A Prickly Arrival In This Chameleonic Sleepless City
Sydney Morning Herald
Saturday December 10, 2005
THE man behind the counter at Wylie's Baths in Coogee produced a deadly-sharp surgical needle and an alcohol swab and said cheerfully: "Try this."
I'd never attempted to prise seaurchin thorns out of a toe before, but if we were to get home before sunset and if my husband's foot was not going to swell to the size and colour of a football, I was going to have to get digging. They were little bastards - black, thin and in so deep that before too long I was using the implement in a manner that anyone familiar with scooping flesh out of a crayfish leg would immediately recognise.Two small human urchins - salty hair, boggling eyes - materialised at my side. "What's wrong with him?" asked the first, as he pushed his face right up to mine. I explained that Russell had stood on an urchin at the end of a fine set of laps (two kilometres in 36 minutes, 51 seconds) and was now being very brave while I dug out the spines. The human urchin was not convinced. "Are you really being brave?" the kid asked, head tipped to one side. Russell managed a strangled reply.I'm learning it's a dangerous business, the Sydney swim. There are the sharks, the sea urchins, the risk of melanoma, the traffic and the ticket inspectors who swoop on an expired meter as quickly as a seagull on a hot piece of fat. Add the intense desire for a cold beer the moment one emerges from the surf and this could turn into a long, hot, dangerous summer.After an excavation of Lane Cove Tunnel proportions, we limped home to one of those still, pink and blue evenings that we find astonishing. Even going to bed early has its consolations, when sunset comes around so quickly and a barbecue on the balcony feels like a party every night.IT MUST be because I'm the daughter of an engineer, but I do appreciate a well-made road. On Tuesday, the Mornings team and I head off to inspect the new M7 - the completion of the closest thing that Sydney will probably ever get to a ring road.I'm whingeing in the back seat about being hungry - you can never give me too much food - so to shut me up Rohan diverts at Auburn, where we stop for falafel, grilled chicken, hummus, pickles and very pale and fine babaghanoush. This is what I love - the little mini-cities of Sydney defined and then the next decade redefined by their shifting ethnic identities. Now I can concentrate on the intricate details of 40 kilometres of new road, tolled in sections. Talk about the secret life of engineers - one of our guides is a member of the Fabian Society. Remember them? Do they become a proscribed dissident group under the new anti-terrorism legislation? Were we consorting, all the while pretending to talk four-way interchanges and two-lane blacktop? Tell you one thing: it's the only smooth bit of road I've encountered in my few months in Sydney.WEDNESDAY night is the awarding of the Geraldine Pascall Prize for critical writing, to which I have been kindly invited. Now, here is my ignorance in full bloom. Who is Geraldine Pascall? I arrive to join a small and enthusiastic group of journalists and broadcasters who remember a carelessly elegant woman of uncompromising bluntness whose brusque way with the task of writing entertaining critiques of books, restaurants and theatre would be most welcome today.The book reviewer Gerard Windsor takes out the prize, and gives a measured, witty and thoughtful speech in response: he's a good heir to Pascall - not casually cruel, but not too concerned about offending people with the fact that he takes the job of criticism seriously.I sneak out at 9.45pm - this early-to-bed business is a bit much sometimes.MOST afternoons I take the bus home. I love my bus route. It's never crowded, arrives on time and takes the most cunning route through the winding back streets of inner Sydney with glimpses of the Harbour Bridge flashing between the buildings.It's reassuring that most on the bus - whom I assume to be old hands at this rather than arrivistes like myself - can rarely resist the temptation to turn their heads and admire the view aswe pass.Most afternoons I pull on sneakers and a hat and run the few kilometres that I can barely manage without bringing on a stroke. Tight-bottomed young women prance past me, their small, equally pert dogs running to the double. The exercise regimes in this town are bewildering.As I leave for work each morning, just after 5, I am always chagrined to find that, far from being a lonely shift worker in a city of sleepers, not only are people up and about, they are already returning from their morning walks.I know the bars and pubs are full until late. Does anyone ever sleep?FRIDAY night my stepdaughter Rebecca arrives for the weekend. It's funny how anxious and excited we are about showing off our new city, about making sure she has a good impression. And, of course, Sydney does not let us down - it rains with all the might and strength of a vengeful god.Rebecca is bewildered at the torrential rain and the howling wind - is it always like this?After a couple of valiant attempts to go sightseeing and shopping, we give in to the weather. And in a strange twist of circumstance, we settle down to an afternoon that would be perfect in Melbourne and which actually worked pretty well on a stormy Sydney day - chocolate eclairs, tea and videos as the southerly blew in.
© 2005 Sydney Morning Herald