Postcard from: Hobart

Dear Trespass,

     Everyone in Hobart keeps telling me to catch taxis. I don’t know if the taxi industry is flailing or if the locals truly believe that their town is bigger than walking size. There’s certainly no public transport that I can see.

     I checked into my hotel, a rather nice executive joint (I was on an expense account), and asked about nearby bottle shops. It was drizzling out and the receptionist looked worriedly out the window.

     ‘It’s a bit of a walk,’ she said. ‘Maybe catch a taxi in this weather.’

     ‘How far?’ I asked. ‘Like, thirty, forty minutes?’

     ‘Um, maybe fifteen, twenty.’        

     I walk it. It takes seven minutes; ten on the way back. The Hobart CBD is pretty compact. Beyond that though, who knows how far the city stretches?

     ‘Any good bars around here?’ I asked another receptionist, a younger girl.

     She pointed me to Salamanca, but I’d already cruised that area. Not for me. The bars were overpriced, touristy and boring.

     ‘Ummm … there are some good places in North Hobart,’ she said. ‘But I guess you wouldn’t want to go that far.’

     Ummm … yes I would. I was advised to catch a taxi but decided, again, to walk it. After all, North Hobart was right next to Hobart. It took fifteen minutes.

     And that’s how I found myself in the Brisbane.

     Propped at the bar, I was surrounded by Hobart’s grimiest: the Brisbane Hotel, it turns out, is the hangout for all the punks, metalheads, grungers, and disaffected youth in town. It has an edge of violence, and a distinct feel of messed-up-ness. It’s cheap, but not cheerful. I felt right at home.

My new best friend was giving me a shoulder to lean on. Petite, blonde and pushing forty, the Brisbane is her local. She had told me about her sons, one a chef, one a poet, before the conversation turns to me.

     ‘Have you got anyone to fall back on if you need it?’ she asked.

     I shook my head. ‘Nah, not really.’

     She reached out and touched my arm.

     ‘Well, I’ll be that person,’ she says. Her eyes were glazed but not too bad, she’d had a few tokes before coming out, maybe something harder.

     ‘You can fall back on me, whenever you need someone. You’re an amazing woman Lisa…’

     I’d known her three minutes.

     She popped off to do the rounds and I got talking to her husband, propping up the end of the bar beside me.

     ‘Where you from, love?’ he asks.

A man of few words. More tattoos than words, really, his hands and neck dotted with homemade jobs. He was obviously a fixture, getting beer refills from the bar staff, nodding at the punters, surveying the crowd, shaking hands here and there. Pub owner or local drug dealer? Or both?

     ‘Melbourne? I’m from Melbourne,’ he said. ‘Been here seven years. Where you live?’

He spoke at length about the redevelopment of Coburg University. It took a few minutes to realise he was talking about Pentridge.

     ‘Tasmanians are units,’ he says. ‘No bullshit.’

He lights a cigarette. ‘You’ll meet some fucken units here,’ he says, nodding vaguely around the pub. ‘This is the hardest pub in Hobart. Where you staying?’

     ‘City.’

     ‘Oh. Catch a taxi here did you love?’

     I motion for more beer.

     ‘Got any tens?’ he asks, pulling out a fifty dollar note.

     I dig three tens and a twenty out of my pockets. He rearranges his stash into little bundles. A ten, two tens, a ten and twenty. He stuffs the bundles into his pocket. He’s organised.

     Dealer, then.

     He turns and drains his beer, looks me square in the eyes. A challenge.

     ‘You choof, love?’

     I hit the band room. It’s shit. Kids more interested in making out than the music, and I don’t blame them. The music’s pretty shit. A local band thrashes old metal covers; the next one rocks out shit, albeit original, material. The population is under twenty or over forty; the oldies are the most fucked up.

     I pull up a stool to the bar, lean back and take in the scene.

     The bar staff are speeding. Hyper-alert, heads nodding to the music, moving quickly and gracefully, everything is fast: wiping down the bar, pouring shots, returning change. Jaws grind. The smallest, fastest girl sniffs every drink before she serves it. They’re a well-oiled machine. They bring me scotch.

The punters are mixed. The guys all wear hoodies and caps. The girls are dressed up in short skirts and plunging tops. Only the oldies wear the uniform – black jeans, band tshirts. There’s five guys to every chick. The girls flaunt it.

A woman hits the bar beside me, looks me right in the eyes as she licks down cocksucking cowboy shots. Tight singlet, tight jeans, red band of her undies poking up. She flicks her hair. I stare back, but she’s dragged away by a young chick – her daughter? She glances back at me and disappears into the crowd. An opportunity lost. Do I mind?

     As I leave a guy yells out ‘Oi love’.

     It takes a moment to realise he’s talking to me. I stop. I can’t tell if he’s security or a punter. I squint at him.

     ‘Where you headed, love? Want me to call you a taxi?’ he was reaching into his pocket as he spoke. He pulled his mobile half-out.

     I shrug. ‘Nah,’ I said. ‘Thanks but…’

     His look says it all: your funeral.

     I walk into the foggy night. A few hot cars rumble past, stereos pumping but the streets are otherwise perfectly empty. I flick my hood up, feet pounding the footpath. Once again I’m walking in Hobart.

     I head into the heavy fog feeling like I’m about to walk off the edge of the earth… 

Love,

Lisa 

Images – top two by Leo Laporte on Flickr, Brisbane Hotel by fastskybus on Flickr and the beer taps by anselmogz on Flickr.