A Busy Day

Our lease doesn’t expire until June, but attending open houses is an inexpensive way to spend a Saturday morning, so we hopped an early morning bus and arrived at St. Leonards train station 15 minutes later. On weekdays, the trip takes 35 minutes. The train station is located behind a plaza of shops and restaurants hemmed in by towering apartment buildings. This is what we had in mind when we had planned to move to Sydney, modern and convenient luxury living high-rise living. Although we still adore the bay front view from our current apartment, the charm of screaming cockatoos has already worn thin. Plus, taking the train to the university would cut my commute time in half. Also, I love the idea of taking an elevator to the grocery store!

We joined a throng of prospective tenants and inspected a one bedroom apartment on the 21st floor. The unit was sharp and sunny, but we had not anticipated the view from the balcony. The entire Sydney skyline stretched out behind the iconic Harbour Bridge. Enormous cargo ships bobbed along the coast beyond the entrance to the bay. It was absolutely stunning and we contemplated breaking our lease on the spot, but the apartment was small, so we wisely chose to bide our time.

It was a spectacular autumn day. The humidity had mercifully yielded to a crisp cool breeze and the sunlight had that warm yellow quality I habitually associate with October in the Northern Hemisphere. We hopped a train downtown to the Town Hall station and made the short walk beneath the monorail tracks to Darling Harbour. (Yikes! If I were writing in pen and ink right now, there would be a streak across the page, so startled was I by the cockatoo that just screeched past the open balcony door. Nasty little bugger! – I got in trouble from the property managers for feeding them, and I think they are holding a hungry grudge against me.) We followed the scent of curry and sandalwood to Tumbalong Park where we gazed upon a colorful sea of swirling silk saris at the Holi Mahasomething Festival. We washed down some fragrant bhindi (my favorite okra dish) and freshly cooked naan with a cooling mango lassi and continued our stroll.

We followed signs to Paddy’s Market and were rewarded by discovering a gigantic indoor mall packed with stalls bulging with cheap imported goods. Now I know where to purchase t-shirts, incense, car seat covers, and boomerangs in bulk. A sizable portion of the markets consist of a magnificent array of fresh vegetables and exotic fruits of gargantuan size at incredibly low prices. Now I know where to get a good deal on dragon fruit, garlic stems, and bunches of celery the size of city blocks. We exited the markets into China town. Now I know where to get a good bowl of noodles for $3.

We caught a bus back down to Circular Quay and walked along the ferry terminal, past the painted abo’s, charging tourists for photo ops, past a man dressed as a donkey, past young lovers lounging on lawns to the Museum of Contemporary Art.

I don’t like contemporary art. Contemporary art makes me spend far too much time frowning. I read the explanations of the artists intent (“to draw us into strange parallel worlds, employing the language of artifice and illusion”) and then I look at a plastic garbage can filled with scraps of wood or a blurry photograph of a purple cabbage or a canvas or splotchy peach paint, and I feel intellectually inadequate. In one gallery, there were two beds, surrounded by four large screens onto which static was being projected. In another gallery, a square column had been rubbed with charcoal, illuminated from opposing sides with spot lights while eerie discordant music played from a circle of speakers. Each time we entered a gallery, a docent stalked in behind us to make sure we weren’t rearranging any of the (purportedly fragile) rocks that had been scattered across the floor around a chandelier attached to a stick to accentuate the chaos of a post-9/11 world. I knew there were closed circuit cameras everywhere. I looked at the other couples, deep in contemplative conversation about the social implications of sculpture of a mushroom smoking a pipe. I don’t like having that many people witness me frowning. I don’t like having to think that hard about the meaning of things. I decide that it is much more fun to BE a contemporary artist than it is to have to look at their work. When we leave, I am very grateful the Museum of Contemporary Art does not charge admission.

We walk back to the ferry terminal past the donkey man. I think maybe I should give him a dollar for being willing to make an ass out of himself in public. Unlike the artists at the MCA, he has to suffer the comments of what the general public thinks of his performance. We board the ferry to Woolwich, and, with a mixture of hopeful revulsion, I scan the surface of the water for the fourteen year old girl who is still missing after the ferry crash beneath the Harbour Bridge last week. Where could she be? The thought of her being out there, somewhere, is haunting the entire city every time they look at the placid water of the harbour.

The ferry link bus was waiting at the Woolwich Pier to take us to the Hunter’s Hill Hotel, where we stopped in for a few beers. This pub is the nearest to our home and is quickly becoming our favorite, if not for its proximity, then for the excellent peppercorn steak served during Monday Night Rugby. In general, I am not impressed with Australian food, but Australian beef is certainly the exception. You can taste the outback in every bite. It tastes like grass and wide open sky. The cows here don’t spend their time on feed lots breathing each other’s flatulence.

We got home in time for the kick-off of the AFL season opener, but I quickly lost interest in the game I thought I loved. After 15 minutes, there had not been a single pantsing or any blood drawn. There’s hardly even any physical contact, and the player’s thighs look twig-like compared to the neck-less brutes of rugby league.

7:30 – 8:30 was Earth Hour. Because they “own” the Great Barrier Reef, Australia is especially obsessed with Global Warming, bless their hearts. It makes me laugh, how much they think their 20 million people can impact the earth. They have recently passed a law to replace all house-hold light bulbs with energy efficient fluorescent bulbs by 2010. No one seems concerned that these bulbs contain mercury which will inevitably dribble into groundwater from landfills. Everyday, there is some emotional news story detailing some ludicrous plan for Australia to save the planet, yet the government promotes the child bearing slogan “One for the Mother, One for the Father, and one for the Government.” Earth Hour is a prime example.

During Earth Hour, Sydney pledged to turn off their lights between 7:30 – 8:30 to highlight global warming. Of course, everyone promptly lit a candle to ward of the darkness. I don’t have the comparative figures on the amount of CO2 generated by a light bulb versus a candle, but I am willing to wager a light bulb is cleaner, even if it doesn’t contain mercury. Overall, Sydney reduced consumption by 10%. As for us, sure, I dimmed the lights…while watching TV, running the dryer, heating bread in the oven, cooking in the microwave, with two burners on the stove at full tilt. I was tempted to feel guilty, but I know my personal child bearing decisions contribute exponentially to the future of the planet and that has far more impact than sitting in darkness for an hour.

Then, I went to bed, exhausted from my busy day.