Brighton in Melbourne Diaries

I thought I’d write something about the suburb of Brighton in Melbourne, where I currently live. I write about various overseas locations from time to time but Brighton is in itself a fairly unique place. Pictures have failed to load, so sorry about that. The key thing to know about Brighton is that it is rich. Not in culture or society; rather, rich people live there (of which I am not one), residing in vast two storey mansion, buying expensive things, sending their bloated offspring to exclusive private schools, and driving sports cars ludicrously ill-suited to the narrow streets and 40kph zones. It is not unusual to find a Maserati, a Bentley, a Porsche 911 and a new model Ferrari parked beside each other, and I like to think that my Toyota Yaris is bringing down the class of the neighbourhood. Although the cricketer Shane Warne used to live here (and Cathy Freeman can still be seen jogging on the beach) it is for the most part an un-famous type of wealth – old money, with the newer appropriated money residing in the appropriately newer apartments in Toorak.

Strangely enough, the wealth physically embodies itself in the women rather than the men. The men may drive cars that can probably drive themselves, but, outside of work, they are seen in either embarrassingly tight cycling gear or neat casual wear, and are otherwise undistinguishable from anyone else in Melbourne. The women, however, are often a species apart. The ones in their thirties, newly married and in no need of a job (or, if they have a job, it is some sinecure PR or real estate position), can be most commonly spotted wearing sportswear, and sporting a tanned and impressively slimmed body that, given their certain age, would require a tortuous amount of session work, stair work, treadmill running, toning, flattening and so on. In short, they always manage to look like they came out a gym or pilates class ten minutes ago, and at the age of 30 probably had the more extraneous fat cells slurped or razored from their thighs. They seem to spend much of their non-gym time chatting to each other in French cafes and walking large and expensive pedigree dogs. The ones in their forties and fifties take more elaborate measures to protect their appearance, being caked in makeup and designer clothes, stand forcibly upright with no defective lean or slump and wearing a perpetual look of stifled disgust; it is as though some stray dog poop on the ground would unsettle them so greatly that they would crumble into small pebbles like the evil cyborg in Terminator 2 when it was soaked in liquid nitrogen.

Needless to say, this is a largely a white neighbourhood, the only designated ethnic group being a Jewish fringe to the north. The only non-WASP culture the food shops deign to serve is Kosher, and it is an annoyance to me that I have to drive a long way to find a decent Asian grocery. And while Brighton is an elderly suburb in Australian terms (being over 100 years old), there is little in the way of tradition or an inherent culture. What culture there is of a catalogued type: expensive paintings, Italian furniture and a bakery the serves every conceivable type of French loaf except white bread. The properties are like the 'ideal' properties one arbitrarily purchases in the Sims. Nothing is indigenous. In all likelihood no rock bands ever sprouted from Brighton, no great novels were written here, and the resident artists probably limited themselves to portraits and scenic watercolours. Nothing here could disturb a neighbour or property developer - it is a real estate dream (in fact, many real estate agents live here).

This pampered emptiness is most apparent in the key sound of Brighton, which is deafening silence. In the CBD and the inner suburbs there is constant activity and a reassuring sense that even if you aren’t enjoying yourself, somebody near you is having a good time. I’ve never had that feeling in Brighton. Even on a Friday or Saturday night, the only noise I can usually make out from outside is the occasionally scampering of possums on the trees outside. This a place bereft of loud parties, jazz festivals, bar crawls, drunks, or market stalls. When some new neighbours of mine held a normal-sounding housewarming party next door, it felt like a dramatic assault on all the senses, so unused had I become to such intrusions (since then, several neighbours have tried to get me to join some petition to evict the party-goers). The only activity I’ve ever seen in the suburb is beachside, where the wealthiest houses are, and where, it is rumoured, a lot of high-level criminals have chosen to retire. This may explain the Gatsby-like affairs I occasionally pass when jogging, private parties with fireworks (the permits must cost a fortune in Melbourne) and fully catered outdoor restaurants.

Brighton’s justifiably most famous feature is its beach, which provides the only real jogging track. While no match for Sydney’s famous surf beaches, it is nonetheless beautiful, especially at sunset when the last light bounces off the flotilla of boats sailing along Port Philip Bay. As my jogging paths always involve several miles along the coast, it is easy for me to survey its segmented cultures mile by mile. Starting at Brighton beach itself, where the multi-coloured bathing boxes are located (each worth more than my house), you have the visiting Asian communities, who take the train down to this famous Lonely-Planeted landmark. Indeed, it is probably the nicest and quietest part and the only real activity are the daily wedding photo groups (again, most usually Asian) and the kite surfers that appear on every windy day (i.e., three days out of four). Moving north, there are the Brighton baths and pier, which is a wealthier, more Caucasian location. The everyday families are located at the dog walking beach further north, then, at south Elwood beach, the European ethnic families appear, wearing outdated and unflattering beachwear and doing no more than dipping their toes in the water from the rocky outcrops. Then you get into Elwood, which has some dilapidated student housing nearby. This is a combination of the ultrafit (there’s usually about a dozen joggers there at any time, even 4 or 5am, as well as the more typical Westerners, who only seem to go to the beach if they’re young and beautiful. There’s even a grassy knoll where on particularly hot days the stoners set up camp, get high and fuck in the bushes hidden from sight behind them. On the pathways beyond the beach, a twirl of bridges and narrow footpaths, Brighton’s Jewish communities appear, whom I often see in deep conversation with each other. Each stretch has developed its own way of living, even though in distance the whole beachside is at 4-5km.

Although I enjoy the suburb, I’ve never felt at home here, and in some ways the suburb is as lonely as Canberra’s stereotypically dull streets. Melbourne culture is centrally located, or in the student areas up north. Brighton, by contrast, is for rich people obsessed with making people aware they’re rich. Although now amiddle age relic from the grunge era, I listen to the Stooges and Superchunk, not the Foo Fighters and Pearl Jam, and prefer some disruption, random chatter and chaos. If you ever dreamed of a place where single mothers, drug addicts, drunks, police sirens and ethnic tension had been cleansed, Brighton is your beautiful, bland suburban steppe.