I'm not quite sure I believe it myself; I'm finally in country, after enduring a world-class travel ordeal—you know the kind; when it's over, you take a group picture and exchange e-mail addresses with half-a-dozen of the strangers who shared it all with you. So, Sandeep (from N.Y.) and Jay (Melbourne) and Stefan, our Serbian pal by way of Sydney, may the road rise with you! It was fun, in its own dispiriting, boring, insanely annoying way!
So I grabbed my bags and wearily trudged through customs in Melbourne, and then an odd thing happened—as I stepped outside, into a beautiful, Australian summer morning, my fatigue and tension just evaporated. Birds chirped in the trees; the neat, shiny vehicles and spotless sidewalks and road were awash with light. It was great to be back in a nation dubbed The Lucky Country, in a book of the same name, by Douglas Horne. It's a classic work of sociology that lays bare the intriguing soul of this nation-continent.
A line of brand-new KIA SUV'S stood parked at the curb (the Korean car maker is a sponsor of the tournament), along with a handful of drivers in official Australian Open shirts. They immediately offered to drive me to my hotel (“No worries, mate!”), so I escaped the extra-long taxi queue, never mind the tedious ride, watching the meter tick-tick-tick north of 50 bucks. These people really know how to make you feel welcome.
The ride was eye-opening. I barely recognized the city I had last visited—what, eight years ago? The skyline had expanded greatly; instead of driving through a series of suburbs and roundabouts, we zipped along the new “Citylink.” Soon, I saw the National Tennis Center in Melbourne Park, rising beside the Yarra River.
Apart from Rod Laver Arena with its futuristic, sliding roof, I barely recognized the place. The addition of Vodafone Arena and the upgrading of the infrastructure have transformed the site. It's no longer a curious cross between Grand Slam event and county fair; it's now an enormous compound, muscular, steely, almost industrial in spirit—a testament to the growth and commercialization of the game.
Once, when you came here, you sensed it was a big, significant tournament transplanted to a place where the Aussies, in their trademark, imperturbable way, treated it like it was no big deal. It's not like that anymore. The tournament radiates significance and declares itself in every way the equal of the other three majors.
I'm staying at the Hilton on the Park, overlooking and within walking distance of the National Tennis Center. While checking in, I spotted an old friend, the great Aussie icon and champion Evonne Goolagong Cawley. She was across the lobby, in a clutch of people, including Bud Collins and Evonne's tall, statuesque actress daughter, Kelly. Unable to contain myself, I hurried over. Kelly was just a toddler when I often stayed with the Cawleys at their home on Hilton Head Island, and she greeted me now by the name she used to call me then, Peter Draw Cat.
She used to make me draw stick-figure cats endlessly. It seems so long ago.