Miss Sydney

For a long time, Sydney was my enemy instead of just a city. She was coy and sly and she seduced my lifelong friend away. She used a number of guises. Sometimes she was coquettish and pretty with her idyllic harbours and quiet seaside walking paths. At other times, she was all sophistication and charm, all sleek restaurants and elegant wine bars. Sydney could change costumes more often than a showgirl. At her heart, the wide and expansive Martin Plaza seethed with life, opulent but accessible at the same time. Flower stalls sat well behaved in front of excessively expensive stores. The Pitt Street Mall was crowded with well dressed shoppers striding towards some appointment or other – lunch, a deal, probably both.

The Rocks was different again, crammed with historical plaques and buildings and indications that Sydney had a shady and dubious past. I begrudgingly acknowledged that she had managed to pick up her skirts and carry on regardless. Then again, Sydney didn’t even try to hide her dirty laundry. She revelled in it. She never asked you to forgive her or apologised for her own existence. She stood with two great feet planted on either side of the harbour and her hands on her hips saying, ‘Come on. I dare you’.

For one long afternoon I walked kilometers of her streets. From the centre of the city, starting in Hyde Park, all the way down Oxford Street, through Darlinghurst and Paddington. I bumped into countless beautiful men, preened and glamorous at 10am, charismatic homeless, the stiff suited, glaring tourists and careful shoppers. Every path seemed littered with people. It was muggy, the ground still damp and slightly slimy. Someone had left a small posy of purple flowers enigmatically on a concrete wall and I wondered why and how.

There was a grittiness to Sydney’s streets, an arrogant, crisp sound that said she was experienced – not old and comfortable, experienced. But perhaps she was no longer leering at me, not so sinister or manipulative. She started, instead, to look familiar, a little flawed and a little more vulnerable. Perfection is never endearing, but at the same time you have to be willing to see the faults.

So Sydney and I stopped circling each other warily and she showed me how beautiful she could be. Crossing the Harbour Bridge, we were driving home after another evening out with the hussy Sydney – the one that was game for anything.  It was cool. The air hummed the way cold air does – a sort of hissing. Sydney seemed to be whispering in my ear. I strained my neck around to look out the back window of the car, to look at the underside of the bridge. It was like a giant spider squatting protectively over the water. I felt like I was inside something secret, going through a passage or tunnel. Lights winked and sang their silent song. Other cars whistled past and eventually we had crossed the bridge and were back to ordinary.

Except on this night, the road seemed different to me. Traffic was thin and suddenly the wide expanse of tarmac was more like a runway and indeed I felt as if I could take off anywhere. There was an eerie glow ahead. The industrious North Shore was cushioned with fog and a fine mist of rain but luminous neon signs lit the way. Sydney seemed to have softened. She seemed ambiguous and a little insecure. That appealed to me. It didn’t play games with me. Instead it showed me its insides: ‘see what makes me tick’, she said.

I forgave her.