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I recently visited Canberra and I recalled an incident that occurred when I lived there. It was something that made me realise that to find what you want, you have to know what you're looking for.

I once lived in a government bedsit on the main road into the city, Northbourne Avenue. This primary road carried humanity, essential goods and livestock to feed the ever-expanding and insatiable community. (To be honest, most of the time there was nothing much on that road, with two exceptions: the ambulance that regularly passed by between three and six in the morning and always woke me up, and the summer Nats.)

At Nats time the entire strip became crowded with every type of car and every time of facial hair known to man. The Nats were a male thing, although seldom a lone male thing: the men tended to travel in packs or in smaller groups with their offspring. Families pushing strollers drank down sweet exhaust fumes from cars that were inspired by Big Daddy Roth cartoons.

The story I am about to tell you happened in early spring, on a Sunday, many years ago. I was enjoying the 20-minute stroll from my squalid flat into town. It was a beautiful day, a typical Canberra spring day. There was nothing that could have shattered the serenity of that day. A car pulled up beside me. An American voice beckoned me to the vehicle. Four travellers with a love of Australia had taken the journey overland to the ACT. Three to four hours' driving through the bush may not seem like much to us, but to a group of Americans fresh out of New York, it was exhausting. Their only desire was to see the city and find some accommodation.

My heart surged with pride: here was my chance to give back a little something to the capital. I felt honored to tell these people where to go.

"So where's the centre of town?"
"Straight ahead, you can't miss it, about three or four minutes in the car, mate."
"Thanks, buddy."

Two hours later I was returning home on the other side of the same stretch of road, where a car pulled up next to me. It was the same hire car that had stopped me before. I had this curious case of deja vu when I heard: "Hey buddy, where's the centre of town? ...Hey, aren't you the same...?"
"Yes. Didn't you find it?"
"We've been driving for two-and-a-half-hours." (They looked drawn, worn-out and genuinely dizzy from the roundabouts.)
"Where have you been?"
"We went somewhere called 'Wooden'."
"Woden."
"Whatever. We did what you said, we drove for about five minutes and we didn't see any tall buildings, so we kept going. Twenty minutes later-Wooden."

You won't find the centre of Canberra if you're looking for tall buildings. (I explained to them the centre of town was just a set of two-storey-high arcades and a bus depot.) They'd missed the heart of our capital not once, but twice. They'd missed the eloquent designs of W.B. Griffin, the seat of power, the burgeoning porn industry and Bunda Street, where the junkies hang. When they set off for the third time, they were sincerely depressed. I have no idea if they found it, all I know is I never saw them again. They may still be there, endlessly looping around Norhtbourne Avenue like a malfunctioning satellite.

Canberra is often accused of having no heart. I have never believed this to be true; it may have a weak pulse, but it's there. In a place that's a mass of contradictions, perhaps we just need a few more signs, and people from out of town should definitely buy a map. But the best preparation of all is knowing what you'll find when you get there, so if you ever go searching for the heart of Canberra, make sure you don't have New York In your mind's eyes.

It came from California, a dynamic new concept in human relations. It came as a word whispered by inspired youth that challenged the status quo. It was driven by the need for the sexes to unite in something more than the base coupling required for procreation. It called for the barriers developed over centuries of systematic sexual repression to disappear, it demanded that the sexes become indistinguishable, it promised a liberated sexual democracy. It was a word that would change the way men and women related: unisex.

It is a word many will remember, although it has all but been erased from our language. While the old guard saw "unisex" as something dangerous, to the young it was a call to arms. Like freedom or liberty, the mere mention of the word caused governments to tremble. It spread like wildfire through populations eager for revolution. For men and women tired of the seemingly arbitrary roles society imposed, here was a concept that would render them obsolete.

Virtually overnight, unisex clothes, bars, clubs, coffee-shops and tobacconists sprang up. Suddenly men and women could mingle: share ideas, hopes and dreams. A few older establishments held out against this tidal wave of change. They paid the price for their stoicism: their numbers dwindled and within a few years they no longer existed. There was nothing on the face of the earth that couldn't become unisex. To make anything gender specific was a crime against nature. Humanity had come of age, proudly proclaiming it's individuality by celebrating it's sameness.

Fabrics that had previously been the preserve of women became popular with men: gabardine, organza, polyester, velveteen, corduroy and glomesh. Pastimes from the male domain, like steer-riding and spitting, attracted women. Women stood proudly by their brothers in pantsuits. Without fear of embarrassment or workplace ridicule, men could wear Bonnie Bell strawberry flavoured lip-gloss, cruise to the office on their rollerskates and sport chunky zodiac jewellery.

This dark horse escaped the doomed utopian vision of the '60s and forced its way into the '70s. It was in this age of hedonism and wild abandon that it flourished, and as a child, it was here I first encountered it. After the strict confines of my upbringing it was initially disturbing to witness men and women conversing in public places. Nothing will compare with the shock I felt on first entering my first unisex toilet. The confusing genderless image on the door opened my eyes to a world of tiled wonder. I was filled with a mixture of horror and excitement when I heard conversations from both sexes rising from the cubicles.

But it was in Raymond's swinging unisex salon that I observed the true merits of unisex culture. Here "man" and "wo-man" could sit side by side and have a haircut, rinse and blowdry. Men could get their hair crimped, shagged, tinted or flicked while women settled for a trim and shave and neither felt self-conscious. Californian Poppy mixed with the chemical scent of Gossamer Hair as they discussed politics and art beneath enormous pale-blue egg-shaped dryers. As Raymond's hairy knuckles created a universe of androgynous styles, the world changed for me.

Here was a period of unsurpassed creativity and design. There is often regret and embarrassment over post-60s, pre-80s fashion. I believe this has more to do with the fact that we, as a people, are ashamed we let such a vibrant period pass us by. The Renaissance pales beside the explosion of thought that accompanied the unisex movement. (Let us never forget this was the period that gave us body language.) It is only now, 20 years later, that we can begin to appreciate the immense service this decade performed for civilisation.

The haircuts have long since fallen out of favour, just as the clothing has gone out of vogue, but the fervour and lust for life I perceived will always be in fashion.

Although it pains me to the core to discuss such a pedestrian topic, the events of recent days have forced my hand. There comes a time to address the commonplace and that time is now. We must clean up our beaches. Not the environmental dilemmas, although they must be addressed; we must clean up our act on the beaches.

We generally exist on the fringe of this country, where the earth frays into the water. Most of the populace avoids the wide, brown land favoring instead the girt by sea bit. Australia is comprised of lethargic mounds of human beings clustered around inlets of sea water. More than any other nation, we are of the sea. It is reflected in every aspect of our culture. We are promoted across the globe as a nation of blonde haired, blue eyed surfer boys and girls who spend endless summers rubbing tanning butter into our young, lithe bodies.

In fact, the opposite is true, and one trip to the beach will confirm this. Disturbing the pure white sand is a multitude of different colored bodies from all over the world. All surviving under a bitterly hot sky. And it is here that as a nation currently divided we are truly one. It doesn't matter what faith you profess, your sexual preference, or if you have job, sooner or later we all end up at the beach.

Many of the residents in this country were cheap imports from Britain and Europe. This makes the bulk of us the sworn enemy of daylight. We are genetically pre-disposed to working down a mine or in a forge under rumbling grey skies. We were never meant for the 'lucky country' with its ludicrous abundance of good things. As summer approaches our mole like nature forces us to squirm deeper into the soft, cloying earth. Then on one stinking Sunday, we'll leave our burrows and flood to the ocean. When we do venture to the beach we are like fish out of water. This may be the reason why many of us have no idea of beach etiquette. We hit the sand and all sense of decorum leaves us. We become animals: scrounging for towel space, fighting for shade, literally kicking sand in each other's faces.

The following experiences come from half an hour at a popular Sydney beach. It began with an old gent suffering dementia from the heat in a saggy pair of lollibags. A weakness in the elastic enabled one hirsute egg to escape as he bent over - his hitherto hidden spud making an unwelcome appearance on the beach. The moment might have gone unnoticed had not a group of young mothers screamed and covered their children's eyes.

Next came the swearing. Many would disagree with me, but I believe there are occasions that demand excessive verbal aggression. I don't believe Sunday afternoon at the beach is one of them. Four boys, having survived a torturous puberty, stood in front of the young mothers swearing like troopers. Vulgarities tend to jar against the restless wonder of nature. The mothers covered the ears of their offspring.

Grabbing a football, the boys began to wrestle each other. Their display of manliness was noticed by everyone they fell on top of. Meanwhile, two swarthy athletes, their buttocks glistening with sweat and baby oil, pranced about playing paddleball. The thong is designed for the foot, where it makes a certain amount of practical sense. I'd suggest a turn or two in front of the mirror if you decide to wear this article as beach apparel. It's freeing to be beyond the dictates of fashion and common sense - but a little bit of mystery can be a good thing.

Over the summer, a great deal of our time will be spent at the beach. It is important to observe manners, courtesy and good grace, even if you are only dressed in semi transparent goolie huggers and thongs. We will see a great deal of each other on the beach this summer - perhaps a little too much - let us strive to expose the best and burn together under the sun.

I have searched this world over and never found it again. Occasionally, like a face long forgotten, it appears in a crowd, surfaces for a second and disappears. I thought I caught a whiff of it in Morocco once. In desperation I followed a decaying series of passageways to a sweltering market where in the mix of exotic spices and animal droppings I lost it.

We all have smells that awaken buried memories; these odours are personal and individualistic and have a significance which is all their own. Smell can provoke memories more powerful and all encompassing than any other: it's when the olfactory receptors and the much-maligned nose prove their worth. With a single sniff they cause the head and heart to swim with an overwhelming rush of nostalgia.

The smell I picked up on that street and lost was the acrid and artificial fragrance of a transparent plastic bag. A bag I bought for a pittance from a corner shop when I was seven. A bag which contained little green American World War Two soldiers. A smell I have searched for in vain all my life.

As a child I gnawed on any object I could get my fluoride enhanced calcium deprived pegs around. All manner of toys, plants and furniture suffered at the hands of my teeth. I spent an idyllic afternoon licking lead or gnawing on aluminum saucepans. But that all changed when I purchased 'the bag'. I had been attracted to the pack because of the graphic cardboard seal depicting the D-Day landing with liberal splashes of blood and death, and of course the strong smell emanating from it. The stench was so artificial, so fake, so disagreeable, it scented the entire store with the odour of cheapness.

At home in the privacy of my room, I ripped off the cardboard and a powerful charge of aromas enveloped my head. From that second I was lost. The plastic of the bag had fumigated and permeated the soldiers. Each one carried a hint of that special pong. I couldn't resist and chewed on the muzzle of an M-16. Before long I had attacked the entire platoon. A leg here, an arm there, a tiny radio pack. Limbs hung loosely on tendons of stringy green plastic. Snipers lost their heads, foot soldiers were unable to stand after I ate their pedestals: it was carnage. The army that had emerged whole and fragrant was reduced to a dirty dozen rag tail lepers. I needed more.

When I returned to the corner shop they were all sold out. No doubt word had spread like wildfire among the juvenile hedonists in the area. All that remained on the rack were crappy Sherman tanks, amphibious vehicles and vanity sets moulded in a hard, unforgiving synthetic. I have reason to believe that the special plastic that I loved has since been banned. I have little doubt it was poisonous, and yet I would give almost anything to find it again. Over the years I've searched. I have stood in toyshops, sniffing the air - I once ate a relative's Christmas present. But it's never the same.

How fortunate we are to live in this age of the artificial, this time of plastic, not because of the multitude of uses but the smell. How many generations have gone to the grave without experiencing the intoxicating odour of rubber on a hot day? How dull the scent of lavender when compared to latex? Was there ever a product that was so good to put in your mouth and so stupid to swallow?

PS: I realised, later in life, that the injustice that I'd inflicted upon my men depicted, visually, the true horrors of war. The happy go lucky gun toting group of healthy minded, whole limbed infantry was replaced by gnarled stumps of spittle ridden plastic. But unlike society I chose not to remember the brave ones who fought for my freedom. I left them forgotten and discarded at the back of a drawer to gather dust. There were no ticker tape parades, no welfare, no support. Eventually they were buried in an unmarked shoebox in a shallow grave beneath a house brick.