Melbourne Cup a chance to see and be seen at the races

By Dewi Anggraeni

MELBOURNE (JP): The limousine sent by my host glided over the hard bitumen of the bridge across Maribyrnong River, approaching one of the entrances of Flemington Race Course. It was still early, yet the carnival atmosphere was already heavy, with officials wearing dark suits welcoming guests. Even the police officers on duty around the entrance, while not exactly wearing big grins, did not look particularly stern.

Having lived in Melbourne for 30 years but visiting the Melbourne Cup for the first time last week did not seem to ring true. One of the facts must be a lie, or at least that was the most common reaction received.

The Melbourne Cup is the peak of the spring carnival, a point of gathering for celebrities, domestic and international, an exhibition forum for fashion aficionados to strut their stuff and display their own creations or the fruits of their year's savings. Twenty years ago, before the "invasion" of cultural events like the Melbourne International Arts Festival, the Melbourne Fringe Festival and the Melbourne International Comedy Festival, the Melbourne Cup was the main cultural landmark.

"Nothing happens after the Melbourne Cup," Melburnians used to say.

So being a novice wearing a not-very-remarkable outfit would not leave anyone oozing with self-confidence, especially sitting and milling among a group of official guests of a major IT company, in a huge, well-equipped and well-appointed tent within walking distance of the race track.

It was impossible to look anywhere without seeing glamor, glitter, wealth and abandon. Champagne began to flow long before lunch was served, since there was no shortage of finger foods. Conversation at the table began to approach dangerous grounds. With a knowledge little beyond the early morning's listening to the Cup gossip and tips on the radio, the plethora of names that appeared on the monitors placed strategically inside the tent could only invoke a headache. Besides, hardly any mention was made on the radio of horses in the seven races preceding the main event.

Names like Onslaught, Lesvos Ruler, Camargo, Salad Touch and Uncovered sounded either weird or ridiculous, but picking pretty names like Preludes and Piermont was no guarantee to winning either. A lot of research was necessary, but how was that possible inside a tent with artificial lighting, where the information booklets had been printed by a printer who had bionic eyes or whose machines had not been fitted with typefaces larger than 4 points?

Thus, A$70 down the black hole in the shape of the booker's box later, with a head swimming from too much champagne and white wine, and a skirt becoming too tight from a very delicious lunch, the best policy was to follow two-thirds of the tent's population to the race track.

The oval looked beautifully green and soft, and against the background of the city of Melbourne it emanated a mysterious promise. A promise of wealth and fame came to mind. The serious race-goers had been sitting on their concrete or wooden seats -- depending on the types of tickets they had bought -- since the first race, judging by their sunburned arms and faces.

Race time

Within minutes the grandstand and its surrounds were filled up by bodies adorned with elaborate hats and matching dresses, handbags and shoes. Evidently nobody wanted to miss the Melbourne Cup race itself.

When the race started the electricity in the air was palpable. It was hard not to feel the tension and excitement when one had put bets on all the favorites: Diatribe, Freemason, Second Coming, Yippyio, Arctic Owl. They had all been mentioned by well-known people who allegedly had inside knowledge of the racing world. By now, none of those names sounded strange, the white wine, as well as frequent mentions by people around you, no doubt having something to do with it.

Tall bodies wearing high fashion, especially wide-brim hats in seats in front, suddenly became a nuisance when they stood up, pumped even taller by excitement. While watching the real race on the real turf was no doubt exhilarating, when it came to seeing who was in front and who was lagging behind, the giant monitor on the edge of the track was still the best option.

"Yeeah! Second Coming! Go on, Second Coming!" a woman in a black hat with a red plume yelled, followed by a chorus of shrieks and cheers from left, right and center. No doubt many had put big money on it.

Second Coming was in front for a fair while, before being taken over by another. Black hat suddenly gulped, then went quiet. "Who's that?" she finally asked the man beside her. He did not know. Neither did those around them.

The rank outsider maintained the position. People began to inquire. Then it became clear as Second Coming fell third. Between it and the rank outsider another horse came through. And it was Yippyio!

"Didn't you put a wager on Yippyio?"

"Yes, only five dollars!"

In any case, Yippyio only came second. And the rank outsider won. At last somebody discovered what horse it was. Brew. Brew who?

Back in the tent, few people talked about Brew. Many had indeed put a bet on Yippyio. If nobody won big money, it was not obvious. Food was again served, champagne and wine flowed again. People partied on.

At home, the question, "So did you win?" at first only caused bewilderment. "Win what?" Money on the Cup. Oh, of course, the Cup.

No. But does it matter? I am no longer an anachronism. I have been to the Melbourne Cup.