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My friend Mikey had a similarly terrible share house, which sat directly across from Melbourne General Cemetery – a quiet sprawl of cast-iron pavilions and gothic bluestone chapels. It’s the eternal home of six Australian prime ministers, including Sir Robert Menzies and half of Bob Hawke (his ashes are divided between Melbourne and Sydney). Mikey’s place was so grimy, he wined and dined his dates on the cemetery’s tan grass instead. (I don’t think there were many second dates.)
Sophie, Lauren and I, on the other hand, have a fridge with a shelf for each of us, a bedroom each, and the luxury of an indoor toilet. There is a mould problem. A rat problem. And, come spring, a slug problem. But, like Mikey, John Birmingham, and most Carlton locals really (thanks to the suburb’s proximity to everything), we have cheap Aperol spritzes and stracciatella gelato just a few streets away.
We have piadinas at Brunetti and vegetarian baguettes at Heart of Carlton – still rocking ’70s pricing: five bucks for lunch, two for a coffee. We have animatronic T-rexes roaring inside the Melbourne Museum, a sweaty ball pit courtesy of Ballers Clubhouse, the second-largest screen in the world (an IMAX in Germany swiped our crown), not one but two Readings bookstores – right next to each other – and Nathan the Carrot Man: a roaming performance artist who lifts the spirits of Melbourne’s inner-north with the help of a giant carrot. (He’s not technically ours; he might belong to some enchanted place like Daylesford – but I’m claiming him anyway.)
There is some uncertainty about Carlton’s future. Among the swanky wine bars and galleries are the oft-overlooked commission housing towers that won’t feature in the backdrop of those glossy property brochures but are just as much part of the neighbourhood. They’re a reminder that the suburb isn’t entirely gentrified. Those towers at half a dozen sites across Carlton are set to be demolished and rebuilt, and the residents (like those living in several public housing sites across Melbourne) face eviction. A fix for concrete, maybe, but not for the vibrant migrant communities inside and those facing uncertainty after calling the towers their home for decades.
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The thing I like about living here is that Carlton is not trying to be cool. It is comfortable with its hodgepodge of cuisines and characters. As Jay from Carlton hairdresser Chainsaw Massacre, where I get my fringe trimmed, has told me, “You never know who’s going to walk through the door. The suburb has never felt better.”
Carlton might not have the edgy clout of its inner-north family – the thrifted swagger of Brunswick, the art-school grit of Fitzroy, or even North Carlton’s leafy-cool – but she’s got Tom. And honestly, she’s a pretty great place to fall apart and piece yourself back together again.
Nina Culley is a writer and critic who specialises in theatre, literature, and the arts.
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