The Write Way Around: Traveling Tales

It’s referred to as the race that stops the nation – and though it lasts only just a few short minutes (it’s a 3.2 kilometre race), the revelry, parties and fashion lasts all day and all night long. It makes Tuesday feel like a Friday and makes waking up for Wednesday morning feel like a prison sentence that you’ve brought upon yourself.

I can’t quite recall what I was doing last year for the Melbourne Cup, but I know I didn’t take part in it in any way. I didn’t bet, I didn’t dress up, I didn’t wear a hat, I didn’t even step foot in a pub to watch it on TV, so it goes without saying that I was excited to actually do something for it this year. It’s probably the most Australian of Australian experiences next to playing 2 up on Anzac Day (and throwing shrimp on the barbie, of course) to be had.

Sydney puts on its best face on Melbourne Cup Day. Men sport powerfully sleek suits and women slip into beautiful dresses and don fascinators that make it look like they’re headed to a royal (or British) wedding – all in the name of horse racing. Despite the dreary start to the morning, Sydney felt like it was shining.

I wanted to make my only Melbourne Cup a good one, which was why my editor so lovingly passed on some party invitations that a boutique PR agency had sent through to us for Tuesday.  My colleague and I headed out around noon to meet a few girls at The Argyle, a bar in Sydney’s most historic district.

 

 

In the days leading up to the race, I kept asking everyone: Which horse should I pick? I wanted to know my odds and chances of winning. I got a few suggestions:

1. Just pick the horse with the best name
2. Just pick the horse that looks like the prettiest
3. Bet the house on number 18

Right. The first piece of advice I got sucks, because are a ridiculous amount of horses in the Melbourne Cup (24 I think) and they all have pretty awesome names. One was actually named Super Cool.

The second piece of advice was also pretty crap because they’re stunningly beautiful animals, so I’d look up at them on the TV and I was in awe of their power and strength, which wasn’t any help  help in making my decision any easier.

Also, it turns out there was no horse named “Number 18” in the Melbourne Cup (it was the horse’s assigned number), and I learned that I wanted to do the very opposite of betting the house (I do have dreams to travel again).

I went in thinking that I wouldn’t bet more than 20 dollars, but thanks to my younger brother that plan didn’t quite play out all too well. I found myself making two rounds to the TAB machines, which were conveniently located right by my table.

My first trip to the TAB machines saw me earn the reputation as the most memorable bet placer to the TAB man (I have no idea what his actual title was) who helps to explain how the system works, what everything on the machines mean and kinda sorta how to bet.

One thing I learned is that being indecisive is not advantageous when it comes to placing a bet. I get too overwhelmed when there are too many options (menus in restaurants can really pull a trigger of panic in me) and I look to someone else to tell me where to even begin.

“Right, so I have never bet before in my life, and I want to win. What is the likelihood of me winning?”

The man laughed. He probably though I was the most absurd combination of “that girl” and “that American” with a little bit of “that New Yorker” mixed into it. He tried his best to explain my odds at winning. Math and probability was never my strong suit.

“Right, okay I don’t really understand that answer. I guess maybe then which horse should I bet on? No one will give me the right answer,” I said.

The guy laughed again and pointed to horse number 6, Fiorente. “He’s the favourite.”

I recognised the name, as a colleague of mine told me that was my best bet, so I got excited and started to slip my money into the machine.

“….But the favourite practically never wins,” the TAB man added.

That was probably the most annoying statement ever.

“Well, are there girl horses and boy horses? Which ones are the girl horses?”

That had the man crippling over in stitches of laughter. “In all the years I’ve been doing this, not one person has ever asked me that question or based their bets on the sex of the horse.”

What can I say, I like to be different.

In the ended, I decided to bet on horse number 16, Royal Empire, for a place. I knew nothing about the horse, but I know that the 16th is my birthday and my grandmother loves to tell me about how her father’s lineage has Italian royalty in its blood. Seemed like a good fit.

My second bet was on horse number 12, Seville, to win. No idea why I picked to win, but number 12 was my favourite number growing up and the number I used in all my sports. I have also always wanted to go to Seville, Spain, so again, it seemed like a good fit.

When I sat back down at my table, I was greeted by bottle after bottle of Moet and some amazing food (I basically tried to get my hands on every slider that came out of the kitchen) so that I could enjoy my Moet responsibly.

My little brother got wind of the fact that I was betting on the races and sent me back to the machine with a text message of advice to place a few more bets: a box trifecta, which I think means you pick three horses to place in the top and they can come in any particular order, and an each-way bet, meaning you’re betting say 10 dollars on a horse if it wins and 10 dollars on a horse if it places. I picked Dandino, Sea Moon and Fiorente for my trifecta, and I picked Sea Moon for each way. Christopher owes me money when I’m back Stateside.

So, here are my thoughts on the actual race itself: I was confused. There were too many horses on the screen. I had no idea it was even over when it ended, because it lasted all but a few minutes. I was talking to the guy standing next to me throughout the race, and he got me cheering and yelling at the TV right along with him (though I had literally no idea what I was yelling about). That was that.

It was over just as quickly as it had started, and it was back to the partying, the fashion shows of Sydneysiders strutting (and I mean strutting) their stuff down the venue’s catwalk and the glasses overflowing with drinks.

I was a bit gutted that I didn’t win anything, but it was all in good fun. From there the night just carried on, and we headed to a nearby bar Ananas for more drinks and more food before heading back to The Argyle to finish up the night.

I lost 60 dollars, but I made up for it in free champagne, out-of-this-world sliders (I’ve recently re-discovered my love for hamburgers and steaks) and canapés. It was around 11 p.m. when I hailed my taxi home, and all I could think of was how mean a trick the Melbourne Cup was for being on a Tuesday.

I’ve got a whisky event on tomorrow night at a restaurant that I have been looking forward to going to go for ages, and right now the thought of drinking whisky feels worse than what I think childbirth will be like (Sorry Lauren and Lori). My energy level long ago fell below exhausted. It’s now running on opportunities and living for the moment, so I’ve just gotta keep putting my best foot forward and making the most of what I’m given.