I take a right. I am on Peel Street, heading downtown. I step over old gum and the white splatters that the Victoria Market seagulls left behind, though the street is actually quite clean for being in a big city. An old pub with the Australian beer-flag of Carlton Draught hanging from above its door blinks the neon word, “OPEN” at its passers-by. There are two men, probably in their mid-forties, sitting inside, talking and gesturing over a foamy brown jug. They stand suddenly, arms pumping in the air, focus switched abruptly from each other to the wide screen TV behind the bar.

I pass them, leave them behind. My breathing is slow and steady, my pace is stronger, my legs are beginning to feel capable. But I’m not really paying attention to myself; being only four weeks in Melbourne, running is how I’ve chosen to discover the city. And it captivates me.

Downtown appears behind a small bump in the road; industrialization greets me with dim grayness. Looking up– if it’s possible to do without getting hit by something or hitting something myself-the buildings that rise high all do it in a similar fashion: they are rectangular cubes, sealed closed by rectangular windows. Everything’s all some sort of indistinguishable, mute color-but whether it’s brown or black or grey or blue, I’m not sure.

However, down on the sidewalk, at eye level, everything is fantastically different. Small, familial grocery stores of every ethnicity-Indian, Greek, Chinese-sit next to fancy boutiques, men’s clothing shops teeming with sexily dressed young women, waiting for potential customers. A small park emerges on my right, and though it’s the afternoon, there are dog-walkers, joggers, and teenaged footy players within its grassy boundaries.

A little green man, alive with electricity, pops into a black box across the street. He hums his regular song-a sort of click, click, clicking to tell the city’s blind that it’s safe to venture to the other side. I turn in that direction, a right, not wanting to pause to wait for the traffic lights to change. In a minute I arrive at a dead end with Flinders Street. I stand with my hands on my hips, huffing a bit at this point, sweat beginning to bead on my forehead, while I take in the sight of the Southern Cross Train Station.

It’s glass body reflects everything back; the number of pedestrians is doubled, the chaos of cars turning and starting and stopping happens twice as often. I can see myself buried in the group of people waiting for the green man to direct them forward. I stick out- I am taller than the rest of the women and as tall as some of the men, though both genders are wearing shoes with heels. They are dressed in a uniform black, carrying briefcases, cell phone to their ears, cigarettes falling lazily from their lips or dangerously waving about the crowd, secured only by fingertips. I am wearing running spandex, white sneakers, and a battered old t-shirt with sweat stains.

The little chirping man comes to my rescue before embarrassment can catch me. I sprint across the road, dodging lawyers and corporate business owners, secretaries, interns, and the rest. My double image runs next to me; we pant and swing our arms to the beat of our step until she disappears as I bypass the station and head towards the Yarra River.

Melbourne is different by the water. The air is open, loose, roaming freely with a strong and cold artic wind. Palm trees that somehow survive the south Australian winter stand thick and tall; they line the river like great tropical soldiers. Families of ducks paddle near the shore, squabbling over food crumbs and nest territories, while keeping out of the way of the dominant black swan. Far ahead of me, the iconic Ferris wheel spins, producing piercing shrieks of young children enjoying the terror of height. Behind it, the MCG stadium looms, a huge, dominant figure in the quaint river setting.

A rower passes me, gliding smoothly through the water. I take my eyes off the landmarks ahead; there is enough action right in front of me to keep my now tiring mind and body distracted. Lovers walk hand in hand, exchanging enamored glances. Parents keep a hawk’s eye on their playful toddlers. A group of elderly women power-walk towards me. They are chatting and laughing and alive like they are nineteen.

Life feels young in Melbourne– and youth feels inspired. It’s as if everyone has been touched with the urge to continue moving forward in good spirits. Everything is in action, but with a constant, steady rhythm, and everyone seems content with the progressive nature of the city. Even those who sit alone in the grass at the waterfront don’t seem pitiful; rather, they look as enraptured with the city as I am. Their faces are quiet, serene; their eyes moving contentedly around the ideal Yarra River.

I’ve been out for nearly fifty minutes though, and it’s time to head uptown, time for my body to rest. I climb back up to Flinders and turn left up Russell Street, hike the hills and pass the hipsters. They are emaciated, smoking, eyes drooped sarcastically in my direction. But at this point, I am in such a rhythm that to me, I am no longer running. I am merely traveling, an explorer discovering a new city in my own way, and those who attempt to hurt me fall away. I pass them in five seconds, and they become part of the past.

A left on Victoria takes me to Elizabeth, and everything becomes familiar, which is not boring but reassuring. Even the sickening fish smell of the Victoria Market is a good sign. The green man tells me to keep going straight. I drum my feet to the rhythm of his beeping instruction.

The black flags of “Death Circle” come into view. They motion for me to run faster, to finish strongly-keep moving-it’s just another fifty meters– and when I do, I let myself walk so I can maneuver safely through the treacherous roundabout that connects Elizabeth and Peel to Flemington and Royal Parade. RMIT Village appears, at last– the starting point and destination of my journey. I smile. I made it. I am home.

The waves looked ripped out of a vacation add for Hawaii, they were so shockingly blue. But they were Australian and storming furiously high, white-tipped, rolling like a hungry tongue towards the beach, towards me. I watched in silence, letting the sound of the ocean overwhelm me. I was visiting Phillip Island with others, but I paid them no attention as they passed me on either side. There was something, and I was keen to absorb it.

Just fifteen metres away from the shoreline, the sand rose steeply into a dune, meeting the bush and a cliff at a juncture where sand stopped and rock and plant life began. The brown and green continued until it hit the sky, far away in the horizon. Huge pieces of rock that had presumably fallen from their original home on the cliff peninsula to my left stuck out of the water; tens of them littered the shallow sea, becoming smaller as they moved farther from the shore. They were like little islands, their islanders birds and algae.

I stopped on the beach and stood for a minute. I needed solitude to absorb the atmosphere. I needed quiet from human presence to reach the part of me that felt like it could stay here all day. When the voices faded, the monstrous sound of the ocean filled my ears and my mind entirely. I subconsciously began rocking my feet to the rhythm of the waves crashing – tilting back as they hurled at me, letting the reaching arms of oncoming water push me back, and then tilting forward as the wave receded. I hovered over the darkened sand, watching the white foam of the wave tips slowly dissolve from the beach into the air.

When I looked up again, the contrast between intimate detail and the massiveness of the ocean struck me. I could see forever. Dark clouds lined the horizon, but I paid them hardly any attention, for the sky above me was blue and I was underneath the sun, and forever seemed a long way away.

We climbed an enormous amount of stairs to reach the top of the cliff and walked along its ridge for ten minutes, which was parallel with the line that divided water from sand. On my right was the water, stretching in all directions until it hit the sky, which was dome-like above me, though I knew it had no shape, no form, no restrictions or definitions. The two blues seem to mirror each other, wave patterns similar to the movement of clouds and the shape of the clouds vaguely familiar of patterns found in the sand at the bottom of shallow water – small ripples that have been caressed into form by the waves.

The smell of green was in the air on top of the cliff, of brand new oxygen, freshly released from the carbon-eating species that were in the billions just in the space I could see. The plant life to my left was low and dense, crawling and spreading like a flood over the shape of the earth underneath it.

We reached our destination– a small, cleared-out landing on the base of the peninsula. I watched the surf churn and rise, then carry tens of metres before breaking, rolling up the beach and sliding back into its body. The spray from the places where the water hit the peninsula’s tip made huge noises, as if the ocean itself was protesting, roaring for being stopped short. It hissed as separated water particles hit halfway up the huge rock and slithered down. Smaller rocks merely disappeared under the dominating current, emerging for a few seconds only to be blanketed again.

However, the water only held my attention for five minutes; dark clouds on the horizon loomed closer, threatening. I strained my eyes and could see thin sheets of rain connecting the low grey ceiling with the water underneath it. Our guide, finishing his lunch, followed my gaze and realised the intensity of the storm that was headed our way. The horizon seemed to be closing before us, the air was so dense with falling water. It was hard to see through the storm to the other side. “I think we should run!” he cried. And we did.

I bounced happily along the coastal trial, passing the others, leading the train of panicking sightseers, my eyes on the path in front of me, watching out for tricky rocks and roots that may have tried to trip me. As I jumped the last few steps and hit the sand – which was so deep I instantly slowed – the sound of rain was next to me, just meters away, and then it was upon me. I zipped up my jacket, pulled the hood over my head and latched it closed with clenched fists, trying desperately to keep the water from getting in.

But this wasn’t just rain. The wind blew it nearly horizontal, and my face felt as though it was under attack by tiny needles. The same sensation ripped over my legs, protected by only a thin layer of jean, which was nearly soaked already, just thirty seconds after getting hit. They sagged off my hips, the ends getting caught under my heels as I stumbled through the sloppy sand, sweating and puffing but freezing and wet.

I ran backwards in an attempt to save my face. Not far behind me were a few grimacing boys, and behind them, people from my group struggling to maintain a jog, and behind them, the ones who had already given up and were walking.

Running suddenly became much harder. I turned to look where I was and found that I had been pushed to the edge of the cliff and was on my way to running up it. The wind had ordered me in the direction it was blowing. I put my hands down; my hood flew off, my hair was dripping in an instant. I dropped my gaze and headed straight into the weather, hunched over and leaning forward like a bull lowering his horns to fight.

And then I stopped running. Escape was impossible. I realised that it was too late for any sort of self-preservation because there wasn’t a part of me that was going to stay dry. I lifted my face into the rain and let the water soak me entirely. The wind slowed and it wasn’t painful anymore. Members of my group passed me, groaning and whimpering miserably. I started laughing; there was no point in being upset. We were soaked, drenched in the sporadic nature of the earth, and if we were cold, it was evidence that we were alive. And I didn’t want to hide from the storm anymore. I raised my arms and embraced it.