Sunny Sydney

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Rach...

Our 747 arrived two hours late into Sydney due to an air rage incident just before take off: An ozzie couple were having a seismic domestic dispute so the airline refused to let them board and had their luggage unloaded. The police were called. Ian witnessed heated scenes from the currency exchange queue, but alas I was roving the perfumes, so I missed it.

I wasn’t too happy about those 120 minutes shaved off our Sydney stay, and so I was gagging to get going as soon as we’d unpacked. Our apartment block was on Macleay Street in the Potts Point neighbourhood. Potts Point is right next to infamous Kings Cross, where the druggie red light district is now peppered with chic and sophisticated venues. Indeed, we found running parallel to one other a row of seedy dives and a strip of über trendy bars and restaurants. On the first evening there was time only for a trip to the supermarket and then we had a Thai dinner at a local ‘Bring Your Own’ restaurant. Over here it’s very common for eateries not to be licensed. You just pop to the local bottleshop, buy something nice and bring it along.

The next morning we woke up to a beautiful blue sky. It was Easter Monday, and we stepped out onto a relaxed Macleay street. Folks were sipping on lattes at pavement coffee shops, fit and good looking young joggers were trailing fit and good looking pet dogs along the pavements, and I think I started to appreciate the Sydney vibe. Our route took us past the classic Victorian terraces of Potts Point, with their iron lace balconies, past nice boutiques and galleries and onwards into the Botanic Gardens. Within moments we were greeted by continuous screeching coming from the tall trees above. Not birds, not rats, but bats! And bats the size of sheepdogs. We later learned that they were Flying Foxes, but however they describe themselves we were surprised that they could get airborne at all. We also noted that they were flouting their kind’s nocturnal traditions, but seeing them in glorious technicolour made them no more endearing. Ian was fascinated, but fearing that the bats would soon take delight in bombarding us with droppings, I ushered him on, past a flock of lemon yellow parrots who were landing with gay abandon on peoples’ heads. We shortly arrived at the Opera House, which on reflection is probably best seen from a distance, because it seemed a bit grubby close up.

We wandered further than we expected to, and found ourselves in striking distance of The Sydney Aquarium. This was on our list as ‘A Must Do’ so despite a terrifying array of pushchairs, we braved a kid-friendly attraction on a public holiday. First up was a fresh water crocodile lazing in the shallows of its faux habitat enclosure. The croc’s beastliness and size were admirable, yet he was frustratingly motionless. I gave him the benefit of the doubt at first, assuming he was in the build up to a sudden and terrifying tail swish or death roll, but nothing. These animals are professionals, yet have no idea how to work a crowd. Wisely the notices around our viewing gallery had pre-empted our desire to throw something down into the pit, and I could see Ian surveying his surroundings for candidate missiles. Wordlessly we both identified the same missile of choice, namely the irritating brat next to us. (This augers badly for a couple supposed to be actively considering the ‘children’ question.) Elsewhere at the aquarium were giant underground tanks, and there we found some impressive exhibits: Countless sharks of all kinds - though all having those same unblinking eyes - glided all about us with effortless speed, and giant stingrays in ghostly silhouette winged their way overhead. These were fish with a sense of spectacle! Further down the bill, but still in the same tanks, smaller fish in colourful shoals almost upstaged the stars. Most impressive was the fact that the stars weren’t snacking on the rest of the company, although most visitors would have welcomed any lapse in self discipline on the part of the sharks, I am sure. All in all, the aquarium visit was most informative and entertaining.

During the following week we roved widely around Sydney’s central business district, around its harbours and quays, to the famous Saturday market in Paddington, and even to its busy fish market, which is a fixture on the tourist circuit and clearly a firm favourite with the Orientals. On a bright afternoon there we had a sushi lunch, sitting in the sunshine beside the boats bobbing in the harbour. At one point a Sacred Ibis bird (a large and stork like thing - they are ten a penny round here) made off with a full shopping bag full of fishy goodies. The crowd was amused, but we all clutched our lunches a bit tighter.

In terms of cultural experiences, we surpassed ourselves in Sydney. And that has absolutely nothing to do with the city’s surprisingly stunted retail development, oh no. I was very keen to visit the Art Gallery of New South Wales, which is the city’s premier arts space. It was really good, and we saw works from across the last three centuries. My favourites, of course, were the Australian impressionists. Ian was keen to visit the Sydney Museum, where we saw an exhibition centred on the bridging of Sydney harbour in the thirties. We saw lots of old photos and architectural drawings. We also learned about the first voyages to the new territories, the early governors and how they interacted with the natives, and how they handled the politicos back home too.

For only one day of our stay we left Sydney’s closest environs and took a day trip to The Blue Mountains, a sandstone range less than a couple of hours’ drive from the city. The mountains had once proved an impenetrable barrier to the western plains for the earliest settlers - but not for us. We headed out of town with Justin our coach driver, assorted couples from Canada and The States, and a deranged Greek air hostess on her day off. For the first time we saw suburban Sydney. It was mainly pleasant enough, but certainly without the personality of the central neighbourhoods. The first stop on our itinerary was a wildlife park where we were served breakfast. A Koala (not a bear, they’re marsupials, dummy) was paraded amongst us for petting and photos. The handler warned us gravely that Koalas take badly to being touched about the head. This reminded me of something we’d learned in Fiji - that Fijian islanders, with their relatively recent tradition of cannibalism, have a massive aversion to the very same thing. Not so many years ago a missionary made a most unfortunate faux pas involving a hair comb, and ended up in the pot. It was to be hoped that the Koalas were not as sensitive as all that. The American lady opposite us at the breakfast table quietly objected to the introduction of fleecy marsupials into the dining environment, and I admit I had some sympathy with her point of view. She deprecated her own pernickitiness, but I didn’t fancy handling my croissant much after I’d greeted the Koala either. Like the croc before him, he didn’t actually do very much, just cling to his handler’s bossom and look reticent. I stroked him once, to little mutual satisfaction, and found myself sniffing my fingers cautiously for the rest of the morning. There were far more interesting animals to be found at the park. I’m talking here about Australia’s own: Creatures so bizarre that they seem barely plausible. Kangaroos and wallabies need no comment, but we also saw the incredible Cassowary, and the ungainly Tasmanian Devil, which loped diagonally around its den, singularly bereft of any of the natural elegance which normally belongs to members of the animal kingdom. Later that day we were to see Kangaroos in the wild, gum trees, and many other clichés of the Aussie bush. We saw the box valley that had defeat the early pioneers who had tried to forge their way through the Blue Mountains, and realised why they had struggled: Our American companions told us it was like the Grand Canyon. We ate our lunch at The Imperial Hotel in a quaint mountain town. They served Ian’s pint in a handled mug, there was a proper beer garden with roses, and in the lounge bar they displayed pictures of Her Majesty’s visit to the town shortly after the coronation. The Aussies might talk about ditching us entirely, but their practises are at odds to all that. It’s not just that Queeny appears on coins and notes, and it’s not even their flag. Rather it’s the fact that on prime time TV here they are showing British editions of The Antiques Roadshow five nights a week. Hugh Scully is one thing when he’s fondling a restoration commode just down the road from you in Chalfont St Peter, but our cousins out here are tuning in to watch unknowable furniture, locations and presenters, all on the other side of the world from them! That shows a certain attachment to the old country, I’d say. (And I won’t even mention the level of interest in William’s sad break up from Kate. On the chat shows here they keep harping on about the bookmakers’ short odds on a future royal coupling with Kylie Minogue. Ian and I agree that this would be a most acceptable eventuality, and doubtless would prevent an Aussie break from the Commonwealth.)

Back in Sydney, we were spoilt for places to go in the evenings. It seemed like no wharf or quayside was without a border of modern bars and restaurants, all thronging with people. You could choose between Finger Wharf, Darling Harbour, King’s Wharf and many more. Lovely as these venues were, with their starched white tablecloths and sparkly glasses, Ian reckoned that the whole was less than the sum of the parts, because so much of the same thing - however nice - ends up seeming formulaic. No one could deny that the Sydney formula is very successful, and probably owes much to the Olympics. But our favourite places were nearer home in Potts Point, where the narrow streets and mixed buildings had the feel of a ‘real’ neighbourhood rather than an Olympic bolt on. One night we had dinner at a place there called Jimmy Liks. Part cocktail bar, part restaurant, it was very ‘beau monde’, but here everybody is so ‘beau’ and tanned and has such nice teeth, that the label is superfluous. The waitress was ever so friendly, curried Ian’s questions about sauces back and forth between the kitchen, and brought us a delicious supper of snapper, packed with all those eastern herbs, vinegars and fruits that just don’t taste the same back at home when the weather is dull. Pudding involved some immensely creative efforts such as green coconut tapioca and duck egg custard. Alas, I made quite a pig of myself that night, and Ian refused to help me out because, of course, he is still a school boy at heart and would have nothing to do with tapioca.

On our final morning in Sydney we had to pick up a rental car from Hertz, point it south, and head out along the coast road, loosely in the direction of Melbourne. I was quite sad to leave the city, but for the sake of our pockets and waist lines, it was necessary. Sydney is such a handsome, self confident place. Although it could be nothing but jolly nice to live there, I don’t think I would want to for long. Ian agrees - although slightly ruefully, because Sydney really has got loads of good looking women. Is it possible that a person could tire of all those lattes in the sunshine, of all those tempura prawns and lychee margaritas? Possibly. But if Sydney is a one trick pony, it’s a very good trick.

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Photos

New South Wales Art gallery
Proof we did something "worthy"

Rachy and a wild bore
Which is which?

Ian enjoying the finer things
That is a pint of bitter would you believe!

Rachy at Jimmy Liks
A trendy Asian fusion bar/restaurant in Potts Point