Sydney

They say you can never go back. Even if you return somewhere, the experience, or you, will have changed, making it once again a new experience. With apologies in advance to any Sydney-ites, to me, Sydney can be summed up from one spot. Don't get me wrong—it's one hell of a spot—but if you stand somewhere, anywhere, in Central Quay and look out at both the bridge and the Opera House, there you have it. One of my Top 5 (man-made) vistas on the planet.

So I find a spot, order a coffee, and sit and stare at two of the world's most photographed objects for the price of one cup of coffee. I exaggerate a little. To maximise the experience, I like to start in Manly and take the ferry to Central Quay, so that as it rounds the last curve in the river the city in general, and the bridge and Opera House in particular, theatrically swing into view. As soon as you step off the ferry, you choose your coffee spot from the dozens of choices. Push Me Pull You ferries ply constantly in and out of the quay, giving a heartbeat and a rhythm to the activity. After you finish the coffee you change your spot a few times and then you go for a walk in the Botanical Garden right next door.

But you can never go back. The Botanical Garden which in memory sort of just flowed out of the back of Circular Quay this time appeared to be just beyond a baffling series of closed gates and railings. To be fair, when we returned to the Opera House by walking through the garden all the way to the shore and then following our noses (see view above) there were no such obstacles. But the fruit bats that were such a feature of the Botanical Garden in 2005, had since been the subject of a massive purging operation, with loud bangs, lights, and nets all being deployed to move them on like a crowd of homeless people being evicted from park benches. It had worked, they'd moved out to Centennial Park, too far for us to walk. Ultimately I think that was my problem. The sacred ibis are a great favorite, but they were no match to the spectacle of a tree full of giant bats. It's a lovely park, and it was a very pleasant hour or so, but flora will never make up for lack of fauna.

Wonderfully, we had a lunch date with our favorite Sydney-ite Barb, who was one of three non-family guests on our 2015 Amazon cruise. Typical Barb, her first decision was to march me straight out of my self-imposed Sydney-is-just-Circular-Quay-box, and we took to the tram to "the QVB building" one of her favorite lunch spots. With good reason. Beautifully restored, the cathedral-like building was completed in 1898 and from the outset was designed to be "a marvellous centre of trade". Barb wanted us to lunch within sight of her favorite of the two mechanical clocks, each one featuring dioramas and moving figures depicting famous moments in history. This one, the Royal Clock activates on the hour and displays six scenes of English royalty accompanied by Jeremiah Clarke's trumpet voluntary. So we chose one of the countless little restaurants with tables spilling out onto the railed walkways and interupted lunch for a couple of minutes at 1pm while we went over to watch the show. Most of the diaramas had some little mechanical activity, my favorite being Richard II losing his head on the block. Barb was showing no signs of slowing down, regaling us with her preparation for this year's major trip celebrating her 80th birthday: the north pole. Her only concession to age was admitting that the cycling tour of one of the Baltic countries that she'd accidently signed up for after leaving the polar ice breaker cruise was probably a mistake that she needed to try to undo.

After lunch we bid a fond farewell to Barb already: she needed to head home, and we had a brisk walk back to the Opera House for our backstage tour. It really is a beautiful building inside and out, with its public spaces, its bars and reception areas, all glass-walled and looking out across the harbor. The docent demonstrated the acoustics in the magnificent main auditorium with seating for more than 2,000 people by having his audience clap/stamp in unison and listen for the non-existant echo. This theatre is the home of the Sidney Symphony Orchestra amongst others. An identically-sized sister auditorium underneath the second main arch is the home of the theatre and is therefore blacked out.

As soon as the tour was over, we rushed back to the box office once more, where we'd been told that if we kept checking in we might get lucky and snag a couple of the reserved tickets to the evening performance by the Symphony which typically but randomly get released by the Symphony as they are not needed for other emergencies. Despite the box office lady's assurances that it was first-come-first-served, pot luck, and that one "could not reserve, pre-pay, bribe or otherwise muscle our way into the tickets," after we showed our persistance I suspect that it was not a coincidence that on this third visit she pulled two tickets out of the proverbial hat. It sounds a little kitschy, but the performance was a showing of the first Harry Potter movie. The movie played on a huge screen hanging behind the orchestra, and played normally, except without the musical soundtrack which instead was played live by the orchestra. We loved it. Claudia even credited the movie with being better than she'd expected.

The only down-side to this serendipidy was missing the last fast ferry back to Manly (by a New York mile) and the regular ferry not only ran more slowly but also more intermittently, so there was nearly half an hour to wait, and then the half hour ride, by which time CMT was turning into a pumpkin. She was not interested in any sort of refreshment, even as an excuse to get out of the now decidely cool temperature. As a compromise we stood in line at a chip shop, waited far too long for them to prepare them, and to add insult to injury, if not the worst chips ever, they were the hands-down worst on this trip. I even threw half of them away, and you know how often I resort to that.

 

If it was too cool back on the quay, it was decided chilly once the ferry finally pulled away. Claudia's mood by then was about the same temperature and she soon disappeared below deck, leaving me to enjoy the nighttime view of the receeding Opera-Bridge panorama alone. I was now presented with a problem because there was a microbrewery between the Manly ferry terminal and the hotel. Sophie's choice. Walk home with Claudia and pretend the microbrewery doesn't exist. Not an option. Let Claudia walk home alone at nearly midnight in a strange city. Clearly not an option. "#$%# you! I'm too tired to think, but I certainly don't need you to get me home" and she strode off. Okay then, I guess it's the brewery.

The negotiation was almost rendered moot by the bar being closed, or at least the till was. This was a near tragedy, because the chalk board indicated that there was a cask-conditioned IPA on tap. Since the bar keep still had a couple of customers sitting at a table finishing their drinks I tried one last resort and asked if he might at least let me have a sample. He might. It was excellent. We chatted about it. He gave me a sample of something else I should try. It was pretty good too. His brother got his post-graduate degree from UMass. Then he said "there's no point in you going home without trying this", and he poured a whole glass of their excellent porter. He said I should look out for their beer in bottle shops because they were availably nationally, but I didn't get an opportunity to track any down. And there ended another grand day out.