Adiós / Au revoir / Ciao / Zàijiàn / Tạm biệt / Alvida Intrepid

When I first landed an editorial gig in April at a respected travel company my brain bubbled at the prospect of writing about a universally loved subject. Beats the hell out of waxing poetic about OTC antacids or sleep apnea devices, both subjects of credulous creativity in my professional past. It was inevitable that the novelty of describing small group travel destinations would wear off; what wasn't inevitable was a growing appreciation for the culture of Intrepid Travel's corporate office in Melbourne's CBD, and a genuine respect for the people I got to call colleagues.

This photo (left) was taken Friday night in the 'beer garden' section of the Intrepid office, which inhabits the entire 7th floor of a Collins Street highrise. At 4 pm on Fridays the company provides a fridge-full of beer, cider and wine in its vast kitchen area, to which the beer garden is adjacent. The gentleman beside me is Mark Hewitt, of the Ringwood Hewitts (sorry for that, mate). When I joined Intrepid's brochure team I'd been freelance writing for years and was still doing overnight shifts as an Uber driver but had not held a full-time office gig since a comically bad stint with Optus in North Sydney in 2007. Fair to say I was trepiditious about fitting in as a rusty 51 year old. To use one of Mark's favourite expressions, 'this fuckin' guy' was as helpful and patient as anyone I've ever worked with, regardless of the field. I thanked him in front of the team on Friday, my final day at Intrepid, and I'm thanking him again on my goddamned blog because everyone should be as lucky to have a guy like this beside him/her when you feel like a bridge troll in an office full of young, smart and disturbingly attractive men and women.

Parramatta Yankee was once a means to show people back home what life was like in Australia but I stopped doing that when my life became something I disliked. So consider this a throwback post. Here's a chronological look at my first experience as a Melbourne CBD Working Boy, starting with a South Melbourne sunrise snapped in April (below) and ending with photos from my final day on Friday.

As I was still Ubering in April I'd park in South Melbourne, have a coffee and chin wag with Dave at Jimmy the Saint, and walk to the Intrepid office on Collins Street. One morning the sky over Southbank, which sits across the Yarra River from Melbourne's CBD, glowed cotton-candy pink.

Piano man Julian and I became fast friends even before he invited several folks from Intrepid and I to a Sunday afternoon lunch at he and his wife Meera's home in Clayton. Neesha, their oldest child, is propped upon Meera's lap, while Lucy, one of the Outstanding Humans of Intrepid, sits alongside.

After realising working 9-5 and leasing a car for Uber was a hamster wheel of financial futility, I returned the car and began taking the train to Flinders Street Station and walking to the office near Spencer Street on the western edge of the CBD. On this morning, menacing clouds gathered over the CBD.

Morning view of the pedestrian bridge to Southbank.

Steps of the Immigration Museum on Flinders Street painted in support of the Yes vote in Australia's ridiculous (non-binding) referendum on marriage equality. Here's hoping Aussies do what their gutless representatives cannot: acknowledge the rights of fellow citizens to marry the partner of his/her choice. Pretty fucking simple.

If a Southern Cross train was about to pull out of Flinders Street as my Sandringham line train arrived (perhaps the most Melbourne-centric collection of words I've ever typed) I'd hop on to save a few minutes. Here's the view looking north at the CBD, featuring a prominent Immigration Museum.

A new chi-chi restaurant seems to pop up on Chapel Street every week, but every now and then I'd get off the train at Windsor and determine a beer and (chicken) burger were necessary and head to the nearby hipster-free Parlour Diner for a healing dose.

On the subject of healing doses ... while full-time colleagues are seemingly happy with Friday beers, my fellow contractors and I expanded the range to include spirits. In this case, the favourite spirit of Liz, the woman in the 'Home Is Toronto' sweatshirt, whose workspace was opposite my own.

Walking back to my St Kilda East apartment through a moody Alma Park.

Exceptionally ordinary apartment buildings on Flinders Street.

As I've lived in proximity to Australia's finest bagels for ten years in Balaclava, I was hesitant to visit a bagel shop near the office favoured by my colleagues. After overcoming my bias I quickly became a fan of NJ-native Zev's shop, called 5 and Dime Bagel, especially when I went in one day and he was wearing a t-shirt reading 'Boonton Coffee Co'.

To celebrate the conclusion of a successful 'brochure season', Intrepid organised an afternoon of lawn bowls at the Melbourne Bowls Club in Flagstaff Gardens. Thanks again, Belinda.

On Friday the rising sun glowed bright down Fulton Street as I began a final morning commute.

My last morning as first (or second) into the office.

I could write a few thousand words about 'Tin of Win', a Friday tradition of the Intrepid marketing department. For the purposes of this blog post, however, I'll stick to the basics: If something good happened during a workweek, we'd jot it down on a slip of paper and shove it in a tin. At around 4:30 the dept would gather, drinks in hand, pull random slips from the tin, and read them aloud. On my final day I was humbled by both the quantity and subject matter of many of those slips of paper, especially this one -- kudos to whoever perfectly described my 'generally marketable voice-over-voice'.

Amen. (Thanks, Cluny.)

Dusk view in the beer garden. Outstanding Humans of Intrepid Pippa, Emily and Justin are barely visible in foreground shadow.

On Saturday morning I pulled this, a departing gift from Home Is Toronto Liz, from my backpack and placed it in a place of prominence. I'll do the same with memories of my six months at Intrepid. 

In Southbank, a Brushtail becomes a Maltese Terrier.

My long-handled net has caught brushtails, ringtails, ducks, ducklings, Magpies, Wattlebirds, Lorikeets, Sulphur Crested Cockatoos, Fairy Penguins, a Goshawk, Black Swans, Tawny Frogmouths, and more. But never a dog. Until today.

Here's the tale.

A Southbank resident called Wildlife Victoria to report an injured brushtail in her apartment building's courtyard. I went to the heavily congested neighborhood just over the Yarra River from Melbourne's CBD, searched the courtyard, but didn't find a brushtail. Walking back to my car I glimpsed a grey and white Maltese Terrier just as it turned a corner. I followed and saw it walking quickly along a sidewalk before making a sharp right and crossing the street. No look, no pause, no street savvy whatsoever. Just, seemingly, a four-legged death wish. I caught up and noticed its hair was dirty and its skin appeared dry and balding on its back. Tried to get close but it moved away each time. It walked with a purpose and the miniscule portion of my brain marked 'Optimistic' took this as a sign it knew where it was going and wasn't as sad and lost and clueless as it appeared.

Then I watched it casually launch itself into four lanes of traffic -- which drew shouts from a pair of jabbering office workers who paused to watch the dog reach the other side without any intervention on their part -- and so ran back to my car to gave chase. I tore down the road I'd last seen but the road turned left at a Mercedes Benz warehouse and dead-ended at a closed intersection with 8-lane Kings Way. Of course this fearless or suicidal Maltese Terrier was making a bee-line for one of Melbourne's most traveled north-south roadways. I stomped the accelerator and roared to the end of the street, hopped out, grabbed my net from the rear of the car, and prayed I wouldn't spot the dog dodging Kings Way trucks and taxis. Or worse.

Didn't spot it on Kings Way. Matter of fact I'd lost sight of it completely.

I ran to the left and -- blessed Jesus Mary and Joseph -- spotted it walking on a sidewalk beside Kings Way and back in the direction of the apartment building where this misadventure began. It was clearly directionless and moving for the sake of not sitting still. As the dog paused near a group of young men doing something noisy and athletic I snuck behind it and brought my net down over its disheveled frame. It tried to flee but couldn't. Unlike most of the wild animals I net it never barked, never snapped, didn't even bare its teeth. I picked it up with the net over its body as the men stared but said nothing. I brought the dog to my car and placed it in a Wildlife Victoria animal carrier.

Now what?

Called WV and asked a wise emergency phone operator (EPO) named Ellie about the best place to bring a stray dog in Melbourne. We all know most animal shelters are grossly under-budgeted and can't hold animals for long and I was already developing great affection for this Maltese Terrier. Ellie suggested Lort Smith Animal Hospital, one of Melbourne's best and a place I've brought many injured animals to as a WV volunteer. Drove to its North Melbourne location and was directed to an upstairs dog kennel. Told my story of the dog's capture to a magnificent Lort Smith staff member named Kate who immediately pulled out a Gene Roddenberry-esque microchip reader and placed it against the dog. A few keystrokes later and we learned our stray was a 14-year-old female named Boots whose listed address was in country Victoria, far from inner-city Southbank.

Something changed with this information. Working with wildlife obviously means interacting with undocumented animals, creatures that exist in a purgatory between humankind and nature. The only information available is derived from observing and diagnosing their immediate behaviour, physical characteristics and, too often, mortal wounds. This crazy-ass dog was now an old timer with a silly name, a pet who'd somehow found herself seeking comfort on cold, wet and windy days and nights in a part of Melbourne criss-crossed by busy roadways and highway off-ramps. I suddenly felt protective of Boots and furious with her owners, who'd failed at protecting her from a potentially nasty fate in a merciless city.

Kate made several phone calls and began piecing together a scenario of a divorced couple who'd either given the dog up, lost her or, even worse, abandoned her. Another magnificent Lort Smith staff member named Lisa came over and rubbed behind Boots's ears as I held her in my lap. The dog had been stiff and nervous when I first took her from the carrier but after a few minutes of stroking and being called by her name she relaxed, most likely for the first time since finding herself on her own. I loudly opined about appropriate punishments for poor animal stewardship while Kate found a warm, quiet place for Boots to rest away from the kennel's barking dogs. I filled out the necessary paperwork and made it known Boots had a home with Aradhna and I if she went unclaimed. The role of social worker was obviously old hat to Kate as she allowed me to vent my anger while she left voicemails with strangers about Boots's discovery and temporary encampment at Lort Smith.

The clock was ticking. But not for long.

Two hours after returning from North Melbourne I discovered a voicemail on my phone. It was Kate. Boots's owner -- a "lovely guy" -- had come and collected his dog. He'd told Kate the dog had been missing for two days after someone had attempted to steal his car and Boots had chased after the wannabe thief and the owner had been searching for her and was "very, very happy" to have his dog back.

As he should be.

I miss her like mad.