divorced…”
Kate quickly cut him off. She was the only authority on Zoe. “Her dad has all these frequent flyer points, like unlimited points because he got injured in a carry-on luggage incident, and he won’t give Zoe any. You can transfer them and he won’t do it”.
“That’s pretty tough, I remember …” Marcus was cut off for the second time.
“She’s so creative, Zoe. She drew this picture of me in the courtyard at Uni in five minutes and it was like a professional had done it”.
“Oh yeah”, said Marcus and took out his phone.

 And just like that, she lost him. I don’t think she realized it then and there. It would probably take until the middle of the week when she sends him a text message and he doesn’t respond. I hope the amazing Zoe is around then. I hope she’s a shoulder to cry on. Or will she be gone? Sketching pictures on the plane to Vanuatu because Daddy’s finally relented. Zoe. Always Zoe.

 I closed my book up and had the last sip of my Chai Latte. There was nothing more I could do for them. They’d lied about being from the country and now Kate had thrown any chance of happiness out the window. As I walked past them towards the exit of the café I whispered “It could have been great”. “What?” said Kate. “This café’s great”, I said.

 And it was.

 Kate and Marcus relationship survival rate: 15%

Anne in Berlin - 20 November 2008

Had the ad for the apartment said: ‘Damp, freezing apartment, miles from no where’ we probably wouldn’t have bothered having a look. It didn’t. It said ‘cosy’, ‘close’ and ‘groovy’ so we traipsed through the sleet at 8pm, which feels like midnight in Berlin because the sun sets at 3pm, only to be sorely disappointed.

The massive picture of someone smoking a bong in the stairwell didn’t bode well but we pushed on up to the eighth floor. When the front door opened, the apartment’s owner was extremely happy to see us, which, in my book of apartment viewing, is always a worry. I smelt desperation.

“Hello! Hello!” she said in a European accent that wasn’t German. “Come in, ja, ja, come in”.

“This is a great apartment’ she continued while ushering us into a living room.

Now I enjoy a bit of fresh air as much as the next person, but strike me down if every window in the place wasn’t open. It was colder in there than outside and the current temperature was -3.

“It’s so nice a breezy ja? Great ja?” she said, pointing to the windows.

‘Great!’ I thought to myself, “Breezy! Maybe if you’re having a balmy summer holiday in Berlin from Iceland”.

“Where are you from?” I asked.

“Holland” she said.

“Must be cold there, is it?”

“No, no”, she replied “Warmer than here”.

Well, this wasn’t making any sense

“So take your jackets off ja and sit down”, she said.

“No, no, no”, Jack and I said, simultaneously shaking our heads.

This confused her. I think she thought we were being very rude.

People are funny about jackets in Berlin. They particularly don’t like it when you leave your jacket on indoors. The other day I visited the National Gallery. When I arrived I checked my jacket into the cloakroom along with everyone else. A couple of hours later I started to feel a bit cold so went back and got it, then happily returned to making my way around the galleries. After about the fourth one, I became aware that the same security guard had been in every gallery I’d visited since putting my jacket back on. Slightly alarmed I quickly left gallery four for gallery five only to find him there again, this time looking at me and talking into his walkie talkie. “Good god!” I thought. “Am I being followed?”

I thought it was the onset of some shocking mental illness which, in all honesty, I’ve been anticipating for several years now. “Oh well”, I though to myself, “You’ve had a good run” and left the gallery in search of a pen. I thought I’d better write Jack’s number on my hand so when I turned up in London in three months time wearing seven overcoats and carrying a cage of pigeons, they’d know who to call.

As I left gallery five for the bookshop, I felt a draft and zipped up my jacket. Suddenly, the security guard, obviously close behind, rushed towards me and started yelling in German and pointing at my Jacket. I couldn’t follow a word of it but unzipping my jacket again made him stop. Evidently he’d thought I was trying to smuggle art work out of the gallery.

“How uncouth!” I said to myself, leaving the place never to return.

Back in the Dutch woman’s apartment, we’d made our way to the bathroom where all the windows were also wide open. Again she pointed out how nice and breezy it was. There was a funny smell in there. It could have been toilet related, and therefore temporary, but I had a feeling that it was a deeper ‘in the walls’ type smell. I was very relieved when she finally moved us on to the kitchen.

‘The heated room’ she called it and thank God for that. She talked about the oven at length and I had to hide my giggling behind my scarf. She’s Dutch … it’s an oven… enough said.

Finally her boyfriend came home with a bottle of wine and invited us to stay for a drink. I felt like we couldn’t take their wine when we had no intention of taking their apartment so we got the hell out of there.

It was great to be back in the warmth of the street.

“Great oven”, I kept saying all the way home, “And so breezy in the living room! Just what you want really’

We’ve decided not to stay on in Berlin.

Anne in Berlin - Saturday 15 November

Jack and I spent Saturday afternoon at Olympic Stadium in Berlin watching the soccer. There were heaps of police around, some in riot gear, which made me feel a bit nervous. I kept thinking about a story that a friend of Jack’s told us about being beaten up in the outer suburbs of Berlin for looking ‘posh’. There were certainly plenty of blokes around who looked like they could beat the living daylights out of you. I tried really hard not to look posh, mainly by walking like a man and looking angry. I think I pulled it off because we made it to our seats safely.

Five minutes into the game I was bored and freezing. I tried to follow the action but my short attention span got the better of me and I started looking for distractions. Eavesdropping on the English couple sitting in front of me helped fill in the time. They thought they were surrounded by non-English speakers so the topics being covered were of a particularly high quality, like how she feels when he keeps catching up with his ex-girlfriend. Bingo!

Then I spotted the most amazing thing. There, through the crowd, a girl was carefully making her way back to her seat from the kiosk carrying the biggest, steaming pretzel I’ve ever seen! I could see its giant grains of salt shimmering under the stadium lights from twenty rows away. Whacky do! Things were looking up.

I started nudging Jack: “Jack, Jack, look at that pretzel! Look how big it is! Oh my god, I think it might hot. Want one?”

Now what I really meant when I said ‘want one?’ was do you want to a) go and get me one or b) come with me while I get one. Jack’s been learning German and knows how to order things. I’m hopeless and didn’t like my chances of finding an English speaker at the soccer kiosk.

Jack, without looking away from the soccer, said: ‘Nup, I’m fine’.

Reluctantly I got out of my seat and headed for the kiosk and I’d almost made it when the half time whistle went. Suddenly, out of every stairwell and doorway, came thousands of men, all holding empty litre beer jugs and charging towards the kiosk. I decided this probably wasn’t the best time to stand at the top of the queue drawing a picture of a giant pretzel and returned to my seat.

Berlin scored a couple of goals at the start of the second quater and I got involved in some terrific German-style knee-slapping dancing to music that went ‘Dum, dum, dee, dum, dum, dee dum dum, dee, dum’. The excitement made me temporarily forget my giant, twisted friend.

Not for long.

“You know what would have made that even sweeter?” I asked Jack upon returning to our seats after the second round of slapping.

“What?” he said.

“A giant pretzel”.

“Just go and get one”, he said.

So off I trotted once more. This time the kiosk was deserted. I went straight up and asked the lady behind the counter if she spoke English.

“Nine” she said.

So then I did what I always do when they say that and started speaking English with a German accent.

“Do you ave zie pretzel?”

“Vas?” she said.

“You know, zie preeeetzel”.

“Ah, brezel”.

“Yes, yes!” I shouted.

I started hopping around from foot to foot and chanting “Brezel! Brezel!” while she smiled in amusement. There was a real air of celebration around our shared understanding.

Then her face changed. Suddenly she became very serious and said “Nine brezel. Nine, nine”

“But…”

“Nine brezel” she repeated.

“But I …”

The guy behind her, probably sick to death of me by this stage, shouted out, “Nine Brezel. Brezel over. All finish. Over!”

I returned to my seat empty-handed.

“Where’s your pretzel?” Jack asked.

“Um, it’s called a brezel and they’ve sold out”.

He put his arm around me and said: “Come on, we’ll get you a nice donut on the way home”.

“Can you order it?” I said.

Anne in Berlin - 10 November 2008

It’s very difficult to exercise in Berlin but there is no shortage of jam-filled donuts. Everyone here eats cakes all day long, or hotdogs, or pizzas covered in speck (like bacon but fattier) but no one is fat. What is going on?



I want a piece of the action of course. I also want a piece of every type of strudel available at the market but don’t want to go home morbidly obese. I can’t afford two tickets for the plane.

The first barrier to exercise I’ve come across is pants. Pants are an ongoing issue for me. I went to the Galeria, which is like Myer, to buy a tracksuit. The pants alone were 80 euros. That’s about 160 Australian dollars. I couldn’t believe it and refused to pay.

The next day I went out jogging in a pair of threadbare leggings I’ve had for about eight years. It was about six degrees and lots of people were staring at me. When I got back my thighs were cold for about two hours. I just couldn’t get them warm, even when I sat on the heater covered in a doona. I thought I might have to have my legs amputated. The following day I got a cold that lasted a week.

Then I tried to go to the gym. It was practically empty when I entered. I asked the lady behind the counter how much it was for a day pass and she said “25 Euros”. I said “I’m sorry, are you sure?” and she said “Yes, of course”. I thought the poor woman was having trouble with her English so I got a piece of paper and wrote “25 Euros” on it and showed it to her. She said “Yes, why not?”

WHY NOT? That’s about 50 Australian dollars to go to the gym for one day.

It was too much for me. I started crying and yelling at everyone in there “What’s your secret huh? How come everyone eats donuts in this country but no one gets fat? Yet no one can afford to go to the gym and no one goes jogging in leggings. How come only foreigners and old people get fat?”

I was still screaming “I know what you’re up to” when the police arrived.

Well, that’s what I wish I’d said. Instead I said ‘ok’ and went across the road for a nice jam-filled donut and strudel chaser.