Day 54 – 57 : Sydney – “I think I’m having a heart attack”
Queenstown to Sydney is a mere three and a half hours away, and with the expected shift in time-zones, it feels like we’ve barely missed a beat.
For this part of our journey we’re staying with an old friend of mine, Jonathan, a fellow Irishman who I worked with in my last job and someone I was happy to stay in touch with when he fled to Oz.
A tech guru with a disdain for the Java programming language and a penchant for charity work (or at least trying to drag charities into the 21st century so they can generate more money for their collective causes), Jonathan has magnanimously offered to put us up for a few days in his apartment.
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, we gratefully accepted.
Jonathan, or JC as we affectionately call him, once endured an exceptionally long distance relationship with his girlfriend Kisu whom he met while working in China some years ago. As she continued to add a myriad of letters after her name, headlong on an unending journey through medical practice, JC braved some time back home in Ireland writing applications that, ironically, I had to use as a Project Manager and would often eternally curse. When it was time for them to reunite, considering Kisu is Nepali, a nationality I soon learn comes with its very own asterisk next to it in terms of international recognition, their options were fairly obvious, with a move to Sydney being top of the list.
There’s a moment of apprehension as we walk out into Sydney Airport’s arrivals. I had fired off a mail to JC that morning from Queenstown, New Zealand armed only with the knowledge that, as JC is pretty much jacked into the nexus of the Internet at its very core, he’d ultimately get the email. It’s like dialling the operator and just knowing someone will be at the other end of the line. JC is connected, and any digital message directed toward him was sure to be digested, logged and catalogued within nanoseconds. Lo and behold, just as I’m contemplating flagging down a cab and playing address-roulette with some strange driver, there he is, bigger than life and as welcoming as ever.
We grab a taxi and hit the hot Australian streets bound for Newtown, a suburb of Sydney I don’t even remembering existing the last time I was in Oz. That said, that was twenty-five years ago when I was a child. We run through the obligatory “Have you heard about …” series of questions with numerous stories flying about the cab regarding old acquaintances from back home. A short while later we’re in the Newtown district and outside JC’s apartment on Georgina Street.
I’m not sure just how new Newtown is but it definitely gives off a strong Soho vibe. We see more restaurants and coffee-shops at a glance across one small stretch of real-estate here than we saw on the whole of New Zealand’s south island throughout our travels.
JC apologies in advance for the condition of the apartment, a tactic pretty much everyone but royalty or rappers on Cribs deploy as some sort of pre-emptive strike against what is basically people’s normal living conditions. This time, however, there’s some heart-felt meaning in the apology as the place has just been fumigated for cockroaches. Apart from a telltale tang in the air, it’s actually barely noticeable, though we do come across some of his arthropodan sub-letters of varying sizes during our stay.
Kisu is a delight, fussing over us and cooking non-stop while making sure we have everything we need. There’s a lot to be said about long-distance relationships; why people do them, why most times they invariably don’t work, but in the case of JC and Kisu, you can see why they toughed it out. They were determined to make it work and endure the time apart for a future together and are now living what must have felt like a distant dream for so long.
JC has taken some time off work and also has the luxury of working from home a couple of days a week. Kisu also does a lot of out-reach work at medical centres and hence works abnormal hours so we’re pretty much under their feet for the most part. Considering he’s also studying for his M.Sc., we make a concerted effort to get out and about and give them their much needed space. Also, we’re here to see Sydney again, and as much as we enjoy Kisu’s Dahl (a Nepalese dish featuring lentils, vegetables, chicken and a spicy curry sauce) and the free Internet access, we also want to see as much of the city as possible during our short time here.
We’ve both visited Sydney before. Me when I was still in short-pants and Sheila back in 2001 as part of her New South Wales trip. That said, it’s hardly familiar territory, and the last thing we want to do is miss out on one of the biggest cities on our global excursion.
Sydney is nothing like I remember, and apart from a few obvious local attractions capable of engraining themselves into the mind of a young boy of six years of age, it’s all new sights and smells as we soak in Australia’s biggest metropolis. We do the mandatory trek from Newtown into the city (it takes about 45 minutes each way) and enjoy the balmy breeze wafting in off the harbour. We locate the Opera House perching proudly into the bay as a throng of people both local and those here on vacation mill about enjoying the sounds and charms of Circular Quay. We join them before taking in the adjacent botanical gardens which offer a pleasant, if notably humid, walk.
We spend most of our time in Sydney either talking and enjoying good food with JC and Kisu or walking about the city’s busy streets. We eat at an authentic Chinese restaurant where Kisu orders in Mandarin and we dig into the likes of peppercorn fish, a dish that literally melts in our mouths, along with other assorted spicy fare. On one night JC throws an impromptu barbeque and some of their friends come over. Sonny, a tall shaven headed Indian, is charming and confesses that he loves breasts. He just also loves the cock. And Mitra, an Iranian born Canadian who educates us on the fine nuances of Persian New Year.
As we devour wave after endless wave of assorted meats, our hosts regale us with a flood of Sonny stories, each tale usually featuring equal parts alcohol and foam party. Sonny coyly deflects the encounters with good-humour and feigned shock, promising us that he’s not really that bad. It’s a great night as I drink beer and wine while eating what is truly the best barbeque food I’ve probably ever had. We then have two desserts and the guys head off home; jobs to go to and commitments to keep the following morning.
During our stay, JC also introduces me to Campos, a gourmet coffeehouse around the corner which smacks of coffee-acumen on a scale that I’m unlikely to see again. The narrow store is full of java-heads picking over the many blends. One such on offer, the Obama, is a heady mix of American and African beans, and though I’m tempted to taste what the President’s namesake is like, I end up picking a bag of the house speciality. I ask if the beans can be ground and the barista bombards me with questions of how I’m going to drink his prized elixir. Am I using a coffee machine? If so, what type? How hot is my water? Has my apartment recently been fumigated for cockroaches?
I end up conveying my basic knowledge of coffee consumption without making a total tit of myself. Maybe. He nods and promptly hands the bag to a cohort who then pours the contents into a grinder before selecting the appropriate texture for my needs. After I’ve returned to the apartment I brew up some coffee for myself, JC and Kisu and we all agree it’s damn good … considering the reduced price.
Sydney is also the start of our journey where the climate takes a noticeable surge towards hot and humid conditions. We take a short walk up the road to a clothes station and dispense of numerous heavy garments including my long suffering jacket. I just can’t see myself using it in the rest of Australia or Asia so in it goes.
On our last day in Sydney I wake up on JC’s couch with a strange ache that starts somewhere near my right collar-bone and quickly spreads inward and into my right-upper back. It’s uncomfortable but I think little of it. Out seeking some lunch and gifts for JC and Kisu, however, things take a turn for the worse and my back tenses up like someone has inserted a ratchet, cranking the muscles together into a tight pinch. A dull persistent pain starts to build, and by the time we’ve picked everything up and eaten some pasta, I’m ready to pass out in the apartment. I lie on the floor in the foetal position and try to rest but the pain soon becomes so nauseating that even thinking straight becomes problematic.
JC is in work so I log on and message him enquiring about painkillers and analgesic ointments of any description. He directs me to his medicinal stash, and after some paracetamol and a weird foul smelling emollient I eagerly rub into my back, the pain eases and we pack up.
We’re to meet JC and Kisu after work in Hyde park at the centre of Sydney for a food fare. We walk in and wait at the fountain while a cheesy yet talented mariachi flamboyantly charges through a set list of well-known guitar greats. Hyde Park is decked out in streamers and small white stalls containing an eclectic array of dishes are erected in a common ground area catering to a throng of people milling around sampling everything in sight.
JC soon appears followed by Kisu and we quickly discover queuing for the culinary delights would leave us late for getting to the airport. We detour to a Korean restaurant where Mitra from the night of the barbeque joins us. Ordering pretty much everything on the menu, the table becomes a riot of colour and peculiarities. Unfortunately we have to leave early, saying our goodbyes to Kisu as JC walks us to the bus-stop with the assurance that he’s welcome in our house anytime along with our free Internet.
A short bus journey later we have our bags followed up by a taxi ride to the airport. We check-in and everything seems to be going to plan until the guy at the gate stupidly announces that we’re missing our cabin crew. They’re somewhere in the airport, however, though there will be a half an hour delay.
Just as the mob are losing patience, the blushing blondes dragging tiny carry-on luggage behind them like petulant children finally arrive and scuttle on to the aircraft. We’re not far behind them and soon rocket up the eastern coast of Australia to Brisbane.
Sydney was a highlight for us despite not actually doing much in the city. With New Zealand being a series of adventures interspersed with constant and often slow travel, relaxing in Sydney with friends was just what we needed. Not to mention the free Internet …
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