I breakfasted outside in the gem of an urban garden, under a milehigh marbled sky like finger marks on a steamed-up shower screen. The sun was already doing its business sucking moisture from every surface.
Above the sounds of urban life happening at the top of the road are hardly audible, crickets hiss, 'Things that can't be Seen' scrape, whistle, coo, and natter in and under a giant maple tree providing cover to the garden. A large black bird with white rear undercarriage flops into the tree branch like a brick landing on a cushion. He looked around not sure if he should be here and remembering, takes off, giving me a sidelong glance. I too feel I'm not yet in the right place; there's something I need to do, like clocking into work or signing the visitors book to establish myself as legitimate in this inquiringly near-paradise.
Sydney reminds me in a way of Seattle or San Francisco, glimpses of salt water inlets, wooded hills speckled with glimpses of houses with amazing views, marinas and open channel berths abound, roads switchback through wooded hills and valleys. Self conscious local shopping centres frozen in the decades between the fifties and the nineties act as landmarks. It's not hard to imagine what the area looked like a couple of centuries ago. There's a grace and charm about the place. It comes as a surprise to learn that Sydney's only 7th in the list of the best cities on earth to live.
Today's Australia Day, a three day jamboree to reaffirm membership of a recent multi-cultural brother/sisterhood and an excuse to make connection with earth and sky by disrobing, setting fire and devouring dead animals and throwing, hitting and catching a wide range of missiles under a clear blue sky while they gentle roasting in the hot sun; a celebration, if you like, of Health and Efficiency.
A hot sunny day beckoned and we transported ourselves to share the day of tradition with assembled Brits and Yanks and a single Ozzie; you got it, that's the one. At the house of a Westpoint alumni overlooking a saline lagoon, we huddled in garden shade, ate traditional AD food in the form of large meat pies with mashies and mushies, horse radish and tomato sauce, while gently sipping beers and confirmed our various disparate origins.
The garden we sat in fronted a wide sweep of grassed foreshore to the lagoon which gradually gave way to be-flagged and bunting-decked encampments gradually filling with the contents of several 'utes' and family saloons; BBQ's as big as a small cars, sofas, plastic floatable devises of all shapes and sizes, folding loungers, camping chairs, cooler boxes, 'slabs' of beer, bright yellow Taiwanese cricket bats and stumps, various balls and a general festoon of flags and buntings closely moored to the trunks of gum trees. Archipelagos of outdoor kitchen-diners in a sea of grass-green. Neon bright beachwear, tattoos, blond body beautifuls with infant replicas, gradually colonised the view.
A stream of endless comings and goings. Adventurous lads retired to stand in circles in the shallow benign lagoon, water up to their waists as they sipped beer from bottles and chatted about children and cars. Partners formed folding chair circles and nattered about husbands and nail implants while children did their best to distract mums. Dads ensured their privacy by distance and deep draught.
Later, to reverse roles, the lads had the kids under instruction while the women went for a walk. They set up stumps to enjoy some banter, batting and bowling and more beers while the babies were piled in the middle of the pitch, balls whizz ing about their ears; the dads were looking after the kids!
Some of our crew retired to the Pacific beach for a dip just a couple of blocks and one highway away. The water was intoxicating, fresh and foaming while a stiff breeze whipped up the waves. Life guards positioned themselves between two flags 50 m apart to be ready to rescue anyone who found the going too demanding. A chalked warning on the board advised of dangerous conditions, unexpected rips and heavy rollers. It was all of that and more; we swimmers deserted the beach in haste as a rash of 'blue bottles' blitzed the foreshore. New to me, these tiny blue jelly fish trailing a two metre tentacle armed with vicious stings got tangled in several ankles.One of our small group, Blanch, from the shores of Lake Michigan, got stung and was delighted to be whisked off the beach on a quadbike by a lithesome life guard to boil a kettle and defuse the pain in her ankle from the pesky Blue Bottle.
Later in the evening we decamped by bus to the Olympic stadium to watch Australia verses Sri Lanka 20/20 cricket match. 42 thousand Ozzies were stoical in defeat (it's a young team mate). More enjoyment was to be had by the crowd lobbing keep-up beach balls around the terraces, hissing and booing the security guard who viciously stabbed any ball that landing on the outfield with a pen-knife.Tens of balls died a tragic death as the subplot of the night lasted all of the 4 hours of the game.
Quite a first day in Sydney. We got back home at midnight; that night it started to rain!
