I have, not too infrequently, re-visited Adelaide since packing my bags and relocating interstate in the summer of 09/10. Whenever I came back to this city in which I studied and first trained as a medical officer, there’s always an equally opposing sense of belonging and alienation. Adelaide, it seems, has become more crowded, and although certain boutiques, certain cafes, and institutional restaurants still dot the city and its fringes, the scenery is slowly but surely changing.
Today, in a rare day back in the city of my alma mater, I got to spend some time with no one else but myself. I took the bus into the city, something which I’ve never needed to do since I used to stay in the city itself. Hopping onto the bus felt strangely discomforting, as if I was a student all over again.
The bus stopped on East Terrace, near the Oyster Bar, where freshly-shucked oysters used to be less than $12 a dozen in my pre-MBBS days. I managed to navigate the usual Friday afternoon crowd along Rundle Street, observing that there were more faces of African and Middle Eastern descent spilling onto the sidewalks these days. Some were clutching their 4 o’clock drinks and getting tipsy already, obviously blending in very well with the Australian culture.
I spent the afternoon leisurely strolling in and out of boutiques, just like how I used to spend my weekends as a student along this bustling strip of shops and eateries. These days, Rundle Street has more big name boutiques added to its repertoire compared to my student days. There’s Zimmermann, Alannah Hill, Sass and Bide, Lisa Ho etc., brands which I was accustomed to seeing in a departmental store like David Jones until I moved to Melbourne, where I came to realise most of these brands are found all across Greater Melbourne, in different suburban shopping strips.
Habitually, I kept a lookout on people I may know. Adelaide, after all, isn’t very big. Sooner or later, you’re bound to bump into someone you know. Yet, having said that, I've always felt at eased blending into anonymity with the crowd. This may seem a paradox but it’s something I find hard to explain, sometimes even to myself. I used to study in cafes for hours for this reason, and although there were times my friends have singled me out in a non-discreet café and sat down to join me for a caffeine jolt, I found this solitary escape very much palatable. It was somehow my little slice of tranquillity in the madness of medical school gossip.
When I explore the streets alone, my senses are always heightened. I’d smell something enticing, and it’d lead me to a café. I’d see a hidden doorway, and it’d lead me to a basement selling all kinds of vintage clothing at bargain prices. This evening, as I’m walking along one of the little alleys leading from North Terrace into Rundle Street, the soft, polished voice of Nat King Cole drifted from a little unassuming shop tucked away at the recess of an apartment building. It intrigued me, as it was past 9pm and the shop was still open (some things never change—like the fact that shops still close at 9pm on “late night” shopping days). I ventured into the shop, and you know how certain shops exude a groovy vibe? This was one of them. It had everything from a vast collection of CDs and vinyl records to a corner stacked with books on architecture, literature, and filmography. A clothes rack stood near the entrance, with a sign stating “Vintage Sale- 30% off”. It was a very cool and funky little shop that I would’ve spent more time browsing had the shopkeeper— a bloke in his 20s with fudge brown spiky hair, dressed in a faded green t-shirt and sporting thick, dark-rimmed glasses—not started to wheel in the rack of clothes from the front of the shop. In a haste, I grabbed 4 titles which I had my eye on (books were reasonably priced), and walked away with a huge grin and a growing
reading list for 2012.
Tonight, in a city which had defined my days as a university student, I was back to being my gloriously contented old self again in my spacious motel room, clutching my 1Q84 to bed with sheer ecstasy.
