When I arrived in Melbourne, I thought I had rarely seen such an ugly city. The drive in from the airport yielded views of architecturally uninspiring tall buildings, tagged underpasses, ugly apartment buildings in primary color blocks. Of course, everything looks ugly after not enough sleep and negotiating unfamiliar trains and airports. Breakfast on the 6:45 a.m. flight was especially ugly – pre-mixed muesli (granola) and yogurt with some sort of gelatinous berry goo and sour coffee. And when I disembarked at Southern Cross Station (at least the name was cool), I was overwhelmed with diesel fumes. The train system in Melbourne is still petroleum fueled – at least trams are electric. Thank heavens I was able to get a cup of coffee and a ham and cheese croissant which both tasted like Cordon Bleu.

    I had heard quite a lot about how wonderful the public transportation system was in Melbourne, but when I got on the train, I was not impressed. Diesel. Slow. Ugly stations. Tagged walls. Weedy tracks. A freight train on the next track over.  Nontheless, I arrived at Bentleigh East, the location of my house sitting gig at the appointed time, found a seat by a bus stop, called the home owner, and settled in to wait.

    In July, I had learned of a web site called Housecarers.com which offers services to those looking for house sitters and those looking to house sit. I registered immediately, and realized that this was the perfect way to make my travel dollar go farther. On the site, I posted a profile and references as well as a sort of ad for my services that includes how I am the perfect person to watch over some stranger in a foreign country’s property while they’re on holiday.  The site sends updates to my email address daily listing house sitting opportunities in areas that I’ve set in my preferences. From there, I can respond to any house sitting requests. Joining the service cost me $50. I figured that if I got even one house sitting job through the site, I would have made my money back. I’ve made my money back a hundred-fold.

    In late August, I finally confirmed two house sitting jobs in the Melbourne area and was ecstatic – virtually the entire month of November was covered. Knowing that lodging expenses would be low for at least part of the time and certain that I’d find more, I bought my ticket. A week later, both gigs cancelled. Two months later, while I was in Sydney, one of the people sent me an email asking if I still might be available. Of course!

    The homeowner and her 4-year-old son collected me from the bus station after a swimming lesson.  I don’t want to share her name… and think it would be awkward to call her “home owner” or h.o., so I’ll call her … Linda. Ok. Linda and I and her son zipped down to her lovely home. The suburb, Bentleigh East, is in the band of farthest south inner suburbs. Post-World War II homes of sand-colored brick line the streets.  The front yards, or gardens, are lovely, planted with roses and kangaroo paw and hosta and other plants that I recognized but can’t name. Most have fences (many of them picket) and pretty little front gates. Streets are quiet once the parade of uniformed kids heading off to school passes.

    Once Linda opened the front gate, I was greeted by a ball of Otis, who is a Shitzu/Maltese cross of nearly 14 years. (That’s 91 for you and me!) I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not a small dog fan. Yes, I had a Pembroke Welsh Corgi, but he wasn’t a small dog. And no, he didn’t think he was a big dog. He was a big dog, in a small package. Anyway. Little dogs don’t seem like dogs to me. They seem more like … ummm…toys. But Otis was something else. The first day that we were there alone, he snapped at me repeatedly. At that point, neither of us was impressed by the other.  But his desire for walks every morning belied his age, even while his unreliable ability to hold his bladder overnight reminded me of his dog years. On day two I heard a shuffling and snuffling in the little boy’s room. Otis had the bean bag chair by a corner and had dragged it out into the hall. For fun? His bed wasn’t comfortable enough? He looked terribly disappointed yet unrepentant when I closed the bedroom door and he had to content himself with pushing his bed and blanket around. I didn’t find it as cute when, on day three, he smelled the vitamins in my bag and went after the ones in the Ziplock bags. I disposed of the ones dark with dog spit, and called him a little shit. He took it in stride. We worked through it. By day four he had figured out that he was stuck with me, and started following me from room to room, happy to get pets. We parted good friends.

    Since I was out in the ‘burbs, I didn’t go in to the city once. But I did explore the shopping areas around Bentleigh, walking the 30-40 minutes down Centre Road in the morning to get a decaf flat white (latte, no foam) and walking back in time for lunch. Days passed with getting breakfast, going for our walk, showering up, walking downtown for a coffee, walking back for lunch, starting the car, getting the mail, checking email and writing, getting dinner. I watched a movie every night I was there – saw all three of the Godfather movies. (Okay, I only watched half of Godfather III. Puh-leez. Coppola was right – it was over after the second one.)Saw Mama Mia (finally). Marly and Me. (I cried.)  A much needed change from the communal living of a hostel in an inner suburb in Sydney. So grateful. Thank you, Otis’ mom and dad. 

*

    While Otis and I were hanging out, I found another house sit closer to the city in Richmond. It’s one of the inner suburbs right by the Melbourne Cricket Grounds, which include much more than the cricket grounds – like the stadium where the Olympics were held in 1956 – that’s right, they had ‘em before Sydney did, the first in the Southern Hemisphere.  It’s where football (rugby to you and me) and soccer are played, where concerts are held (Foo Fighters the other night).  I walked past the grounds in a downpour (digression alert!) to meet Mylo’s mom and dad and get the cat’s stamp of approval.

    Speaking of downpour:  Everyone I talked to in Sydney sang the praises of Melbourne’s culture and less frenzied pace. And every time I asked one of them why they didn’t live there, they shuddered and said, “The weather.” As the saying goes in Melbourne, if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes, it’ll change. They also say that in Melbourne, you can experience all four seasons in one day. Sort of a bonus plan. My acquaintances in Palm Springs told me that when they were here for the Australian Open tennis tournament, the temperature dropped 30 degrees in one hour.  If the Spring weather in Sydney was like a woman trying to decide between the red strappy sandals and the Ugg boots, Melbourne’s weather has been like a woman switching between her bikini and parka –then wearing both, just in case. The other day, I found myself wearing sunglasses and carrying an umbrella. I needed both. At the same time.

    So I showed up on Mylo’s doorstep looking rather like a semi-drowned two –legged something or other, was invited in by his dad (cute guy … then I met his girlfriend, who was also really cute, and skinny, and has great hair), and then I met Mylo, who was cute, too, and also has great hair. I heard him before I saw him. He came trotting in from the other room, meowing, walked up to me, flopped over on his side, then rolled onto his back.

    “Uh – does he want his belly rubbed?” I’m sure I sounded more than surprised.

    “Yeah. He’s really friendly.”

    And so he is.

    Yet another advantage to being The Lone Traveler with No Set Itinerary: I got the job, partially because I happened to be have a flexible enough schedule to get there first. I stayed for about 45 minutes, got the tour of the two-story 19^th century townhome and left with a key. They were even okay with me coming in a day late; their neighbor would take care of Mylo for one day.

    On days one and two, I considered Mylo the most friendly, affectionate, outgoing cat I have ever met, an anomaly among felines who is more remarkable for his resemblance to a canine. I mean, what sort of self-respecting cat rolls over and allows his tummy to be rubbed without latching on to your hand and lacerating it with those back, evil, bunny-like feet?  We meowed to each other (hopefully I wasn’t saying “I want to use your sister as a litter box” in cat) and I did my best to figure out what he was trying to communicate.

    Days three and four, after being awakened by pitiful and LOUD meows at 3:30 a.m., I decided that Mylo, for all his seeming charm, is needy, possessive and a little demanding.

    He has a full and versatile vocabulary, although I am not fluent in conversational cat, and haven’t figured out what each plaintive wail means.  The only inflections I’ve figured out are, “Where have you been?” and, “Let me sit on your computer keyboard and that way I’ll be close enough for you to pet me.”  He has the fullest complement of intonation and pronunciation I’ve encountered from any animal:  meow, meeeow,  mee-ow-ow-ow , mahoww, mrrow, owwwww, roww, rrrrrrreh (rolled ‘r’),  reh, meee, mew, mmm, and on and on. Each is delivered with a different tone, from querulous to pitiful to a tone of deep and abiding sorrow for the plight of cats everywhere. If any cat could meow “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen,” it would be Mylo.

    I’ve tried to get him to relax, even suggested inner kitten work, but he’s quite set in his ways and likes the way things are. And a cat’s really got to want to change.  Today I left, and will miss the guy and his big voice, but not at 3:30 tomorrow morning.

    Thanks to house sitting, as it stands I have paid for exactly two nights of lodging since I got to Melbourne on November 11, a whopping $74. Between house sitting and a thing called Help Exchange, my lodging expenses are minimal. More on Help Exchange and a town called Marlo next.