Photography by Pip Murphy-Hoyle

I had been told, when I first mentioned the move to Melbourne, that Reservoir was an ‘up and coming’ area. That it used to be full of Greeks, but now was developing into what would be a new trendy suburb, just like Fitzroy or Carlton. But when I first stepped off the 86 tramline and wandered through the neighbourhood, my eyes kept whipping down to maps on my phone, just to make sure I was in the right place. Much like the CBD, the suburb was a dystopian mix of old and new. Empty lots of newly demolished buildings gave way to mountains of debris on curbsides. Old brick houses sat squat in overgrown grass, dwarfed by newer, sleek apartment blocks; chrome, black-tinted windows, decorative self-watering eco-ledges, warm-toned cove lighting. The apartments were big enough to squeeze in couples disinclined to a white picket dream. I imagined the empty shops, their roller doors down and locked, the windows boarded up, as cornerstones awaiting reincarnation.

The one thing I liked about Reservoir, the only remnants of that potential Greek history, were the fruit trees. I had been walking to the local supermarket (I saw, in a sodden catalogue, that Aldi was selling a six-pack of meat pies for $5.60) when I stumbled upon the curl of a vine that had wriggled through the fence. Small grapes, green with hues of plum, dotted the vine in a way that felt cartoonish. I picked one that looked the ripest and popped it in my mouth. Sour. My face puckered. It was probably a wine grape. Voluptuous fig trees lined many of the neighbours’ yards, weighted with unripe fruit. The spearheaded leaves of olive trees were also easy to spot, numerous in their numbers. Karpophoros!

I should say that the journey to Melbourne wasn’t some random adventure. I’d been accepted into uni just a few months prior. I’d applied on a whim with a vague interest in linguistics and the promised enticement of a life out of shithole Rocky. After booking my flights and securing a bond payment for a share house, I had just under half a grand in savings. I’d thought it was enough, at least until I secured a job. Because really, how hard could finding a job in a city as big as this be?

Turns out, it’s really fucking hard.

The blaring of my alarm violently woke me at 6:30 am. I jerked towards my phone and fumbled to switch it off. The sun had only just started to rise, and light softly trickled in through my open window. It would’ve been beautiful if I weren’t so exhausted.

I had bought a second-hand bike when I first moved down. I shouldn’t have, but it was dirt cheap, and I thought I would’ve had work by now to warrant the purchase. It was ‘done up’, with a milk crate zip tied to the back. Whenever I tried to shift the gears, the chain slackened and slipped off the sprockets. I ended up just leaving it forgotten in the garage. I’d been doing well not paying for public transport. It was easy to mime the tap of a Myki card, but I’d gotten caught. The AO gave me a stern, over-the-top growling right there on the Mernda Line. It was only when I turned my phone to him to show him the dregs of my savings that he let me go, tail between my legs. I received a written warning in the mail a week later. From then on, I decided to start using the bike for its intended purpose and actually ride the damn thing to uni.

I unlocked the garage and rolled the bike out onto the street, shoving my head into the helmet. I was wobbly at first, but as I gained traction, I felt myself steady. From my pocket, my phone buzzed with directions. Google said it’d take about 45 minutes to get to uni, but with my stopping to double-check the route, and the occasional hopping off the bike to walk and catch my breath, it ended up taking me almost double that. A damp layer of sweat coated my clothes. My back cramped painfully, and my arse felt bruised from the bike seat. My legs shook, barely able to stay on the pedals. I tasted iron on the back of my tongue.

I was so close to throwing my bike onto a tram and risking a fine, when I started to recognise some of the streets in Fitzroy. I pushed on, and soon I saw the familiar school buildings of campus.

“HOLLY!”

I slammed the brakes. The handlebar tipped forward and the rear wheel lifted off the pavement. I stumbled, my feet hitting the ground before I managed to right myself. Puffing, I turned to see a slim, spectacled figure enthusiastically waving his arm in the air.

“Yassou!” he called.

I gave him a half-hearted wave. “Yassou.”

Carl was the sort of person who read A Secret History in his formative years and decided to make it his whole personality. I’d met him in my first Intro to Ancient Greece class, where he’d been drawn to my supposedly nasal Queensland accent. “Interesting ethnolect,” he’d said with an air of loftiness. No matter the weather, he always wore wool-blend trousers, suspenders and silk button-ups with a blazer thrown casually around his shoulders. At any given moment, he was sure to flash his cufflinks, just so you’d know that somehow, he’d matched them to whatever pair of oxfords he’d decided to wear.

“Nice ride,” he said as he touched the milk crate and absentmindedly rubbed dust between his fingers.

“It does the job.”

He nodded and flashed me a grin. “I love how easy-going Queenslanders are. You’re just so casual.”

“It’s better than having a stick up your arse.”

Carl continued like he hadn’t heard. “Tonight. Workshop. They’re doing a special on whiskey, and June is whipping out her bass for some tunes.”

“Not tonight, Carlos. I’m busy.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re always busy.”

“Maybe if you shout me dinner, I’ll consider going?” I stretched out my legs to try to stop their trembling.

“Ela re! Shout yourself, cheapskate.”

I gave him a mock salute and pushed down on the pedals.

“I’ll see you in class!” he shouted after me.

I’d lost my momentum, and my legs couldn’t take any more, so when I turned the corner out of Carl’s line of sight, I hopped off the bike. I used the handlebars as a crutch and rolled it to the bike racks. After I locked up my bike, I headed to the student union to ask about free lunches.

“None today,” said the bright-eyed girl at the desk. She swung her lanyard in her hands erratically. “You have to book your spot in advance, and even then, they sell out fairly quick.” My dismay must have shown on my face because she quickly added, “But there’s some fruit you can have! Help yourself.” She pointed to the fruit bowl by the window.

My face flushed red, embarrassed at having to take what looked to be decorative fruit. I grabbed a banana and nodded thanks to her. On my way out, I ducked into the student union kitchenette. I made sure that no one was looking when I stuffed handfuls of coffee sachets and individually wrapped Arnott’s into my bag.