In Canberra, we know how to be good to each other

The ensuing lockdown had an overwhelming sense of inevitability about it. We never thought we were immune, just lucky.

But just weeks ago, the comedian Hannah Gadsby kicked off a long-awaited national tour here with a predictable quip. The reason, she said, there was no Covid in Canberra was that nobody wanted to come here anyway. "Hahaha," we all laughed, good-naturedly.

It was a cheerful crowd, buoyed to be out, many clutching drinks and wearing masks even before they became a requirement. We're long past getting offended by this kind of ribbing and, anyway, the joke was on Gadsby: the rest of the tour has since been postponed. Canberra was the only place she could test out her new material.

It's true, though, that Canberra's famous stillness, its wide open public spaces and large tracts of bushland, especially at certain times of day, so perfectly planned for prolonged social distancing and self-isolation, feels particularly poignant this time.

The space and silence feels charged with purpose. It's not normal this time; it's special, and exceptional, and, in many ways, the city in its purest state.

At 4pm on a weekday, for example, there's tension in the air at the city's busiest supermarket, Dickson Woolies.

To be fair, it's never been the most relaxing place to shop; servicing a large portion of Canberra's prosperous inner north, the exterior is also something of a meeting place for lost souls. Management have recently opted to pipe classical music through outdoor speakers in an effort to keep the "undesirables" away.

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But there's little need just now, and the speakers are chirping into a largely empty, windswept shopping precinct of closed shops.

On this day, and every day for the past week, the usual post-work crowd of shoppers has been replaced by a steady trickle of quiet, furtive, mask-wearing Canberrans, diligently checking in and getting out as fast as is humanly possible.

It's an exposure site, see, one of many across Canberra, but one that keeps popping up in the growing list. As one wag on Twitter put it: "Like a nightmare ex."

And this scenario is being played out at supermarkets, pharmacies, hardware stores and cafes all across the city. They're pretty much the only places still open as the city has closed down, quickly and efficiently, to ward off the Covid pandemic.

Many other commentators have marvelled at the random, scattergun appearance of the growing list of exposure sites, spiralling out in no particular direction, sparing no particular demographic.

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A thriving city bar, a community centre, a sprinkling of major and smaller supermarkets. A chic Manuka eatery, a luxury car dealership, a tram route, a clothing outlet. A charity shop, a Pentecostal church, a youth centre, a childcare centre, an aged care home, a bank, a gym, a university classroom, a public school, a private school, a pub, a fast-food outlet, a hip new ice-cream shop.

It is, in fact, a list that shows a city that flourishes, that contains multitudes. Thousands of people just living their lives, loving their city and doing what's needed to protect it.

It's a long way from the windswept Limestone Plains on which the city's founders once envisaged a modern, innovative and clean capital that would be a shining example of 20th century civilisation for the rest of the world.

This past week has shown on that score, at least, we have succeeded. Born of the intractable rivalries between two great cities - still arguably rivals today - Canberra has, for the past century, run its own quiet race towards something quite different, something that's both perfectly formed and a work in progress.

And today, all around us, the city's soul is shining in various colours. We've always been good in a crisis.

Dozens are offering to deliver groceries to those in quarantine, as supermarkets struggle to keep up with orders.

Strangers are offering lockdown tips and boredom busters in Covid-check and vaccine queues.

Windows throughout the suburbs have teddy bears peeking out, and whole streets have resurrected their lockdown WhatsApp groups to help neighbours keep an eye on the more vulnerable among them.

A bakery is giving away bread in return for donations for frontline workers. A family is cooking thousands of meals a week for the needy.

Retired nurses and medical students are stepping up to help out with vaccinations and testing.

Streets away from Dickson, a pavement has been decorated with rainbows, flowers and hearts. "I love you Canberra - we can get through lockdown!" - the joyful expressions of creative, cooped-up kids in coloured chalk.

And in those endless queues, waiting to be tested after learning you've been at an exposure site, you may well see or hear from a colleague, family member, friend or an acquaintance somewhere up ahead. This isn't a crisis for the few - it's one that's affecting thousands who've been out living their Canberra lives in all their iterations over the past week.

Meanwhile, down by the lake, even Robert Menzies is wearing a mask, fitted over his affable bronze face by who-knows-who - probably Ken Behrens.

The man who oversaw Canberra's mid-century realisation as a resolved and defined city, and whose likeness is captured mid-stride on Lake Burley Griffin, is masked up and doing his bit along with the rest of us.

Of course, the real Robert Menzies, Australia's longest-serving prime minister, is long gone, but it's nice to imagine that, if he could somehow return from the dead to see how we're going, he'd be proud of how far the city has come.

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