South Australia
Adelaide is the capital of South Australia. Its principal claim to fame is that it was not founded as a prison colony. Whereas Sydney and Melbourne were born as prisoners’ settlements, Adelaide’s settlers came there freely, mostly as farmers. They started off trying to grow wheat and other staples, but the surrounding valleys turned out to be perfect for a much more valuable crop.
Gina’s Story
We traveled to Adelaide for the same reason most Americans do—to taste the greatest Shiraz wine in the world. An hour north of Adelaide is the Barossa Valley, and an hour south, the McLaren Vale. These valleys have unique soils, full of obscure minerals that convey depth and complexity to the region’s wines. Some of the rocks in which the vines grow are more than one billion years old. The mix of cool winds from the Southern Ocean and hot, dry winds from the Outback incubate the grapes to perfection.
Late one evening, we were having dessert at our hotel, when the concierge caught our eye. The young man was sitting behind a desk, validating parking and generally looking bored. We decided he might enjoy some interesting conversation. We walked up to him and announced ourselves as writers working on a travel memoir.
“Surely,” I said, “a concierge sees many unusual things here. What’s the strangest request you’ve had from a visitor?”
The concierge blushed and stuttered.
“I’m a professional and must respect guest privacy.”
“We aren’t looking for names,” I said. “You can leave those out.”
“I can’t think of a story,” said the concierge.
He looked genuinely stumped.
“We’ll give you a day to come up with one,” I said. “Expect us back tomorrow. You better have a story by then!”
The next day was our last in Australia. We were at the R.M. Williams store in downtown Adelaide trying on boots. Unfortunately, the downtown store did not have our sizes, but a suburban one did. We hailed a cab and raced across traffic trying to make it to the store before its 5:30 p.m. closing time. When it was clear we would be late, Scott called the manager there and persuaded her to keep her doors open after closing time.
It was a testament to how nice Australians are. They even have a name for it—“mateness.” Mateness must have come from the need of people to be helpful in such a sparsely populated, hostile environment. And we were happy to be the beneficiaries of mateness that evening.
The store manager greeted us at the front door with a smile. She also introduced us to her daughter, who had come over to keep mom company. What would have been a hurried transaction anywhere else in the world turned into a leisurely evening. We tried on different shoes while the manager and her daughter got to know us. When we mentioned the name of our hotel, the manager beamed with pride, asking whether we might have met her son.
“He’s the concierge there,” she said.
It turned out that he was the one and the same concierge we had interrogated the evening before.
“Your son has promised to tell us a story about the strangest thing he ever saw at the hotel,” I said.
“Ask him about the famous Australian actress who greeted him at the door in lingerie and tried to have her way with him,” recommended the sister. “When he rejected her advances and fled down the hall, she screamed after him, ‘Don’t you know who I am?’”
“My son was once a celebrity himself,” said the mom. “He was the host of Australia’s #1 children’s show.”
She reached into her purse and handed us a CD of the show’s greatest hits.
“You can keep it,” she said. “I’m so proud of him.”
Before leaving the store, we made both mom and sister promise they would not let the concierge know about our meeting until tomorrow. We wanted to have some fun with him.
Later that night, we approached the concierge again at his desk.
“Remember us?” I asked.
He turned red.
“Well,” I said, “I’ve heard a story about you.”
“I knew there was something more to this,” he said. “Is there a camera somewhere?” The concierge leaned across his desk, searching for a camera.
“Do you recognize her?” Scott asked, pointing to me.
“You do look familiar,” the concierge acknowledged. “Have I seen you on television?”
“While she is not as famous as some of your guests,” said Scott, “she’s friends with an actress.”
“Oh, no,” said the concierge.
“In fact,” I said, “my friend, the famous actress, stayed here once before.”
The concierge blushed even redder. “I didn’t do anything with her,” he proclaimed, clearly recalling the incident.
With that, I pulled the CD out of my purse and held it up, referring to the concierge by his stage name. This attracted the attention of his colleague. He walked over and grabbed the CD from my hand.
“Is that really you?” his colleague asked.
“You must be working with my producer,” the concierge said. “He put you up to this, didn’t he?”
At this point, I confessed it was his mom and sister who were responsible. We recounted the “It’s a Small World” moment of how we had all met in suburban Adelaide earlier that day.
“All right, you’ve earned your story,” the concierge said. “I was working the night shift, and around 3 a.m., an older businessman came into the lobby accompanied by two buxom ladies. Not a block away from here is Adelaide’s version of a red-light district—Hentley Street—which is frequented by prostitutes. The businessman appeared to have found a couple of them. As the elevator doors closed, he drunkenly shouted, ‘It’s my lucky night!’
“I was concerned by the appearance of the two prostitutes. They were tall, and their hands and feet were masculine. I hoped the businessman was getting what he expected. A few minutes later—too short for any business to have transpired—the two prostitutes exited the elevator without their client and hurried out into the night.
“I chuckled, wondering what had happened upstairs. Not five minutes later, the businessman stumbled off the elevator in his underwear. He ran outside and looked both ways down the street. ‘They’re gone, aren’t they!’ he cried.
“I took him into an office and tried to calm him down. He had been robbed. I offered to call the police, but the embarrassed businessman declined.”