I thought I was on the bold road to adulthood ... until I got lost on the way to Myer

1 month ago 13

This article is part of an opinion summer opinion series where writers share the story of a year that changed their lives.

See all 8 stories.

There is an intense feeling you get when lost. Of being very much alone. Adrift.

It’s a feeling that, looking back, also comes with being a teenager. It’s a time when it’s easy to lose your sense of direction and hard to ask for help.

Children look at the Myer Christmas windows in 2001.

In 1968, aged 15 and eager to join the adult world, I pestered my mum to let me go to the city by myself for the first time. I wanted to buy Christmas presents for the family and have the experience of the city, especially the joyful Christmas display behind the windows at Myer.

Mum was reluctant but was persuaded by my older siblings that it would encourage me to be more independent and, really, “what could go wrong?”.

On the road to becoming an adult, some go through trials of excruciating pain to become warriors ready for battle. Others recommend a path with firm, benevolent mentoring, to become what writer Steve Biddulph describes as, a man “with a backbone, and a good heart”. This journey into the city would be my rite of passage. A straightforward task, you would think.

I boarded the red rattler train from my quiet outer suburb of Greensborough. I had little experience beyond its borders, as we didn’t have a car and never took summer holidays any further than the local pool.

Crowds outside the Myer store, in Bourke Street, Melbourne, at Christmastime in 1956.

The train came to a stop in the gloomy terminus at Princes Bridge station (what is now Federation Square) and I stepped out onto Swanston and Flinders streets – Melbourne’s busiest intersection, inhabited by Holden sedans, Kombi vans, frocks, miniskirts, comb-overs, hippies, shoppers and workers in suits.

In the centre of the road, waving his hands, was a traffic cop in a white helmet. In the bright summer light everything was moving faster than I was used to. I had a vague idea of how I would get to Myer, but no map and, obviously, no Google maps in my pocket. Just memories of going there as a child, hand in hand with mum, to join thousands of people taking in the display of Christmas joy behind those giant panes of glass.

The department store was not far north of the station, its vast shopping floors with everything you could want filling up two whole city blocks. But on that day my youthful exuberance was not matched by experience.

At first, I followed my nose, which diverted me to the Darrell Lea sweets shop in Swanston St. I exited with a bag of snowballs that I rapidly consumed as I next entered Allans Music store in Collins St. Here I flicked through the vinyl and purchased novelty track Snoopy vs the Red Baron for my older brother (an unappreciated gift).

I hiked through the arcades and laneways but Myer’s was not to be found. As I circled back past the same shops I came to the realisation that I was lost. And, this is where it gets hazy. If were able to ask my 15-year-old self “what went wrong?” – he would have looked down, shrugged his shoulders and answered “dunno”. Did that teenager think to ask someone for directions? No.

The goal was Myer. It was a horrible failure.

I realised I wouldn’t eat in the cafeteria, be greeted by the perfume smells surrounding the Myer’s ladies in black. I wouldn’t step through the scissored metal door and ride the lift. And I certainly wouldn’t get to see the Christmas windows.

Such hopes became ever more distant as my teenage brain, caught between the child and the adult world, descended into gridlock.

My battery flat, I limped my way back to the station.

Christmas decorations and shoppers on Bourke Street, near the corner of Swanston Street, Melbourne, on December 4, 1957.

I returned home to my family, obviously not carrying a Myer’s bag. They watched me squirm, as they plied me with questions.

“So how did it go? What did you buy?” they asked.

My eyes were fixed on the floor. “I couldn’t find it. I looked everywhere.”

The kitchen air became thick with disbelief. My older brother probably called me dense, or some derogatory term that instantly demoted my status even further down the sibling totem pole. My mother was gobsmacked, my sister stifling a grin.

“Did you ask someone” asked Mum.

“Um, er, no.” I said.

The kitchen jury waited for my defence — but I had none.

I learnt some valuable lessons.

First, if you fail at something – just pretend you did what you set out to do. For this to work you have to rehearse your lines and have some ability level to think on your feet. I was not, however, a good liar. My face gave it away every time.

Second, carry a map.

Third, swallow your shame and grow from the experience.

My rite of passage didn’t get me where I wanted to go that day. But I did learn a lot about independence. A year later, aged 16, I was working full-time and navigating the adult world of commerce with daily trips in and out of the city.

Now I was armed with not only a map, but the most obvious lesson of all. Ask someone.

Martin Galvin is a retired mental health nurse.

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