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Published: April 6th 2011
Another day at work is complete. The rocking of the train as it rumbles through the tunnel under the city makes my eyelids droop but they are pierced open again by the low slung sunshine streaming through the windows as the train emerges into Circular Quay station. As I step off the train a vista of epic proportions fills the windows of the station. The Opera House and the Harbour Bridge compete for glory while the Manly Ferry chugs across centre stage at what must be the most famous viewpoint from a public transport interchange anywhere in the world.
Ticket swallowed, barriers withdrawn and i'm spewed into the early evening crowd of commuters chasing soon to depart buses and ferries. Tripping lightly in the opposite direction I saunter past mingling tourists tossing coins to street artists in every guise imaginable. First I pass two Aboriginal men – one rotund, the other gangly - inviting video camera touting Americans to sit next to them and hold a plastic snake for photos. The rhythmic humming of a didgeridoo fills the warm air around them like the buzz of outback flies. As I continue walking the sound of the didgeridoo is drowned out
by the croaking of an old timer wheezing out Irish ballads. Everyday I am convinced will be the day I witness this ancient, shrivelled up man keel over, ukelele still in his arms, and splash into the lapping water of the harbour. I continue round the curve of the quay: the ubiquitous panpipers take over the soundtrack and my pace quickens. A creepy man in red silk is waltzing with a blow up doll. A faceless performer on all fours is a pitiful sight in a moth-eaten donkey costume. Next a lady in lycra squeezes herself into a two foot square perspex box to the applause of onlookers. A motionless fairy coated in silver comes to life, startling a young girl who runs squealing back to her mother before shyly returning to toss a coin in the extended hat. I linger as an attractive and talented Swing Band start up their evening busking session. Holidaying couples in colour coordinated outfits promenade around the harbour between their luxury hotels and the overpriced restaurants on the waterfront.
Outside the Oversees Passenger Terminal families and ship-spotters wave goodbye as a monstrous liner sets off on another dream cruise. The towering white hulk
splits the air with three ground shaking blasts of her horn as she pulls away from the quayside. Far less impressive than the Queens, at least the P&O ships draw smaller crowds. In the bars below the customs hall, post-work drinks are downed by office drones with loosened ties. The sky has turned the soft pink of candyfloss streaked with egg yolk, a marbled back drop to the creamy white sails of the Opera House. Silhouetted against this pastel canvas, the sporadic black v's of flying foxes radiate their way from the darkening Botanical Gardens to feast on the fruit trees lining the streets and backyards of the city. On the dappled water below them two ferries cross paths, their green and gold uniform fading with the twilight. A flurry of joggers bypass me.
Onwards, over the weathered grey boardwalk of Campbell's Cove and into the shadow of the Sydney Harbour Bridge - industrial yet beautiful - curving up into the purple sky. The rumble of overhead trains and trucks vibrating down through the iron girders. The flip-flop of a sail catching the warm breeze out on the water. The wake of a ferry sploshing against the stone wall.
I climb up over the swollen mound of Dawes Point Park, under the bridge, and out onto a quiet side road lined with crumbling colonial terraced houses. The front gardens are overgrown with rambling creepers, the wrought iron balconies in need of fresh paint. But the worn appearance of these houses belies their coveted position; standing at my front door I gaze back over my shoulder and there, framed perfectly by the bridge, the Opera House is lit up by a light projector, swirls of colour painting the roof tops and sliding down the sails.
Epilogue: Friday night, the moon is smiling down on a crowded cobbled street. The air is thick with the aroma of grilled meat, frying French crepes and Turkish Gozleme, sweet cupcakes, bubbling vats of Ethiopian curry, and the mingled scent of fresh herbs growing in the planters lining the street. Tables and chairs spill from pubs and restaurants. Brightly lit stalls glitter and groan with crafts and Australiana: gold and silver jewellery, embroidered bags, tailored dresses, Aboriginal-style paintings, framed photos of famous Sydney landmarks, keyrings, wooden toys, bush tucker and sweets. Oohs and aahs and nervous laughter emanates from a striped tent. A
young man perches on a bollard and plays the Spanish guitar with such skill and speed his fingers become a blur. Girls with full skirts and guys with quiffs jive in front of the main stage. A small child in a pink dress squeals with delight and tries to join in. Tourists debate which souveniers to purchase. Ladies straight from the office giggle over half empty glasses of swirling red wine. I pass through all this on my way home, pausing at each new sight, breathing in each new smell, listening to a full song here and there...and I smile to think this is where I have been fortunate enough to have lived for five months.
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FeetDontFailMeNow
FeetDontFailMeNow
heading there soon.. for da first time.. can only hope to see what Sydney has in store for me!