Good Morning, Miss America!

A few entries back Matt wrote about his commute from Melbourne to Minneapolis, a trip he makes quarterly for work. Many of you know how I used to travel weekly for work, mostly to sexy hot spots like Green Bay, Omaha, and St. Louis. Moving to Melbourne meant I got off the road, although I have taken the occasional business trip to Sydney (hmmm, never imaged stringing THAT phrase together).

Now a typical commute for me means walking a ½ block to the tram stop. I never look at the schedule like Matt does, I just walk to the corner and wait for one to come. Often this means I walk part of the way and then I hear the screech of the tram wheels along the track as it makes a turn right before my stop and I break into a ridiculous gallop with my briefcase banging against my leg as I “run” along the sidewalk (or footpath as it’s known here). Right before I turn onto the main street (and before my lungs burst) I slow to a walk and casually come around the corner where the other commuters are waiting. This happens most days. Because we are one of the first stops, I’m usually lucky enough to get a seat, pull out my blackberry and catch up on emails. Nearly everyone else is reading, listening to their iPod or both. I must be a Luddite but when did iPods get to be so popular? Everyone has one. The tram is a sea of silent head-bobbing to the separate rhythms. Even people, like, waaaay older than me have them. What are they listening to, I wonder? Is the old Greek woman with the moustache dressed head to toe in black a 50 Cent fan? Sometimes people play their “music” so loud I can hear it - one woman listened to the same Kelly Clarkson song THREE times IN A ROW. I looked at her and (telepathically) said, “Hey, I know what you’re doing there. I KNOW you’ve played the same song three times. And, you know, not even a GOOD song.”

The best part of my commute is getting my flat white. In Australia, they have a different name for every sort of coffee, short black (espresso), long black (regular coffee), or flat white which is I guess like a latte (coffee and hot milk) but not really a latte as lattes are also on the menu - they’re called “lattes”. After I alight from my tram I go to a little Italian restaurant for my morning coffee. The two guys behind the counter, Michael and Angelo, wear black pants, white shirts, and black aprons. Angelo is the one who makes my coffee. He didn’t acknowledge me until I had been there about, oh, 30 times or so, but now I get a smile and a “Hello signora!” from him. Michael on the other hand greets me every morning with “Good Morning, Miss America!” Some days he sings to me: “Nothing like the old songs”, he always says. Dean Martin, Tom Jones, and sometimes, if I’m lucky, an old Italian opera that I don’t understand the words to and, frankly, Michael doesn’t know the words to so it’s sort of a dah dee lala laaaaa dah sort of thing. Regardless, a great way to start my day.