Community
- shashikaladavidson
- Nov 1, 2017
- 4 min read
A warm spring day. An almost empty main street. A commuter stops to let me cross at the crossing.
I enter the newsagent. My go-to in any unfamiliar place. My place of self-centring.
A lady walks up to the counter. She happily begins to engage with the woman positioned behind it. American-Filipino accent I note. I cannot pick the other accent, but it is not one I hear regularly.
As I peruse the magazines, newspapers and cards, I eavesdrop on their conversation. There’s an event at the Powerhouse museum tomorrow night. A celebration of 200 women over the course of 200 years. Or something like that. And a party I hear. I want to attend. I stop and talk to the women, commenting that where I come from, you do not hear accents likes these.
The women stop and engage warmly with me. They say that it’s true, that it’s a bit like that here, and they all know each other from working at the deli on the corner.
I applaud their community as I leave, pleasantly uplifted by my experience. An everyday interaction with people.
I walk down the street. I stop to take a picture of an old apartment block. “Roslyn” written above its stained glass 19th century entrance. Two women speaking an Asian language unknown to me toddle pass. The allure of languages is that you know these women have their own little community. I think of my own little communities in my second and third language communities too, and I smile.
×
“Bakery café”. Unassuming. Quiet staff busy toiling away behind the counters, adorned with French looking delicacies such as cakes and muffins and delectable slices.
I engage the counter staff. Slovakian, the guy says. I respond with how multicultural the community it, a little embarrassed by my fascination.
Russian, Greek, Slovakian, Chinese, Australian. Other Eastern European languages penetrate the atmosphere. I feel home.
The lady at the counter asks me how I would like my baguette cut. I say I don’t mind. Butter, vegemite on the side though, please, and a pot of English breakfast tea.
A couple sit need to me at the café. The girl, vibrant, red locks embellished by their length and unqualified thickness. I wonder where she got her cool aviator ruby red sunglasses from. I wonder.
As I pay, an elderly man in a cap interludes. I’m Australian, he tells the waiter staff. He makes a joke about being unable to speak English, only fluent in Australian. I struggle to laugh, worried about our prospective interaction…I am a jokster, he attests. I make up jokes. I smile awkwardly and find a seat.
The man props himself onto two seats over. Out of nowhere he pulls from his shopping bag a series of paintings, A4 in size.
I am drawn to the colours and natural landscapes he has captured. I just got them from the internet, he explains. As he shows off his paintings to anyone who will listen, to myself and a lady carrying a baby, I absorb each painting with reverence. You’re an artist, I propose, delighted.
Landscapes of Queensland mountain ranges, he notes as he points to one. Then an immaculate rendition of ‘A girl with the pearl earring’. A farm and barn in Canada, from a photo a friend gave me, he shares. I like showing off, he pipes up. I tell him he has a real talent. He says I do them for myself. I think to myself, why not?
×
Two tables over, a Russian pair sip coffee in takeaway cups. They sport medium-grey coloured matching outfits. They look like what I imagine a funeral parlour clerk or dentists to wear. Maybe they pull teeth from dead people, I imagine.
×
Are you a joke? quips the girl in the aviator sunglasses, to the guy opposite her. Cause you’re not very funny.
I can’t help myself and laugh. It’s her birthday I overhear.
Is it your birthday? I comment. Yeah, it is.
I find out that they are actors. We’re newbies, the guy contributes. Anything I would hear of?
Look out for the Belvedire and Old Fits, they recommend. The shows are in the bottom of a pub. They’re great. I smile, internally brimming in agreement.
×
An older couple, engage with the cafe manager. A well-dressed woman queries whether the cards are low in stock and whether any more are needed. Yes, please, the manager replies. Food labels, I assume.
Valery asks me how I am today. She is the lady who writes the cards. Very well thank you. She tells me how to live a good life. I wonder what look I have written on my face to prompt this conversation.
“Your head’s the conductor and your body is the music. When everything is in union, you live a life of love.” I think about her wise words. Music is not really my forte but I do love it.
She hands me one of her personally written hand-made cards. Green, and a meaningful one liner written is written in a melange of gold capitals and lower cases all jumbled throughout. I ponder what is written.
A Café Bakery. A conversation. Community.
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