Movin' On Up

I awoke to the gentle clickety-clack Doppler echo of an incoming train, heard the hissing sigh of its brakes and then the swift honk of its whistle as it pulled out of the station, bound for the city. Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I pushed myself onto my elbows and stared out the window, across the red-tiled roofs, past the skinny green steeple to the east. A raft of puffy grey clouds, their underbelly blushed crimson, drifted lazily across the colourless morning sky. The horizon swelled with light as the rising sun peeked over a slice of Pacific Ocean, cautiously at first, then with furious confidence, heralding the official transition from dawn to day.

I wrapped myself in a warm terry cloth robe and stepped out onto the bedroom balcony for a stiff stretch in the brisk morning breeze. Peering around the corner of the building, I watched the sun’s rays reflect dazzling squares of fire from the patchwork of office high rise windows. The high arch of Harbour Bridge stood sentinel before the entire Sydney skyline to the South.

I went back inside and padded down the long hall to the kitchen. As my coffee percolated on the stove, I gazed through the window over the sink and watched the evening lights blink out across the leafy northern suburbs (they are always referred to as “the leafy northern suburbs”). Small clusters of high rise apartment buildings revealed the location of each of the stations along the North Shore Line – modern villages of anonymous convenience.

Breathing in the steam of my hot coffee, I retreated to my ugly but comfortable sofa and tucked my legs up under me. Through a massive wall of glass, I scanned the extreme limits of my vision. The vast western sprawl is hemmed in by the length of the Blue Mountains, so appropriately named in the slant morning sunlight. I traced the beginnings of the Parramatta River to the arbitrary boundary of Sydney Harbour. Commuter ferries cut frothy white trails across the still cobalt water as sailboats bobbed gently against their moorings in sheltered coves.

Passing through the double door glass sliders onto the expansive main balcony, my vision was hijacked by Qantas plane on approach. I watched it pass directly over our old apartment, and mentally compared the intrusive roar of a jet engine to the romantic whisper of a commuter train. I traced its path, over Cockatoo Island and across the inner suburbs, until it turned to pass over Botany Bay, which hovers placidly beyond the casinos and hotels of Darling Harbour to the south.

I took a deep breath and smiled thinking of the admonition given to me by the rental agent when I gave notice of our intent to vacate our apartment overlooking the muddy slice of Burns Bay:

“Oh, you are really going to miss that view!”