5.Versluys'.us

No, it’s not pronounced Melbourne like the Bourne Identity. The Aussies say Mel-buhn, because they just have that lazy slur.

We arrived in good old Melbourne and split up amongst several different host families.

Half the fun of traveling in this manner is meeting great people like the Canaris family and learning more about the culture staying in a host home than you ever would in a hotel.

In the case of Melbourne, we certainly had a funny experience. Our host home belonged to the Grant family, a devout Catholic couple who have 9 kids and live 2 blocks from the beach. The two youngest “kids” (early 20s) live at home.

Richard and Beverly Grant (above) are a mild couple, genuine and earnest in everything they say and do. Their home is a riot – it’s a classic 100 year old house, worth millions of dollars, situated in a prime neighborhood so close to the beach, but it seriously hasn’t been updated in 50+ years. The locks on the doors are probably 80 years old – keyholes and all. It is a testament to the family’s practicality, and quite the odd contrast with all the other yuppie palaces (renovated homes from the same era) up and down the street.

Quincy felt right at home, since the Grants are grandparents and had plenty of toys.

I personally loved our host’s quirky method of communication when he left early in the morning:

Handwritten notes, each about a different topic ranging from sightseeing to pro-life articles. One morning, we had to be up at 4:00 a.m. for an event, and Tom (the youngest son) came stumbling into the kitchen where I was getting breakfast. He mumbled hello, grabbed a piece of paper from the bookshelf, and scribbled some words on it. I asked him what he was doing, and he said he used his dad as an alarm clock. After he left, I took a look at the paper. It said in big block letters, “WAKE TOM UP AT” and then a series of times crossed out, except the latest entry – 10:30. This was their system – the same piece of paper used over and over again, and Tom was always woken up in time to get to school.

Eric didn’t arrive at the Grants’ at the same time as Quincy and I. He left early from Wagga with Bryan and Angel, two other guys in our group.

The reason? The three of them had a group date at an Australian Rules Football game between the Hawthorne Hawks and the Geelong Cats.

They joined up with Marcel, the head of Right to Life, who happens to be a young guy in his late 20s and a psycho fan of the Hawks. Eric took the other side, and rooted for the Cats. The Cats won.

I watched the match on TV at the Grants’ and was fascinated by the strange rules and playing styles. Eric came away with a new appreciation of a foreign sport, and a gaudy blue and white Cats scarf. He can hang it up next to my AS Roma scarf.

A funny thing happened on the way home from the stadium…

I texted Eric and gave him the address of the Grants’ house (56), with instructions to just knock on the front door since Richard would still be up at the late hour. Well, Marcel, old chum, told Eric it was number 54. Eric went with Marcel’s number, since Marcel knows Richard well. And he paid the price. The Grants’ neighbor was awakened at 1:30 a.m. by a bumbling American with a Cats scarf around his neck.

Eric finally found the right house, and Richard was more than happy to bring him in and start chatting it up as though it was 1:30 p.m.

Finally, the best perk of staying at the Grants’ house in my mind?

Forget the beach.

The Formula 1 Grand Prix was taking place two blocks away at the other end of the street. So every morning we’d walk out of the house and hear the amazing and impressive sound of F1 cars zipping around the track. It was so cool. And the gorgeous cars all about town (Ferrari, Bentley, Lamborghini… you get the idea) were just icing on the cake.

Oh, and The Who headlined at the Grand Prix finale concert, and we were able to stand on the street and listen to the music loud and clear. Beautiful.