June 19th
Friday evening. We're at The Opera House taking in the Symphony. Stephen Hough is showing Tchaikovsky's 2nd Piano Concerto who's boss. No sheet music, hot damn.
The vigor with which Mr. Hough flips his hair in dynamic emphasis of the composition is initially mesmerizing, but before long, my mind begins to flit from one thought to the next, little of it related to music of any kind. Chris informs me he thankfully snagged several of the courtesy Butter-Menthols [best throat lozenges ever] from the lobby, as they are keeping him awake.
The concerto finishes, Steveo and the conductor take several bows, Steveo does an encore (because, in spite of our Butter-Menthol haze, the crowd has gone wild), and then Chris is up and out in the lobby, coat on.
Surely, he knows it's the interval; after all, I had read out bits from the programme before the start, about how Hugh Wolff's symphony in the second half was described as "loud" (seriously, they might as well have included that it's also "good." Who writes that?!)
Standing outside in the drizzle -- to get some air, I assume -- Chris asks, "What now?"
"There's still another half."
"What...?"
"Yeah, this is just the intermission."
Pause.
A smile slowly starts to form. More of a smirk, really.
"No, come on."
"Serious. 'Member I was reading that bit about the crashy loud section."
"Vaguely..."
"That hasn't happened yet."
"Oh..."
"We don't have to stay; I'm totally fine to go."
"Oh..."
He walks back through the door, over to the bar, and buys a box of Malteazers. To keep him awake, he tells me.
Back in the concert hall, Chris places the box of chocolate on the seat beside him. I do my best not to giggle each time he holds the box up and ever so carefully selects one, as though there was a variety among the lot I wasn't aware of.
***
Outside, the Opera House, we pass a group of beefy American dudes.
"Those trumpets were awesome!"
"I know! Like, they must train like athletes."
"Yeah. Those trumpets were... awesome."
The sound of North American accents bothers me lately when I encounter them in daily life. Not in movies or on the phone, but at restaurants, bars, the market.
It's jarring, all sharp and twangy. I express this to Chris.
"Nah, it's more that it drones, " he replies with a grin.
My "aw, thanks" is accompanied with a punch to the shoulder.
Droney? Perhaps.
Unnecessarily aggressive?
Most definitely.
Monday, June 29, 2009
The Sydney Saga: Wooden Escalators
June 18th
"I just... I just need some fruit, I think."
We're under the awning of the fruit market, shielded from the downpour, watching as miniature torrents rush past, filling the gutters.
It's at this point I've concluded it's unlikely my feet will ever be dry again. There are undoubtedly worse things.
Lucas is coming to get us -- ah, the novelty of a car! -- and then off to Govinda's for an all-you-can-eat vegetarian feed/movie combo.
After filling our bellies with heavenly, warm food ("I didn't even miss the meat," Chris was later to comment), we go upstairs for the film. Instead of seats, there are cushions and pillows. Shoes are kicked off -- as well as sopping socks, in my case -- and everyone settles into extreme lounging mode.
So smart, such bliss.
***
One of the train stations, I'm fairly certain it's Museum, has a wooden escalator. Even the little raised bits to dissuade people from sliding down the middle are made of wood.
Wooden escalators trump metal ones exponentially to the power of four.
[This assertion is swayed to some degree by the image of Michael Palin of Monty Python sitting on a park bench, dressed as a Scotsman.
He stands and, in response to nothing in particular, says, "Well, em, that's very interesting because I am made entirely of wood."
Several episodes later, same scene, only this time upon standing he says, "Well, that's very interesting because I am now made entirely of tin."
Even writing that out tickles me.
See? To the power of four.
Mathematically sound.
Subjectivity's a funny thing, isn't it?]
"I just... I just need some fruit, I think."
We're under the awning of the fruit market, shielded from the downpour, watching as miniature torrents rush past, filling the gutters.
It's at this point I've concluded it's unlikely my feet will ever be dry again. There are undoubtedly worse things.
Lucas is coming to get us -- ah, the novelty of a car! -- and then off to Govinda's for an all-you-can-eat vegetarian feed/movie combo.
After filling our bellies with heavenly, warm food ("I didn't even miss the meat," Chris was later to comment), we go upstairs for the film. Instead of seats, there are cushions and pillows. Shoes are kicked off -- as well as sopping socks, in my case -- and everyone settles into extreme lounging mode.
So smart, such bliss.
***
One of the train stations, I'm fairly certain it's Museum, has a wooden escalator. Even the little raised bits to dissuade people from sliding down the middle are made of wood.
Wooden escalators trump metal ones exponentially to the power of four.
[This assertion is swayed to some degree by the image of Michael Palin of Monty Python sitting on a park bench, dressed as a Scotsman.
He stands and, in response to nothing in particular, says, "Well, em, that's very interesting because I am made entirely of wood."
Several episodes later, same scene, only this time upon standing he says, "Well, that's very interesting because I am now made entirely of tin."
Even writing that out tickles me.
See? To the power of four.
Mathematically sound.
Subjectivity's a funny thing, isn't it?]
The Sydney Saga: In the City
June 17th
Lucas's place in Beacon Hill faces onto standard suburbia, but is backed by acres and acres of honest bushland. This morning, I'm graced with a magnificent view, the early sun burning through the mist.
For a few minutes, anyway. Then it starts to rain.
People tend to be harsh on Sydney -- and to be fair, in my brief experience, rudeness seems par for the course -- but it is a gorgeous city, with national parks tucked in here and there, beaches galore (a little cold to get the most out of them now, it being officially winter), and divine architecture. The Opera House is quite grand, but I'm a sucker for a good bridge, and The Harbour Bridge is a mighty one at that.
***
The dreariness of the morning dampens our saunter through the Botanical Gardens -- the highlight, my dramatic tumble while running for cover from the rain -- and we make our soggy-footed way to the Opera House.
In lieu of the $35 tour, we opt to take in a performance Friday evening. The slightly sour lady in the box office seems unlikely to sell us tickets for anything other than Stephen Hough performing with The Sydney Symphony Orchestra.
"He's only the most magnificent pianist of the generation," she says in an exasperated tone, the depth of which was limited only by the amount of energy she was willing to exert.
***
Next on the exploration front: The Rocks.
This is one of the sights of Sydney you hear about -- "Sydney? You must go to The Rocks" -- but it's certainly not what we're expecting, all gentrified, pristine, and -- as far as we can find -- remarkably absent of anything worthwhile (excluding the Museum of Contemporary Art).
Very often, it seems "must-see" areas of cities consist predominantly of shops and restaurants, the must-see-ness of their locale reflected in the elevated mean of their prices. I can only assume it's this phenomenon that fascinates people.
"I looove this place! It's just so... expensive!"
"Um, yeah. Wow...? I guess."
***
Suddenly, the sun bursts through the clouds. And there is the bridge. More than anything in that moment, I need to walk across that bridge. I know if I don't, I will leave Sydney disappointed. So across we go.
On the other side, with the sun quickly setting, Chris plays around with his camera, getting various combinations of the bridge, Opera House, and skyline. An older man in a purple hat and matching scarf takes time lapse shots at the end of the dock. A burly guy sits quietly on a bucket, patiently waiting for the fish to bite.
The rain starts up again. The photographer, who had been excitedly chirping away on his phone, gingerly covers the camera with his hat and strides off to the shore. He returns a few moments later, his head now covered with a purple towel. The fishing guy pulls up his hood and I duck into the water-cab shelter.
Chris wants to wait until the lights of the bridge and Opera House come on. The rain lets up and we sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the side, watching as the city goes from day to night. In the distance off to the right, the carnival lights of Luna Park blink and flash.
Mr. Fishing slaps a squat squid on to the boards, its white flesh seeming to glow in the fading light. Maybe he hadn't been fishing at all, but jigging for squid the whole time [clearly, the process is similar, but the verb jigging is infinitely superior]. I watch as his hands become increasingly covered in ink with each failed attempt to get the squid into the bucket.
Mr. Photographer suggests we go to Oxford Street for Indian food.
So we do.
Lucas's place in Beacon Hill faces onto standard suburbia, but is backed by acres and acres of honest bushland. This morning, I'm graced with a magnificent view, the early sun burning through the mist.
For a few minutes, anyway. Then it starts to rain.
People tend to be harsh on Sydney -- and to be fair, in my brief experience, rudeness seems par for the course -- but it is a gorgeous city, with national parks tucked in here and there, beaches galore (a little cold to get the most out of them now, it being officially winter), and divine architecture. The Opera House is quite grand, but I'm a sucker for a good bridge, and The Harbour Bridge is a mighty one at that.
***
The dreariness of the morning dampens our saunter through the Botanical Gardens -- the highlight, my dramatic tumble while running for cover from the rain -- and we make our soggy-footed way to the Opera House.
In lieu of the $35 tour, we opt to take in a performance Friday evening. The slightly sour lady in the box office seems unlikely to sell us tickets for anything other than Stephen Hough performing with The Sydney Symphony Orchestra.
"He's only the most magnificent pianist of the generation," she says in an exasperated tone, the depth of which was limited only by the amount of energy she was willing to exert.
***
Next on the exploration front: The Rocks.
This is one of the sights of Sydney you hear about -- "Sydney? You must go to The Rocks" -- but it's certainly not what we're expecting, all gentrified, pristine, and -- as far as we can find -- remarkably absent of anything worthwhile (excluding the Museum of Contemporary Art).
Very often, it seems "must-see" areas of cities consist predominantly of shops and restaurants, the must-see-ness of their locale reflected in the elevated mean of their prices. I can only assume it's this phenomenon that fascinates people.
"I looove this place! It's just so... expensive!"
"Um, yeah. Wow...? I guess."
***
Suddenly, the sun bursts through the clouds. And there is the bridge. More than anything in that moment, I need to walk across that bridge. I know if I don't, I will leave Sydney disappointed. So across we go.
On the other side, with the sun quickly setting, Chris plays around with his camera, getting various combinations of the bridge, Opera House, and skyline. An older man in a purple hat and matching scarf takes time lapse shots at the end of the dock. A burly guy sits quietly on a bucket, patiently waiting for the fish to bite.
The rain starts up again. The photographer, who had been excitedly chirping away on his phone, gingerly covers the camera with his hat and strides off to the shore. He returns a few moments later, his head now covered with a purple towel. The fishing guy pulls up his hood and I duck into the water-cab shelter.
Chris wants to wait until the lights of the bridge and Opera House come on. The rain lets up and we sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling over the side, watching as the city goes from day to night. In the distance off to the right, the carnival lights of Luna Park blink and flash.
Mr. Fishing slaps a squat squid on to the boards, its white flesh seeming to glow in the fading light. Maybe he hadn't been fishing at all, but jigging for squid the whole time [clearly, the process is similar, but the verb jigging is infinitely superior]. I watch as his hands become increasingly covered in ink with each failed attempt to get the squid into the bucket.
Mr. Photographer suggests we go to Oxford Street for Indian food.
So we do.
The Sydney Saga: Arrival
June 16th
I meet Chris at Circular Quay station and we hop on the ferry. The day is grey and drizzly.
[It rained a large portion of my time in Sydney, while it was gloriously sunny in Melbourne. Everyone informs me with a chuckle, it's generally the reverse.]
Lucas is warm, kind, and infinitely easy to get along with. A musician and composer, he's helping with the musical at one of the schools he teaches at and won't get to hang-out much at all. He and Chris toss around suggestions of things to see and do over the 4 and a bit days I'm here.
I'm not fussed. My sole desire is to experience zero stress. Whatever it takes to achieve this goal is exactly what I want to do.
Luckily, Chris is of the same mind. He stayed in Sydney for about 6 weeks when he first arrived in Australia. But more relevant is that we share compatible exploring and travel styles.
How fortunate, as this is the first time since hitting the trails mid-December I've had another person to consider when making plans (or not make plans, as more aptly our case).
***
Lucas's brother Roan invites us to cheap night at the cinema. We see The Hangover, which makes me giggle a lot. There's something so genuine and visceral about collective laughter; I just love it.
Chris buys peanut M&Ms. This I interpret as a sign we'll get along famously.
I'm pleased to report, early results show the Confectionery Litmus test is an empirically sound method of determining personality compatibility.
I meet Chris at Circular Quay station and we hop on the ferry. The day is grey and drizzly.
[It rained a large portion of my time in Sydney, while it was gloriously sunny in Melbourne. Everyone informs me with a chuckle, it's generally the reverse.]
Lucas is warm, kind, and infinitely easy to get along with. A musician and composer, he's helping with the musical at one of the schools he teaches at and won't get to hang-out much at all. He and Chris toss around suggestions of things to see and do over the 4 and a bit days I'm here.
I'm not fussed. My sole desire is to experience zero stress. Whatever it takes to achieve this goal is exactly what I want to do.
Luckily, Chris is of the same mind. He stayed in Sydney for about 6 weeks when he first arrived in Australia. But more relevant is that we share compatible exploring and travel styles.
How fortunate, as this is the first time since hitting the trails mid-December I've had another person to consider when making plans (or not make plans, as more aptly our case).
***
Lucas's brother Roan invites us to cheap night at the cinema. We see The Hangover, which makes me giggle a lot. There's something so genuine and visceral about collective laughter; I just love it.
Chris buys peanut M&Ms. This I interpret as a sign we'll get along famously.
I'm pleased to report, early results show the Confectionery Litmus test is an empirically sound method of determining personality compatibility.
The Sydney Saga: Transit-a-Plenty
Tuesday, June 16th
7:42am
I stare at the time for a few moments before realizing that, although I had set the alarm for 7:03, I had neglected to turn it on.
In a flurry, I'm showered, packed (because who does that the night before?!), and out the door with time to spare.
Making my way down Barkly, I see the Nicholson tram pass. Perfect, should get to the stop just as the next one arrives in about 5 minutes.
Not 30 seconds later, a second tram clatters by. That is not a good sign.
So I run, knowing full well that unless the tram hits the longest light ever the exact instant it turns red, I will not catch it.
By the time I hit Nicholson, it's already blocks away.
My housemate Jai is waiting at the stop and informs me trams come about every 10 minutes at this time in the morning.
Twenty-four minutes later, the last 13 of which were agonizing, the tram pulls up.
A half hour after that, I breathlessly run up to the counter to find out I missed the shuttle to the airport by 10 minutes.
Next one: 12:30.
My flight is at noon.
***
An hour cab ride later, I'm at Avalon, the smallest, most forlorn airport of all time (and I've flown into Fredericton before). I had previously been unaware of the difference between Tullamarine -- Melbourne's city airport -- and this far flung place.
Explains why the flight was so inexpensive.
***
I'm be staying with Lucas, a friend of a friend (although we later connected that we had in fact met once in Toronto). He lives near the northern beaches, which means catching the ferry to Manly.
All told, today's travel included: tram, cab, plane, train, boat, car.
If only I had rode my bike.
7:42am
I stare at the time for a few moments before realizing that, although I had set the alarm for 7:03, I had neglected to turn it on.
In a flurry, I'm showered, packed (because who does that the night before?!), and out the door with time to spare.
Making my way down Barkly, I see the Nicholson tram pass. Perfect, should get to the stop just as the next one arrives in about 5 minutes.
Not 30 seconds later, a second tram clatters by. That is not a good sign.
So I run, knowing full well that unless the tram hits the longest light ever the exact instant it turns red, I will not catch it.
By the time I hit Nicholson, it's already blocks away.
My housemate Jai is waiting at the stop and informs me trams come about every 10 minutes at this time in the morning.
Twenty-four minutes later, the last 13 of which were agonizing, the tram pulls up.
A half hour after that, I breathlessly run up to the counter to find out I missed the shuttle to the airport by 10 minutes.
Next one: 12:30.
My flight is at noon.
***
An hour cab ride later, I'm at Avalon, the smallest, most forlorn airport of all time (and I've flown into Fredericton before). I had previously been unaware of the difference between Tullamarine -- Melbourne's city airport -- and this far flung place.
Explains why the flight was so inexpensive.
***
I'm be staying with Lucas, a friend of a friend (although we later connected that we had in fact met once in Toronto). He lives near the northern beaches, which means catching the ferry to Manly.
All told, today's travel included: tram, cab, plane, train, boat, car.
If only I had rode my bike.
The Sydney Saga: Prelude
June 13th
The message consisted of 4 questions:
No greeting. No salutation. Nothing in the subject line.
Though I did managed to sign off with a "Hope you're grand" and my name.
I had been meaning to write Chris for a while now. We had met in February when he and his friends were looking for a fourth person to join their trek around the West Coast. When I finally chose to stay in Melbourne first, travel after, the possibility of meeting up later on was suggested. Messages were exchanged sporadically and I figured they had reached the north by the time I added "Write Chris" on my Internet to-do list.
About two weeks later, I drew a red box around "Write Chris," highlighting the importance of this task in contrast to the other tightly scrawled items.
Two weeks after that, I've hit send on my no-frills note. [I am Queen of the Procrastinators.] I'm sitting in an Internet café, waiting to meet a friend, suffering the tail end of a brutal head cold, chilled, and a bundle of nerves due to a series of un-carnet-worthy events.
Having just found out I'm staring down a second week without work, one thing is clear: I need to get out of Melbourne for a bit.
***
A few hours later, I get the text: Chris got to Sydney yesterday, was planning to head home to the UK, probably Tuesday. Drat.
"Too bad. Was thinking of visiting."
"Haven't changed my flight yet. Come up."
The next day, with the utmost of synchronicity, I had a ticket, a place to stay, and the prospect of an adventure.
The message consisted of 4 questions:
Where are you?
What are you doing?
How long are you there for?
Would you like a visitor?
No greeting. No salutation. Nothing in the subject line.
Though I did managed to sign off with a "Hope you're grand" and my name.
I had been meaning to write Chris for a while now. We had met in February when he and his friends were looking for a fourth person to join their trek around the West Coast. When I finally chose to stay in Melbourne first, travel after, the possibility of meeting up later on was suggested. Messages were exchanged sporadically and I figured they had reached the north by the time I added "Write Chris" on my Internet to-do list.
About two weeks later, I drew a red box around "Write Chris," highlighting the importance of this task in contrast to the other tightly scrawled items.
Two weeks after that, I've hit send on my no-frills note. [I am Queen of the Procrastinators.] I'm sitting in an Internet café, waiting to meet a friend, suffering the tail end of a brutal head cold, chilled, and a bundle of nerves due to a series of un-carnet-worthy events.
Having just found out I'm staring down a second week without work, one thing is clear: I need to get out of Melbourne for a bit.
***
A few hours later, I get the text: Chris got to Sydney yesterday, was planning to head home to the UK, probably Tuesday. Drat.
"Too bad. Was thinking of visiting."
"Haven't changed my flight yet. Come up."
The next day, with the utmost of synchronicity, I had a ticket, a place to stay, and the prospect of an adventure.
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