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Whenever I feel homesick, I call on my old friend Matilda. Like me, Matilda is a transplant from Melbourne. I know she is always running about nearby and ready to come pick me up whenever I need her. Standing outside the bustling Starbucks at West Village, I wait for her arrival.
It never ceases to amaze me how full the Starbucks is any time of day. Outside, people sit watching other people, friends chat with friends and loners work on laptops. I pity the poor sods, drinking burnt flavorless coffee daily and never knowing the pleasure of having a real hearty Italian espresso.
Matilda is late again. The poor dear hasn't been looking so well lately and her pace is slow and leisurely. Her body is cumbersome and she's much heftier than the other younger girls - Petunia, Rosie, and Winnie.
Nevertheless, I'm patient because I know she's served people like me all her life. Born in 1925, Matilda was built by James Moore Ltd for the Melbourne & Metropolitan Tramway Board. She worked for 60 years in Melbourne, bustling people from place to place before the McKinney Avenue Transit Authority in Dallas, Texas bought her for the Uptown M-Line.
Toot! toot! Here she comes, bumping around the corner as her wheels grind noisily on the steel tracks. She's still adorable in her old age and her maroon and cream outfit gives a stately air about her.
I wave at the driver whom I've dubbed "Psycho Tram Man" as he tips his hat. When Matilda comes to a halt, Psycho Tram Man rushes to the centre of the three compartments and slides open the door. "Welcome ma'am" he drawls giving me a toothy smile.
All the tram drivers have different personalities. There's the not-so-jolly Santa Tram man with his silvery beard and round belly. Stick Tram Man, a rather tall beanpole driver with huge goggle glasses. And last but not least, Ed McMahon Tram Man who I swear is the spitting image of his nickname.
As I take my seat in the back, I admire the interior woodwork still intact after so many years. The old wooden seats are beautifully restored in the last compartment. In the middle compartment, there are two longitudinal seats on each side covered in well-worn velvet. I've never seen this seating plan in Melbourne.
The tram passes by countless apartment complexes and high-rises, most are five years old or less. Chain stores like Gap, Banana Republic and Borders congregate around West Village with a few ultra chic and trendy one-off stores scattered about. There are spas, nail shops, galleries and even our very own art house cinema and driving range within walking distance.
The restaurants are plentiful, with cuisines like Australian Asian, Tex Mex, South American, Italian and of course your American burger and pizza joints. And no matter which cuisine I choose, the chefs are almost always Mexican.
Uptown is one of the few areas in Dallas that encourage walking. People walk their dogs at all hours of the day and joggers decked out in the latest running gear pound the footpaths.
Still, despite the cafes, shops and entertainment, it's nothing like Melbourne. Though some of the buildings feature Art Deco and Victorian influences, the newness of the well planned neighborhood makes it slightly sterile.
Suddenly the tram jolts and Matilda's wheels groan loudly in the middle of the road. Psycho Tram Man runs to the door in a frenzy and jumps off the tram to take a swing at a passing car. The startled driver stops and Psycho Tram Man begins his tirade, "Ma'am you are supposed to YIELD to the trolley! You see that sign there? It says Y-I-E-L-D!"
As if nothing happened, he then resumes his position in the front, welcoming visitors when they step on, and wishing them well when they leave. I get off soon after but not before another heated incident.
This time, Psycho Tram Man blows his whistle furiously and gives a signature bang to the back of the car with his fist. I chuckle at the alarmed tourists standing frozen in fear, not knowing whether to get on or off.
When he's finished 'educating' the driver, Psycho Tram Man, shakes his head, gives me a sweet toothy grin and says, "Have a niiiiice daaay, Ma'am!"
Cheryl Collett
Ventura April 2005
Cheryl
Riding with Ms Matilda - a glimpse of my neighborhood
By Cheryl CollettWhenever I feel homesick, I call on my old friend Matilda. Like me, Matilda is a transplant from Melbourne. I know she is always running about nearby and ready to come pick me up whenever I need her. Standing outside the bustling Starbucks at West Village, I wait for her arrival.
It never ceases to amaze me how full the Starbucks is any time of day. Outside, people sit watching other people, friends chat with friends and loners work on laptops. I pity the poor sods, drinking burnt flavorless coffee daily and never knowing the pleasure of having a real hearty Italian espresso.
Matilda is late again. The poor dear hasn't been looking so well lately and her pace is slow and leisurely. Her body is cumbersome and she's much heftier than the other younger girls - Petunia, Rosie, and Winnie.
Nevertheless, I'm patient because I know she's served people like me all her life. Born in 1925, Matilda was built by James Moore Ltd for the Melbourne & Metropolitan Tramway Board. She worked for 60 years in Melbourne, bustling people from place to place before the McKinney Avenue Transit Authority in Dallas, Texas bought her for the Uptown M-Line.
Toot! toot! Here she comes, bumping around the corner as her wheels grind noisily on the steel tracks. She's still adorable in her old age and her maroon and cream outfit gives a stately air about her.
I wave at the driver whom I've dubbed "Psycho Tram Man" as he tips his hat. When Matilda comes to a halt, Psycho Tram Man rushes to the centre of the three compartments and slides open the door. "Welcome ma'am" he drawls giving me a toothy smile.
All the tram drivers have different personalities. There's the not-so-jolly Santa Tram man with his silvery beard and round belly. Stick Tram Man, a rather tall beanpole driver with huge goggle glasses. And last but not least, Ed McMahon Tram Man who I swear is the spitting image of his nickname.
As I take my seat in the back, I admire the interior woodwork still intact after so many years. The old wooden seats are beautifully restored in the last compartment. In the middle compartment, there are two longitudinal seats on each side covered in well-worn velvet. I've never seen this seating plan in Melbourne.
The tram passes by countless apartment complexes and high-rises, most are five years old or less. Chain stores like Gap, Banana Republic and Borders congregate around West Village with a few ultra chic and trendy one-off stores scattered about. There are spas, nail shops, galleries and even our very own art house cinema and driving range within walking distance.
The restaurants are plentiful, with cuisines like Australian Asian, Tex Mex, South American, Italian and of course your American burger and pizza joints. And no matter which cuisine I choose, the chefs are almost always Mexican.
Uptown is one of the few areas in Dallas that encourage walking. People walk their dogs at all hours of the day and joggers decked out in the latest running gear pound the footpaths.
Still, despite the cafes, shops and entertainment, it's nothing like Melbourne. Though some of the buildings feature Art Deco and Victorian influences, the newness of the well planned neighborhood makes it slightly sterile.
Suddenly the tram jolts and Matilda's wheels groan loudly in the middle of the road. Psycho Tram Man runs to the door in a frenzy and jumps off the tram to take a swing at a passing car. The startled driver stops and Psycho Tram Man begins his tirade, "Ma'am you are supposed to YIELD to the trolley! You see that sign there? It says Y-I-E-L-D!"
As if nothing happened, he then resumes his position in the front, welcoming visitors when they step on, and wishing them well when they leave. I get off soon after but not before another heated incident.
This time, Psycho Tram Man blows his whistle furiously and gives a signature bang to the back of the car with his fist. I chuckle at the alarmed tourists standing frozen in fear, not knowing whether to get on or off.
When he's finished 'educating' the driver, Psycho Tram Man, shakes his head, gives me a sweet toothy grin and says, "Have a niiiiice daaay, Ma'am!"
Cheryl Collett
Ventura April 2005
Cheryl
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