It starts with a first step. The rhythm begins as my other foot follows. In the beginning, I am sore and stiff. My joints feel forty years older than I think they should. My movement is choppy, my steps short and pace fairly slow. Regardless of the shape of the terrain outside my apartment building, for the first few minutes of my run, the sidewalk feels like it’s leading me up a hill.

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.