You need to look carefully to find the heart of Canberra, says Paul McDermott Just don't look up.
I recently visited Canberra and I recalled an incident that occured when I lived there. It was something that made me realise that to find what you want, you have to know what you're looking for.
I once lived in a government bedsit onto the main road into the city, Northbourne Avenue. This primary road carried humanity, essential goods and livestock to feed the ever-expanding and insatiable community. (To be hones, most of the time there was nothing much on that road, with two exceptions: the amulance that regularly passed by between three and six in the morning and always woke me up, and the summer Nats.)
At Nats time the entire strip became crowded with every type of car and every type of facial hair known to man. The Nats were a male thing, although seldom a lone male thing: the men tended to travel in packs or in smaller groups with their offspring. Families pushing strollers drank down sweet exhaust fumes from cars that were inspired by Big Daddy Roth cartoons.
The story I am about to tell you happened in early spring, on a Sunday, many years ago. I wasenjoying the 20-minute stroll from my squalid flat into town. It was a beautiful day, a typical Canberra spring day. There was nothing that could have shattered the serenity of that day.
A car pulled up beside me. An American voice beckoned me to the vehicle. Four travellers with a love of Australia had taken the journey overland to the ACT. Three to four hours' driving through the bush may not seem like much to us, but to a group of Americans fresh out of New York, it was exhausting. Their only desire was to see the city and find some accommodation.
My heart surged with pride: here was my chance to give back a little something to the capital. I felt honoured to tell these people where to go.
"So where's the centre of town?"
"Straight ahead, yoo can't miss it, about three or four minutes in the car, mate."
"Thanks, buddy."
Two hours later I was returning home on the other side of the same stretch of road, when a car pulled up next to me. It was the same hire car that had stopped me before. I had this curious sense of deja vu when I heard: "Hey, buddy, where's the centre of town? ... Hey, aren't you the same ...?"
"Yes. Didn't you find it?"
"We've been driving for two-and-a-half hours."
(They looked drawn, worn-out and genuinely dizzy from the roundabouts.)
"Where have you been?"
"We went to somewhere called 'Wooden'."
"Woden."
"Whatever. We did what you said, we drove for about five minutes and we didn't see any tall buildings, so we kept going. Twenty minutes later - Wooden."
You won't find the centre of Canberra if you're looking for tall buildings. (I explained to them the centre of town was just a set of two-storey-high arcades and a bus depot.) They'd missed the heart of our capital, not once but twice. They'd missed the eloquent designs of W.B. Griffin, the seat of power, the burgeoning porn industry and Bunda Street, where the junkies hang. When they set off for the third time, they were sincerely depressed. I have no idea if they found it, all I know is I never saw them again. They may still be there, endlessly looping around Northbourne Avenue like a malfunctioning satellite.
Canberra is often accused of having no heart. I have never believed this to be true; it may have a weak pulse, but it's there. In a place that's a mass of contradictions, perhaps we just need a few more signs, and people from out of town should definitely buy a map. But the best preparation of all is knowing what you'll find when you get there, so if you ever go searcing for the heart of Canberra, make sure you don't have New York in your mind's eye.
By Paul McDermott, appeared in Sunday Life! (the Sun Herald supplement) May 24 1998
