Sydney continued

This is an attempt to make up for my cowardly escape last night, coz I'd really be gypping Sydney of no little amount of justice by not writing about it all. Not like anyone's checking, but still. Here goes nothing.

We reached Sydney on Sunday night and toppled into this derelict-looking backpackers' joint. Hostel, not spliff. Was a considerable comedown from the luxuries (yes, luxuries) of a marine vessel, but once it registered that there we were, in Sydney, doing the whole backpacking-travelling-being-on-the-road thing, instantly all the grime, and creaking staircases, funny-smelling rooms, and noisy (trust me, there's no better word) beds seemed hugely thrilling. Terribly exciting. We were excited as hell! Yay! *hop hop jump hop and everything!*

The next morning we discovered that we were, in fact, located on a perfectly lovely street, with trees and things. And a great breakfast place where we would end up tucking away utterly scrumptious grub over the next three days. I guess it helped that we sat at the al fresco tables and watched the world (or as much of the 'world' that would go by on a quiet Sydney bylane) go by as we gulped down mouthfuls of the most delectable muesli, fruit bruchettas, and steaming hot mochas and flat whites (I spent my first month in Perth in morbid terror of the word... had absolutely no idea what sort of coffee this 'flat white' thing defined, and, like a frightened puppy, consistently kept asking for lattes. Of course, as all things come to pass, it turns out that flat whites are really what I like most. Strong coffee, with a good amount of milk, but not as much as in lattes. Aahhhhh!)

We headed out soon after breakfast, and discovered, just around the corner, a glimpse of all the promise that lay ahead. Cityscapes, towers, harbours, bridges, yatches, urbanisation at its peak. Very unlike the sights (as my older posts clearly indicate) I usually fancy. And yet, so inexplicably inviting. It never ceases to amaze me, this travelling thing. Just how relentlessly, consistently, reliably exhilarating it always ends up being, whether it's bobbing about in a strait at 5 knots, or gasping in the biting cold of the Himalayas, or gulping at an unabashedly twinkly city at night.

Sydney appears to be one of the few cities (alright, so I'll admit I've only seen three!) in Australia that has some semblance of culture. Culture being, in the most minimal terms (well, my terms... *grin*), spires.

Decidedly cultural, yes. Then, turn your head a few degrees and stare in surpise at Australia's tallest building, which, by itself, isn't entirely awe-inspiring, but the views from the top are definitely impressive.

The 'tiny' arch that you see in the previous picture is something called the Anzac Memorial, which was built as a tribute to all the Aussie and Kiwi soldiers who died in World War I. Alright, so I didn't know that this continent was into the whole World War thing. So sue me. Actually, it is rather embarrassing, I'll admit. My school history teacher must be grimacing... not. I wonder if she knows... *grin* Right, I'm just being bitchy. Ah, but the memorial itself. Nice arch-thing. Except that there was a hideously brash American Express building right behind it, which completely uglified all but one of the pictures I took of the memorial.

I rather liked the pond in front of the memorial heaps more, actually.
*grin*

What followed was one of the best sunsets I've seen in a city in a very, very long time. My frumpy little camera tried and tried, but just couldn't bring its arms around to capture everything I saw that evening, so what follows is the best it could manage. I forgive it. I still am terribly fond of my frumpy Canon, despite its glaring shortcomings, as some people so painstakingly point out *chuckle*. But it does try so hard!

The Opera House itself is a very pretty thing. Closer inspection reveals that it isn't white at all, but is made of self-cleaning, pale yellow tiles. I forget what material. Irrelevant. Anyway, I like the fact that it so crazily shaped. Completely appeals to my idea of potty architecture. I'm aware I could be lynched for that statement, considering the fact that fervent thought had been put into designing the thing, with perfect circles and spheres and orange peels and the like. Really. Yet, to me, it's wonderfully lopsided, and delightfully wild.

Possibly the most surprisingly brilliant part of this breakneck tour of Sydney was a visit to the oddly named Manly Beach. Aussies, I tell you. Anyway, it was the tiniest of beaches, completely unremarkable, except for the fact that somehow, it was just perfect. Sitting there in the most comfortable silence, soaking in the ocean (right, there's something to be said about the fact that none of us thought twice about heading out to a beach, despite having spent 5 weeks on a ship!), not moving a muscle aside those involved in desultory picture-clicking, feeling ridiculously, undeservingly content and at peace, loved... a flawless slice of heaven.

The next day, it was time to move on. Fittingly, the sky exploded for a bit in the morning. Poured. Washed the entire city, and killed me with the achingly sweet scent of wet mud. Made me long for Bombay all over again. But in that moment, Sydney was just as good, which is saying a lot. A whole lot of lot.