Parked just off Marine Parade, in the back seat of my boyfriend’s Toyota Corolla, I devoted many happy hours to perfecting my technique. The sea sighing nearby and the impossibly romantic moon overhead no doubt played their part. But it was more than that. It’s something in the air. Whenever I set foot in St Kilda, in a twosome or a crowd, it’s always party time. And I know I’m not alone. People have been celebrating here for thousands of years. 
Standing unperturbed at the edge of the traffic near St Kilda junction is the majestic Corroboree Tree. This red gum eucalyptus, estimated to be between 400 and 700 years old, is one of Melbourne’s few remaining Indigenous landmarks.

Beneath its sky-high branches, the Kulin nation, who named the area Euroe Yroke, met to tell stories, to perform rituals, to celebrate important events and to dance. They appreciated the importance of getting together and doing special things with the people who matter.

As did my Dad - those kiss fests were my no means my first visits to St Kilda. When I was nine or ten, as a special treat, Dad would sometimes collect us after school in Reservoir for a trip across the Yarra. Although he’d never ventured outside Australia himself, he reckoned visiting Acland Street was the perfect way to give his daughters a taste of Europe.

My sisters and I would wander the street, pressing our noses up against the café windows, debating the merits of the amazing continental cakes, before invariably settling for chocolate éclairs all around.

But what impressed me even more than the cakes, was the party atmosphere that suffused the cafes. All around us, well-dressed, well-groomed elderly people huddled together at small tables drinking coffee and eating with gusto. 
They had strong accents or spoke foreign languages. They talked rapidly at top volume, their fingers puncturing the air for emphasis. They interrupted each other and laughed loudly and didn’t act a bit like the old people I knew in Reservoir. It was strange and wonderful.

The place where that unique atmosphere persisted longest, I suspect, was café Scheherazade, which, sadly, has relocated. Over the years, I ate there often, especially with visitors to Melbourne.

With its décor circa 1960, its no-nonsense staff, its schnitzels lolling over the edges of the dinner plates, its boiled potatoes and sauerkraut, customers were instantly transported to Eastern Europe.

Melbourne writer, Arnold Zable, who must have consumed many schnitzels and coffees in the line of duty, captured vividly the ambience of the café and its customers in his novel Café Scheherazade (Text publishing, Melbourne, 2001).

As one of his characters explains about the haven he has found in St Kilda: ‘In losing everything, I have come to value everything: to savour this cup of coffee, its warmth, its aroma, to savour my walks by the sea, and this moment with a friend, at a table in Scheherazade. What more is there?’ (p. 101)
In fact, from the 1930s onwards, St Kilda, together with Carlton, became the heart of the thriving Jewish community in Melbourne. And although in recent years many people have moved on, testaments to its vibrancy are everywhere.
St Kilda has more synagogues than anywhere else in town, except perhaps Caulfield. The Jewish Museum of Australia, the only museum of its kind in the country, is located in Alma road. Linden, the glorious nineteenth century mansion in Acland Street, now home to the Centre for Contemporary Arts, was originally built by Moritz Michaelis, a prominent Jewish merchant.
Street names like Odessa, Crimea and Sebastapol endlessly evoke Eastern Europe.  And, of course, the continental cakes in Acland Street have lost none of their allure.

But Jewish people were not the only refugees who enjoyed a warm welcome in St Kilda. Early on, the gay and lesbian community found its niche amidst the bohemians, artists and musicians who had already made the bay-side suburb their home. In 1960s Melbourne, St Kilda was one place where being different was not necessarily frowned upon. In fact, sometimes it was even applauded.
Every weekend crowds flocked to Bojangles (now the St Kilda Sea Baths complex) and to The Prince of Wales and the Ritz hotels in Fitzroy Street. They came for the drag shows, which were all the rage, with St Kilda their epicentre. During that era, Les Girls was a household name in Melbourne, and the artists’ brilliant gowns, dramatic make-up, towering wigs and choreography would have rivalled those of Priscilla.

At exactly the same time on the other side of the world, the drag queens of New York were leaving the stage to take to the streets. In what must have been the most flamboyant march in history, they protested against police raids on their local, the Stonewall Inn. The ‘Stonewall riot’, spearheaded by the politically unmotivated, non-violent drag queens became a landmark in the history of gay activism.

Since those heady days, the LGBT community has been peerless at combining a serious political message with a celebration. And St Kilda has become home to the annual Gay Pride march when, as part of Melbourne’s Midsumma Festival, representatives of Victoria’s gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender and intersex community and their supporters parade along Fitzroy Street.

This year, more than 4,000 people marched under the banner ‘Your rights, our rights, human rights’. Bearded nuns rubbed shoulders with men in iron masks, head-to-toe leather and chain mail. Melbourne’s queer sporting groups cart-wheeled along the route, to the delight of the crowd. And the ever-popular Dykes on Bikes and Melbourne Motorcycle Tourers managed to control their steeds for the duration. 

Queer family, Joy 94.9, the Multicultural Council and the Greens were all there. And, of course, the parade featured drag queens galore. Displaying the sign ‘Give us everything they have including the white picket fence’, and glamorously be-decked with roses, my favourite sported a miniature white picket fence across her torso.

But the show was stolen by the Victorian Police Chief Commissioner, Christine Nixon, who marched proudly at the head of a contingent of uniformed fellow officers.  Later, when she took the microphone in the Catani Gardens at the Pride Beach Party, the applause was thunderous and shouts of ‘I love you, Christine’ filled the air. I think we have come a long way since Stonewall. 
This was not the first occasion when time spent partying with the LGBT community has done wonders for my spirits.

Easter ’93 was a particularly low point in my life. I was jaded, overworked and finding single parenting a hard slog. Then in stepped Phil, long-term resident of St Kilda, and my self-proclaimed ‘fairy godmother’. Phil made an instant diagnosis, ‘What you need is to dump the kids with your mother, lose those dreary rags, and hit the high spots with Uncle Phil.’

And when we were finally decanted from the club into the early morning sunlight of the Lower Esplanade in all our dishevelled finery, I hopped into the car, ignored the soggy rusks decorating the upholstery, tossed my stilettos into the booster seat, and drove off smiling.

A decade on, Phil was also responsible for introducing me, as a birthday treat, to the wonderful K D Lang.  As she crooned in her rich, seductive voice, I thought how very fitting it was that such a gay icon should be tantalising the audience at the iconic St Kilda Palais, right next door to the Palace, in the heart of the gay community.

In fact the Palace, the Palais and neighbouring Luna Park have provided a triumvirate of treats for generations of Melbournians, despite the disapproval of some residents.

The opening of a tram service to St Kilda from Melbourne’s central city area around 1890 enabled working class revellers from all over Melbourne, bent on enjoying themselves in St Kilda’s new pleasure precinct, to travel there with ease. Some residents felt that this lowered the ‘tone’ of the area, and decamped to places like South Yarra and Toorak. After all, parties aren’t for everyone.

But those who remained got to enjoy the beautification of the foreshore, masterminded by the Italian landscape designer, Carlo Catani, of Catani Gardens fame. We also have Catani to thank for the Canary Island Date Palms which have become so emblematic of St Kilda. And his vision provided the perfect backdrop for several other wonderful developments, one of which was Luna Park, built in 1912.

Luna Park, which is listed on the National Trust of Australia, is an authentic piece of Melbourne history. Its scenic railway is the oldest continuously-operating roller coaster in the world, and the Ghost Train and the Carousel are of the same vintage.

 Luna Park is undoubtedly one of the faces of Melbourne. The gleaming teeth and malevolent grin of the Mr Moon entranceway, through which so many kids have passed, full of delight and fear-filled anticipation, is unforgettable. No wonder Luna Park occupies an unassailable position in countless visitors’ childhood memory banks. And I’m no exception.

I remember the lurching footpath, the hall of mirrors, and screaming with the gulls way above the sea on the scenic railway, ignored by the bored brakeman standing nonchalantly in the middle of the carriages. I could hardly wait for my kids to get old enough so I could take up where I had left off. As each of them reached double figures, Luna Park was the birthday party venue of choice – theirs and mine. 

Over the years the ancient attractions have been supplemented by others like the Spider and the Gravitron. And it’s the Gravitron where we nearly lost the guest of honour at one party.

Alix, my younger son, has always had a strong sense of occasion. He’s also a sharp dresser and for his tenth birthday celebration borrowed a gold bow tie of mine to enhance his already cool image. But he hadn’t figured on the 4 gs of centrifugal force – close to that experienced during space flight – that the Gravitron reaches at its height.

At that point, riders who are leaning back against angled panels around the inside walls, lose contact with the floor. Their feet fly outwards as their heads roll back. Of course they are rarely wearing bow ties at the time. When Alix’s bow tie took on a life of its own and started straining backwards against his neck, he shouted to raise the roof, much to the amusement of his friends.
Fortunately, no real harm was done. And Alix’s tenth birthday party turned into one of the most memorable ever. The finale was a riotous tram trip home where we took turns composing newspaper headlines. My mum’s offering –Fashion Victim Savaged by Bow Tie at Luna Park – was the standout.  
Immediately behind Luna Park, in the Peanut Farm Reserve, is a more contemporary piece of Melbourne history - the renowned Veg Out Community Gardens. Established in 1998, the Gardens are an inspiration to numerous groups from elsewhere in Melbourne keen to establish non-profit voluntary gardens of their own.

Of course, since Veg Out’s home town is St Kilda, getting together and partying comes naturally and is recognised as a key to the phenomenal success of the garden. Rob Taylor, Veg Out’s President, recommends beginners simply ‘Buy a barbeque and an Esky – make it fun and social.’
And fun and social it surely is. For the last ten years, at the Farmers Market on the first Saturday of every month, St Kilda residents and ‘out-of-towners’ mingle happily as they choose from cheeses, honey, wine, smoked meat and fish, free-range eggs and organic vegies, fruit and herbs, all sold directly by the producers.

Entering through the beautiful metal gates entwined with images of chickens, eggs and vines, you are greeted with the garden’s motto ‘Gardening is an act of faith in the future’.  And that’s exactly what the local residents and community organisations demonstrated when they originally rescued the site of the abandoned St Kilda Bowling Club, scheduled for redevelopment as a car park, and turned it into an urban oasis.

These days, people travel across town not just for the produce, though it is sublime, but for the magical feel of the place. Last time I visited, as I wandered past the pink flamingo half-hidden behind a bush, the mirrored letter boxes, the garden seats afloat with tropical fish, the planters fully rigged to set sail on the high seas, and the metal wind chimes tinkling in the sea breeze, I was blown away by the gardeners’ artistry.

And as I meandered along the mosaic path, and glimpsed a metal scarecrow off to the left, I quickly glanced down at my shoes. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised to find them shiny red, or for the nearby signpost to Bunnies, Dunnies and the Worm Farm to include directions to the Land of Oz.

Noticing that Veg Out was just across the road from Marine Parade, I realised that this paean to partying in St Kilda had come full circle. And at that distance, I easily blew the Parade a kiss.