Canberra – the little city that could

Canberra is not for me. Now remember, this is my personal opinion and perspective – not a mindless criticism. I’m all about connection and Canberra and I just didn’t connect. We didn’t fall in love. We didn’t even want to go out on a second date.

To me Canberra feels odd and perplexing. It’s as though someone designed a great city, built a great city but forgot to populate it sufficiently to fulfil its potential. The motorways and multi-lane freeways crossings chasms of empty space in such an effectively tiny city just seem like a mockery. I couldn’t fathom why everything was so spread out and far apart. The National Gallery, the Portrait Gallery and the National Library sit alongside each other – with about a kilometre of parking space and lawned area between each. Why? At the very least they could have installed a travelator between them.

War Memorial

There are wonderful things to see and do in Canberra – the War Memorial is sensitive and moving, the Botanic Gardens are charming and beautiful, and the galleries and museums are tremendous. I just couldn’t find the heart of Canberra. I couldn’t find its city heart. I like my city to behave like a city – but how do I define that? Its mall was like every other mall. Its shopping complex was like every other shopping complex. The people that wandered the mall and shopping complex were sophisticated, stylish people. But those qualities [deficiencies?] are not exclusive to Canberra. There’s nothing disparaging to say about Canberrians because they are regular people – some cool, some artistic, some fit and healthy jogging on a Saturday morning, others drunk and out on the town on Friday night.

But in the mall on Sunday two skateboarders zoomed past me…. both at least in their 30s. One was sadly balding, the other had a cap with greasy lank hair poking out, both had oversized t-shirts and baggy pants. No one but me gave them a second look.

While standing at a city pedestrian crossing on a Sunday afternoon, I waited for the only car within miles of sight to pass by and then stepped out against the little red ‘don’t walk’ sign. The guy driving by me in his van looked at me askance, incredulous – as though I were trying to cross a seven lane freeway on roller skates, with a small pig clutched under my arm. He shook his head, I imagine muttering something like, ‘these damn kids of today’.

There’s a laid back country feel to Canberra that is in contrast with its city status. To me, Canberra was perfectly illustrated by the following. Angela, my travelling companion – a highly successful, highly pressured partner in a high profile Sydney law firm ­– almost lost the plot when a McDonald’s cashier took my payment for a bottle of water, diligently printed out a service receipt and laid it down carefully in the appropriate place, ready for the service person to attend to. The fridge was behind the cashier. It wasn’t particularly busy. Angela started tapping her foot and crossing her arms, frowning. I confirmed, politely, that it was just the bottle of water I wanted. ‘Yep,’ the cashier said, ‘won’t be long’. And stared into the middle distance. Angela started muttering under her breath and rolling her eyes. I tried to smile gently at the cashier who was starting to get nervous. Another minute passed and Angela bursts out, spluttering, ‘Oh for fucks sake, it’s right behind you, just get the fucking bottle of water’, just as the service person trundled up to study my little receipt and fetch my bottle of water. Thank you.

But perhaps I’ve missed the point. Perhaps some of those quirky things are Canberra – a city/country hybrid with its own unique charm. It’s a lovely, lovely place to visit. But only if you don’t mind your city on the mild side. 

Hong Kong Karaoke or be damned!

(A slightly fictionalised composite account of a true story....all memory is fiction anyway.)

The taxi driver screwed up his face as he looked at us through his rear view mirror. ‘No idea’, he said. Impossible. Hong Kong has thousands of karaoke bars. My friend Michelle employed the dreadful act of speaking louder to make herself understood, ‘We’d like to go to a KARAOKE bar. Can you take us to one?’, she shouted, ‘you know, singing’. As she cleared her throat, ready to launch into ‘Girls just wanna have fun’, the driver’s face suddenly lit up, ‘Ah yes!’. He nodded enthusiastically as he negotiated traffic like a kart driver. We didn’t realise that he literally meant a bar called Yes. Yes 11th to be exact. An improbable name for a bar in an improbable location – a fifteen story office building. We were in the middle of the Kowloon district, karaoke central, and I was about to confront my greatest fear – singing in public.

In Yes 11th, no one was singing anything yet. The concrete flooring and black décor made it a little foreboding. There were café style tables and wrought iron chairs in the centre, but we chose one of the comfy lounges along the side wall. There were private rooms, like most mainstream karaoke bars, but since we didn’t really know how it worked, we thought we’d make some observations first. Plus, you had to pay for private rooms by the hour, per person. We ordered the first round of drinks and waited to see what would happen. A great pile of steaming meat landed on our table, compliments of the manager. We eyed them warily and decided to call the dish ‘BBQ chicken wings’ even though there was no mention of it on the menu. Indeed, it tasted like chicken. The manager came over, shouting incomprehensibly at us in a menacing way but then broke into jolly laughter and wandered away. We couldn’t tell if he was pleased or cross that there were Westerners in his bar – we discovered later that Westerners normally headed to Neway or Red Box; Hong Kong karaoke institutions.

Neither the manager nor the “chicken” helped calm my nerves. I didn’t yet understand why people would put themselves through this.

A large group of young men and women came in and started fiddling around with the microphone, chatting to the owner and scrolling through song lists. Finally, they started to sing. They were having a great time, singing harmonies and duets. Romantic looking young men crooned love ballads – a performance complete with wringing hands, tortured expressions and dramatic arm waving. A girl with bright blue eye shadow at the next table told me Hong Kong people work so hard and are so reserved in behaviour, but at karaoke, it was their chance to shine, to stand out from the crowd and become famous for a moment. Those who really wanted to live the dream could even enter competitions, hire fantastic themed rooms, and generally pretend they were a rock star.

Eventually, one of the girls in the big group walked over to us smiling and, rather shyly, handed over the mike. This was it. Sing or leave. Michelle took the mike. We scrolled nervously through the list of songs available and settled on a Shakira number. ‘I don’t think I can do this’, I told her. Already my voice was wobbly, my throat dry. There was a little encouraging applause and then the music started. With tiny tiny voices, Michelle and I started to sing together. I saw smiling, encouraging faces. People were nodding quietly, not covering their ears in distress. We got a little louder, started smiling and relaxing instead of focusing intently on the written lyrics, and even finished with a vocal flourish.

The mojitos had done their job. Our last notes sung, we beamed happily when the whole bar, by now half full, erupted into loud cheers and clapping. I could breathe again. And perhaps I discovered that elusive element that made karaoke strangely intoxicating. The smiles were infectious, there was a sense of joyful camaraderie, and shared (sometimes traumatic!) experience. It was the perfect opportunity to step out of ordinary life and be someone else, even if only for three and a half minutes. Certainly there was no other place where strangers would listen patiently while I wrung the life out of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.

Five songs later the pretty girl who brought over the mike came back to prise it gently from our hands, smiling and nodding, but firm. 

For copyright purposes, I think I need to let you know that an edited version of this blog first appeared in The Weekend Australian, October 2010 (http://www.theaustralian.com.au/travel/theres-no-stopping-the-karaoke-queens/story-e6frg8rf-1225941028931).

Sunny St Petersburg

Catherine Palace

Perspective is important, especially when it comes to travel. I’m not talking about necessarily positioning myself as a white female Westerner living in an easy materialistic world. I’m bringing it a lot closer than that. I’m talking about what was going on in my head before heading off for a day in St Petersburg. I was homesick. I was travelling alone, on a seniors cruise when I wasn’t a senior (I’m still not). I’d found a lump behind my ear – the ship doctor told me it might be necessary to have an X-ray in Russia. In a Russian hospital, with Russian speaking medical staff. I was fed up, grumpy, out of enthusiasm and anxious for the whole damn thing to be over so I could bloody well go home.

                                                                                                       

Despite all of this, but more likely because of it, St Petersburg was one of the most surreal and affecting places I’ve ever been to.

A tour bus came to collect us from the port to take us to Pushkin Town and Catherine Palace. Industrial ports are never the prettiest places but the bus was quiet as we left the relative safety of the ship. Decomposing buildings, dirty broken glass, but net curtains and shadows moving behind them. So what appeared derelict was somebody’s home. Art deco bars on all lower storey windows. Avenues of stark trees trying to look alive. Perhaps aware of the subdued atmosphere, the local tour guide kept saying ‘Don’t be frightened. We’re just like you’. Which made me afraid.

An American was perhaps trying to break the ice when he asked the guide whether Russians believed in animal rights, since everyone seemed to wear fur. She berated him mercilessly with a hoarse voice and heavy accent. ‘Sir if you lived here in minus 40 degree weather I’d like to see what you wear. What are your shoes made of? Leather? Where do you think that comes from, huh? Huh??’.

Undeterred, the same man tried to generate a discussion on democracy. The guide laughed snidely ‘Americans and democracy. So much freedom! But you can’t even have a drink on the street! What about your censorship laws, huh? Huh??’.

And the bus fell silent again.  

Catherine Palace was predictably spectacular and astonishing. Lavish, rich and sumptuous. I’ll tell you about the Amber Room another time.

Lunch then, was a disappointment. Something grey. With peas.

Long trestle tables – seats enough to accommodate everyone but me. I had to sit at an otherwise empty table (until another tour group arrived half an hour later) and the fact that no one made any effort to keep me company or make a little room to fit me in completely astonished and upset me. Human kindness failing miserably.

I keep touching the back of my ear [remember the suspicious lump]. The lump got bigger and smaller each time. I couldn’t wait to see the ship doctor again because I needed to involve someone else. I didn’t fully comprehend how stressed and anxious I was. A Russian folk group came to play and sing for us during lunch. Two women, two men. Peacock blue satin and crisp white shirts. They shouted out incomprehensible songs that were actually quite musical. They got me up to dance of course. I managed to laugh and shout and whoop but my heart wasn’t in it. I don’t know what had happened to my heart that day. It didn’t seem to be working in conjunction with anything else at that moment. All head, all thoughts.

Catherine Palace detail 

After lunch the Hermitage was a blur of impressions: white Carrera marble staircase, green malachite urns, luscious red velvet walls, Chinese silks, gold peacocks, mosaic floors. A French gardens, cupids and flowers, smiling angels, swans and doves. Granite. Then the Monets, Renoirs and da Vincis. Ceilings so high, so detailed, white domes, impossibly long halls. Bohemia crystal and gilded bronze chandeliers. Rich blue green Flemish tapestries. Mournful portraits.

Our guide told us that the dour looking man in the grey suit following us around the museum was KGB. Um..they don’t actually exist anymore right? But I didn’t know whether to laugh or clutch my officially expired Italian passport a little closer to my chest. Anything seemed possible!  

It hailed on the way back to the ship. Pedestrians caught out looked stoic – no flapping about with objects held over heads. Someone on our bus said (rudely) ‘they don’t bloody smile at you’. And I wondered if they had all that much to smile about.

I can’t claim to know anything about Russia. I met few Russian people. I was a misery guts and viewed the city through pathetically self-indulgent eyes. But if you asked me whether you should go to St Petersburg I would urge you to book your tickets at once because it was a fascinating and unlikely  creature. Never mind my memories.

Encounters with strangers

The point of travel for me is connection – connection to place, history, culture, but above all people. Encounters with strangers are what have made my travel so special. Let me clarify (and perhaps disappoint you?) that when I say ‘encounters’ I don’t mean seedy hotels with pay-by-the-hour rooms! I mean gentle brushes (non sexual!) with random people that may not necessarily become best friends, but for whatever reason, leave an impression.

Sometimes the encounter is just one little random conversation. I had a lovely chat with an elderly gentleman and his daughter, on their way to Australia from the US. He struck up the conversation by trick quizzing me: ‘Do you know what Qantas stands for?’. Er... actually ... no, not completely. ‘Queensland and Northern Territory Aerial Services’. I see. So I asked him how he knew that, what he was doing and where he was going and he told me that he was heading to Queensland to see a dying friend, etc, etc. Pleasant chit chat. And then, after about half an hour of this, he suddenly stopped, leaned on his armrest and said, ‘Anyway, I can’t hear anything you’re saying, I’m deaf!’. And then settled back down into his chair. I actually laughed out loud and left him alone. Later he asked me whether I could help him at customs – he hadn’t declared the two rifles in his suitcase and was anticipating some trouble. Er... what? I can’t hear you......

Some strangers do become lifelong friends. I met Jackie at the Grand Prix track in Sao Paolo, Brazil and only later discovered that, in a city of 11 million people and countless hotels, we were staying at the same place.  Jackie was a mad Formula 1 and Ferrari /Schumacher fan. When I say mad, yes, I mean a little unstable. She had flown all the way from Newcastle, UK just to witness Michael Schumacher’s (first) last race. She sobbed through the last twenty laps. Two years later I was visiting family in the UK and decided to take the train to Newcastle. She was so excited by my visit she met me on the platform with an air horn, a Ferrari flag and red painted face.

Other strangers are just strange. After another utterly predictable strike, my friend and I boarded a train in Rome, bound for Florence. We were scrambling around with our backpacks when a well dressed, middle aged woman came into our compartment, said commandingly ‘hold this’ to my friend and held out her hand. Unthinking, my friend took the object... which happened to be a leash... at the end of which.... was a small dog. And then the lady disappeared. We looked at each other wide eyed, wondering what we were going to do with a small foreign dog. But the lady reappeared after a moment with luggage and a giant carry bag. She first organised the cases and then took the leash again with a small smile and nod. Then she sat down and unpacked her carry bag – basket, blanket, toy, food bowl, water bowl, bottled water. She plonked the little dog on top and settled in to read a magazine. The dog looked dreadfully bored but there he sat for the duration.

Perhaps my favourite stranger is a man named Jody Cinnamon who my cousin and I met at Mt Robson in western Canada. (Let me remind you again, there are no romantic encounters in this blog...) Jody introduced me to both Shrek and Paolo Coelho. He was as serene and smiling as a Buddhist monk but passionate and energised. He told us he’d only been bored once, for 10 minutes. He seemed ashamed by that too – he just couldn’t understand the concept of boredom when there was always something to think about or look at. He played the harmonica while driving with his knees, played the guitar around a bonfire, and taught himself the bagpipes from a manual ordered from Scotland. I read The Alchemist in three days and thought about my destiny. Jody wanted to live for a thousand years because he had so much he wanted to do – learn astronomy, for example, or fly to the moon. He just had a beautiful effect on most people he met. You couldn’t be angry or petty or disgruntled in his company – he was just too darn happy and content.

I still remember the encounter and I still read The Alchemist on a regular basis. 

My Italian village

The sun pressed its face against the glass so I wound the car window down to let it in as we hurtled over a gravelly country road. A smile rubbed across my face. The sunshine was liquid and sitting in the backseat was like falling asleep in a bath of melted chocolate. The sky was a dazzling and perfect shade of summer blue. My father's village, packed into the spaces between hills in southern Italy, was called Pago Veiano but it was known more simply and affectionately as ‘Pago’. 

I'd been waiting to see my father's birthplace for years. He, my mother and I were staying with his cousin. From the balcony window the tiny village had a cinematic air about it; dogs lay yawning at the side of the road and crusty men in worn jackets gathered around wooden tables in doorways playing cards and arguing. Grey stone buildings slanted at alarming angles and streets dipped into impossible slopes. The 'main' road hugged the side of the hill, skirting the village instead of ploughing through it like regular main roads. Which said a lot about the village.

In the street a tiny old lady in the requisite black beckoned me from her doorway a few houses away. She spoke in a toothless southern dialect, 'Simme' paesani', (‘we're related’) and gave me a satisfied smile. Then, 'Anchio sono una Morganella’ (she had the same surname as me). I gave her a friendly look of surprise. I wasn't sure what else I should say as she lapsed contentedly back into silence and looked past me, out over the hills. So I left her sitting outside her low doorway, hands folded in her lap. I turned instead to look at my father standing by the side of the road. His dark face was creased and aged but his expression was full of stern strength, his dark brown eyes focused very successfully on nothing at all. The ever-present cigarette trailed smoke in his callused fingers. His neat little greying moustache covered his very small smile.

My father's face was a well full of rippling water, each time he passed a significant corner or saw someone he recognised. I felt a crumpling, inexplicable sadness each time it happened though; at the thought of time smashing along at speeds which we fail to recognise until it's too late, and at the thought that this was all ‘for the last time’. Each familiar face took my father back to a place he remembered with nostalgic but somewhat bitter fondness. He smiled as he told me how desperately hungry they were when he was a little boy growing up after the war, but he couldn't have smiled then. Pago drew my father away into an era where I couldn't reach him. But it also gave me a sense of 'why' in the present.

Another auntie and uncle were down from the north. They decided to ‘rescue’ me from the ancient grey houses for a while, taking me to visit a friend in the country. Zia Clementina filled the front seat of the car comfortably, her lively brown eyes crinkled kindly as she craned her neck round to look me over again. Her smile spread across her face generously, brown arms straddling her enormous bosom as she clasped her pudgy fingers together. She turned to frown at her husband, Zi' Eufemio, as he sang along to some indecipherable tune from a long tormented cassette. At her look, he sang louder. Zi’Eufemio was the exact opposite to his wife – thin and spindly as a cricket. His silvered hair framed his gaunt but friendly face.

'Ferma la macchina!' Zia ordered the car to be stopped at once. She told us with mock shyness that the tablets she was taking for her blood pressure made her pee all the time and she needed to go right now. She opened the car door and squatted.  She squealled as she picked out the unmistakable noise of traffic before we did. She tumbled hopelessly backwards into the open car pulling her pants up as she fell. Her husband, roaring with laughter started to engage the gears again but she slapped him playfully on the arm and told him to stop again because she hadn't finished.

Eventually we drove on. I thought about Pago, with its small windows, guarded faces at the watch, its binding tradition and stifling air, and realised it was one of my foundation stones too. It was alarming how I felt connected. It was almost disturbing, the sense of familiarity when I took in the rich and sometimes musty smell of earth. My father spoke so little about the place in which he was born and raised. He gave so little of himself generally. Everything I learned about him was deduced over time and patched together from mental notes. He rarely offered anything simply in the spirit of sharing. Last night, he stood brooding in one of the low ceiling houses ready to be demolished and said, 'This is where my auntie lived. This is where we used to play, my cousins and I'. His cigarette smoke framed his memories. That's all.

We turn into a driveway and park in front of a low stone cottage.

Zio beeped the horn and climbed out of the car. An ancient looking man in denim overalls battered by earth and time came forward to greet him. His smile was a drawl, slow and pleasant. He swiped the cap from his head and rubbed his closely cropped silver hair. Zio was enthusiastically shouting at him – a mixture of insults and salutations; something like ‘It’s fantastic to see you, you cranky, stingy old bastard’.

His wife, a tiny gap-toothed woman with brown hardened skin, also came forward grinning and squinting hard against the sun. As she welcomed us she said 'I was just killing a rabbit - the damn thing just didn't want to die. Eventually I had to stand on it and wrench its head off!'. As she spoke I noticed her wiping her slightly bloody hands on her apron. Her gold bracelets and ring winked at me. She offered me the same hand. I took it without cringing. Her eyes crinkled kindly at me and I was inclined to like her a lot.

We all chatted inanely, wandering about in their garden. They crushed leaves for me that smelled like lemons and told me the names of trees and plants. Fields of maize faded away to the left of the house and in front was a patch for themselves. Fat, lazy tomatoes, plump figs, fragrant celery and basil and even flowers ­– perfectly formed miniature roses dwarfed by sunflowers. I sat contentedly, watching bees crash lazily into petals and listening to the hum of conversation. A scrappy dog chased pigeons into the air and a litter of kittens mewed noisily.

I watched Zio disappear into a profusion of trees to the right of the house and emerge a minute later holding a bottle of red wine triumphantly above his head! The old man laughed at zio who said 'It’s so hot and you hadn't offered me a drink so I had to go find it myself!'. His friend gave a short laughed and praised his audacity. When I smiled questioningly at him, he beckoned me to follow him down a short grassy path that led to a small stone well. 'Vieni qui' he said. He pointed down the well, dark and foreboding and full of water, then showed me the string the bottle had been tied to. 'In the old days, this was better than a fridge!' I laughed and followed him back to the others.

My father taught me how to observe. It seems that asking questions wasn't the way to get answers in this village, and it wasn't the way I would come to really understand my father either. Observations counted for a lot, they were lengths of string that you pulled out of wells, with surprises at the end. I had stopped forming questions and started defining answers that afternoon by staying silent. My father deals in silences. I could take silence as a sign he didn’t care. But here I was – silent.  Discovering layers of silence that had nothing to do with not caring. If words are everything to me, they are only well considered to my father.

The afternoon drew to a close and we skipped gingerly over the hot vinyl seats of the car. Everyone was quiet on the way back, tired and lulled by the sun. We rode back into the village and I saw my father sitting in a small circle of men, his dark skin glossy in his trousers and light shirt. One hand casually rested in his pocket, the other held his cigarette. I saw my father jerk his head at us almost imperceptibly as we drew up beside him. I saw my father. And I smiled.

Gallery and museum etiquette 101

A gallery or museum visit lurks in almost every holiday and at that visit you must follow the prescribed etiquette. You didn’t think there was a gallery and museum etiquette? Of course you did – you don’t burst into song, cartwheel or tell dirty jokes at the gallery. You’re quiet. Respectful. Sombre. Whether it’s a tin shed with dusty perspex shelving, or a state of the art, kid-friendly monolith with flashy interactive monitors,  these institutions are serious and wrapped up in a web of etiquette we can only begin to unravel right here and now.

To do or not to do?

Do not go to a Post Impressionist art exhibition if you have a respiratory tract infection. Gazing fondly at a Monet  my gentle reverie was rudely interrupted by a hawking, guttural noise. Ok, I’ll admit I’m a bit of a gallery purist... a snob, if you will. I actually stopped to turn around and give that person a dirty look. I stared coldly at this tall giant of a man, from my height of five foot nothing, and gave him an eyebrow raise. Satisfied I’d made my annoyance known, I stared fixedly at a Degas. Again, the snorting, throat scraping, gurgle. What? I actually tutted then and looked at this man in disbelief. Really? What sort of Neanderthal, lunk of a man would even bother wasting the entrance fee on an art exhibition if all he was going to do was hawk mucus like a 19th century, southern plantation owner. The third time, when it sounded like a dog was trying to cough up a fur ball, I spun around to catch.... the man’s petite, cardigan dressed wife, resettling her glasses and wiping her eyes. She smiled meekly at me in apology.

Do not step back unexpectedly. The gallery dance is a subtle and complex movement, full of nuance and delicacy. Step in front of the portrait. Sigh. Tip head thoughtfully to one side. Narrow eyes. Murmur ‘mmm’. Put hand to chin. Lean forward to look at brush strokes. Straighten. Step gracefully to the side and, gently now... whoosh. Tilt chin back, mutter ‘oh my’ and raise your eyebrows at your companion. Prepare to whirl again, but don’t step back – unless you and the person behind you practiced this in the car park beforehand, you’re not in sync. There will be inappropriate touching. If it’s peak hour – Saturday afternoon on the opening day of a special exhibition – you’ll witness a lot of foot stepping, ‘oh, excuse me’s and even a couple of narky head shakes and ankle rubs. The dancing will be less like a waltz and more like a mosh pit.

Do follow instructions. If you go to the Sistine Chapel, be silent. Not quiet – silent. This is what they ask you to do. In a myriad of languages piped through a loud speaker as you creep forward in the inevitable long, long line you’re asked to respect this holy place by refraining from talking. Of course, the moment you step into the Chapel it’s like a market day cattle call. There’s not just talking but shouting, wild gesticulations, mutterings of ‘I don’t see what the big deal is’ and even a little bit of praying. I confess, I also spoke, but it was only to ask my companion if they could spot the famous finger pointing panel painted by Michelangelo. The ceiling is an awfully long way away.

Do get excited. At the Treasures exhibit in the National Library, Canberra. I had to smile at a mother striving to get her kids interested in the ‘old stuff’. Suddenly, she squats down and pushes her face right up against the glass cabinet and gasps. ‘Oh my goodness!’ she mock whispers. ‘Kids! KIDS! Take a look AT THIS.’ They duly walk over and stare at an old gun. ‘Do you know what that is?’. They looked only a little impressed. ‘That there [finger poke] is a gun used by a genuine bush ranger’. Her eyes were wide open and she pulled the kids a little closer. ‘Imagine that! That might be Ned Kelley’s!’. The kids looked at the gun with new awe and respect. ‘Did it kill anyone?’ the little one asked. ‘Maybe!’ mum replied excitedly.

They stood there for ages chatting about it and she even managed to cram in some genuine Australian history that had them enthralled. She gave an astonishing and award winning performance. Those kids are probably still talking about their visit to the museum and the cool gun they saw. 

And that’s the point, after all – a memorable but incident free visit!

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.